The city never really slept, but tonight, it was quieter than usual. The hum of streetlamps and the distant echo of sirens filled the gaps between thoughts in Serena Locke’s head as she leaned against the hood of her unmarked cruiser. The cigarette between her fingers wasn’t lit—she didn’t smoke—but it gave her hands something to do.

Her partner was late. Typical.

She didn’t have to turn around to recognize the footsteps. Steady. Confident. A little too relaxed for someone showing up ten minutes late to a double homicide call.

“You always this punctual?” she asked, not looking her way.

“Only when I’m meeting someone who starts the party without me,” came the smooth reply, as her partner pulled up beside her and flashed a grin that made Serena roll her eyes. Taller than her, broad-shouldered, with that faint scent of leather and aftershave—she was the kind of girl you’d underestimate until she took your legs out from under you.

Serena finally looked at her. “You get the case file?”

She held it up. “Two vics. Shot execution style. Back of a club owned by one of Mendoza’s lieutenants.”

“Gang hit?”

“Maybe. But there’s a signature. The same as that warehouse fire two weeks ago.”

Serena cursed under her breath. That case had been personal. A good cop died in that fire, and the brass wanted it buried.