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At least he still had a wicked right hook. Unfortunately for him, he had lousy aim and he’d hit the wall, sending a shockwave of pain through his hand.
    Still, he’d gotten in a few punches of his own and wouldn’t be the only one nursing a sore face.
    After stopping off at a local liquor store for a box of bandages and a bag of ice for his hand, Jack hit the streets again. The day was young and quitting time was hours away. With two cases to solve, there was no time to waste, and the bad guys wouldn’t take a vacation just because Jack had a rough start to his day.
    Instead, he headed for the home of Benicio Acevedo, the drug dealer who dealt bad dope that killed.
    Surveilling a perp was never as glamorous as the movies made it out to be. By midafternoon, Jack was thoroughly bored watching Benny bang his wife, and later his mistress. Jack shifted. His legs hurt and he was getting a stiff neck from twisting into unnatural positions to keep an eye trained on his suspect while still staying undercover and undetected. His eye had begun to swell, blurring his vision slightly. The throbbing hand didn’t help the situation, either.
    Mr. Acevedo was definitely a two-timing scumbag, but until he had proof of criminal activity, Jack wasn’t about to pull the trigger, despite Deluca’s fervent urging. He’d have to catch him in the act, find definitive proof.
    Jack put down his binoculars and revved his car. The car itself was nondescript and blended in to the shadier sides of town while his 1963 Silver Stingray Corvette languished in the garage, too flashy to drive when he was on the job. It was a damn shame, too. She was a beaut.
    Jack eased into the basement parking structure of the courthouse. With any luck, he’d catch the District Attorney between appointments and score an interview. No doubt he would remember the man who’d worked side by side with him, and even ran against him before meeting an untimely demise.
    Clearing security and the metal detectors, Jack squeezed himself in the tiny elevator and shot up to the fifth floor. The D.A.’s office was the last door on the right. Ushered in by an annoyed secretary, he found Mr. District Attorney hunched over an impressively large desk.
    Dispensing with the niceties, Jack got right to the point. “Mr. Hernandez, talk to me about Trevor Santino.”
    The man quirked an eyebrow and took the files from the secretary. He dropped the files on his desk and began signing his John Hancock wherever the woman pointed.
    “What about him? He’s dead.”
    Smart ass.
    “Tell me about him.”
    The man sighed and dropped his pen. “Yes, I remember Trevor. Quite well. His death was a real shame and came as such a shock. He had a bright future ahead of him.” He smiled and blinked.
    There it was. The perfect politician spin on the situation. Always positive, always vague enough to be denied later.
    The District Attorney dismissed his secretary with a curt nod.
    Jack waited until the door was closed before he continued. “So you didn’t mind that he was running against you in the election that year?”
    Jack squinted watching the man’s face for any crack in his polished facade.
    Mr. Hernandez chuckled and leaned back, crossing his arms behind his head. “Oh, I minded, all right. But I figured Trevor was just sowing his oats. You know, trying to flex his political muscles. No way would he have won. My constituents love me, what can I say?”
    Cocky son of a bitch, wasn’t he? Given the chiseled cleft chin and strong cheekbones, Mr. District Attorney had allure and carefully honed charm, which no doubt helped him score big with his female constituents during election time. With the right lighting, Jack bet the personable attorney’s eyes would twinkle and his pearly whites would dazzle even the most cynical of voters.
    “Any idea who killed him?”
    “Who cares? Trevor wasn’t the golden boy his big-shot daddy wanted him to be. He might have managed to get him a job in this