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panel and flinched. His erection deflated. Fast.
    Cheeks puffing, he switched over. “Yeah, Jayne? What’s up?”
    Conversations with his ex-wife were best kept short and to the point.
    “Hello, Don.” Ice froze the phone lines. “You’re late with your alimony payment.”
    And she waited until nearly midnight to tell him this?
    Of course their communication skills had never been top-notch, even in the beginning when they’d been in love with each other and the wild monkey sex. Eventually their marriage had ended up as yet another casualty of the military way of life.
    Too long apart.
    Too much stress.
    Not enough of everything else.
    “Jayne . . .” He didn’t bother hiding the irritation in his voice anymore. “You know my bank sends it automatically. If there’s a screwup, it’s on their end.”
    “And it’s your responsibility to fix it,” she said as if patiently explaining two plus two to one of the first graders she taught. Of course she always had been a Wonder Woman do it all—without the sequined bra and Teflon wristbands. “I don’t want a penny of your money for me. I never have. But Sean’s tuition payment is due.”
    Sean. Of course. He should have known that would be the only reason for a call from Jayne.
    How many years was that mama’s boy moocher going to stay in college? He should have had two degrees and a six-figure job by now. Weren’t adult children supposed to have suburban lives and give him grandkids? Not his.
    He considered telling her about Shay and the break-in for all of three seconds before deciding to wait for more information. “Can we talk about this later? I’m tied up right now.”
    “Of course you are. Try to take care of it by the end of the week, please.”
    The line went dead abruptly.
    Don slowed his Beemer at the yellow light by the corner grocery, even though the street was pretty much deserted, then accelerated toward the clinic. A fence surrounded the side lot, empty but for Shay’s old Ford, a car on blocks, and a motorcycle, the 1098R Ducati he’d lined up for Vince.
    No security lights or guards surrounded the forty thousand dollar machine. Vince must have been gunning for bear to have left the machine so vulnerable in this kind of neighborhood.
    Where the hell were the police? They couldn’t have already arrived and taken statements that fast.
    He tried the front door. Locked. Thank God. He circled around to the back.
    The light burned dimly, either from a dying bulb or one so smeared with grease it diluted the glow. Motion sensors would be nice. But then Shay had told him often enough they barely had the extra funds to replace the basketball net, much less money to spruce up the place.
    As of tomorrow, he would buy motion sensor lights himself and donate the blasted things. He and Shay had never enjoyed much of a father-daughter relationship, but she wouldn’t say no to anything for the center.
    Don sidestepped a Dumpster reeking of rotten food and a hint of marijuana smoke. One stride past in the dark, and he tripped. What the fuck?
    He grabbed the edge of the rusty trash bin to regain his balance and looked down.
    At a dead body.
    Lying beside a second body, equally dead.
    His heart rate thundered so loudly he almost reached for his nitro tablets. Instead, he grabbed for his phone while searching for details in the dim light without disturbing the scene. Praying he wouldn’t see the face of his daughter or Vince. While dialing, he studied the corpses, the smell of the Dumpster, pot, and death nearly gagging even a seasoned pro like him.
    First, a college-age man wearing a Case Western backpack, his neck sliced so deep his spine notched through the coagulated blood.
    Second, another male, head twisted at an awkward angle but the blood-smeared face still recognizable as the boy they’d been investigating. A machete pierced his hooded sweatshirt and into his bird-thin chest.
    Don gripped the phone. His daughter wasn’t dead. Vince hadn’t been