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considered being anything else but a cop.  Her father and grandfather had both been police officers.  Being a cop was in her blood.  It was a part of her genetic make-up. 
    Her grandfather, Thomas O’Brien, was a retired patrol cop.  Her father, Patrick, had been a Detective in the Robbery Division before he was killed in the line of duty.  Both were well respected, and Kennedy was determined to keep the tradition going.  After four years in Homicide, she had a spotless record and an almost perfect homicide solve rate.  You weren’t going to find her name on a lot of cold case boxes. 
    It had taken a full year to prove she had the ability and mettle to work alongside the boys in blue.  At first, acting in the usual XX-chromosome-supremacy mode, the guys at Metro had insisted on seeing how well Kennedy could handle herself.  Always feeling the need to be the best, Kennedy went along with their games, passing test after test with flying colors.  Now, there wasn’t a cop in the department who didn’t trust her to cover his back.  Her cop instincts were good and they knew it. 
    She felt lucky that Wilder James had taken her under his wing when she’d started out.  He was one of the best cops on the force and he was always teaching Kennedy to be even better.  At thirty-one, she was on her way to becoming one of the department’s best Homicide detectives, and Wilder’d helped to put her there. 
    Kennedy’s cell phone shrilled, jerking her out of her thoughts.  Picking up the phone, she flipped it open.  “O’Brien.” 
    “Hey, Kenny, wake up.” 
    Wilder didn’t need to identify himself.  His unique voice, while soft, always sounded like he had a mouth full of gravel with a dash of Bronx added to the mix. 
    “I was just thinking about you, Wilder.” 
    “I’m sure I’m the object of many women’s fantasies.” 
    She let out an exaggerated laugh.  “You’re delusional, partner.” 
    “Not the first time I’ve been told that.”  He continued, “Time to shake a leg, Kenny.  We might have a break in our dead hooker case.  I’ll swing by and pick you up in seven and a half minutes.” 
    “How about I pick you up?”  “No way.” 
    Kennedy started to object, but the firmness in his voice told her it’d be a waste of time.  She was right. 
    “We’re not driving that heap of yours until you get the air conditioner fixed.  I don’t want to die of heat stroke.  I’m too damned close to retirement.  Be out front waiting.  It’s time to rock and roll.” 
    The phone clicked off.  “How in the name of sweet Jesus is he always able to do that?  Seven and a half minutes?  How can he be so exact?” 
    Kennedy hustled to her room, pulled off her tee shirt, and put on clean clothes.  After threading her back holster and double magazine carrier to her belt, she harnessed her Sig Saur and added two mags.  She secured her ankle holster and her Smith and Wesson .38. 
    Kennedy kept her clothes simple and easy to put on.  Jeans and tee shirts with a lightweight jacket over them were her usual wardrobe choices.  The jacket not only gave her a look of professionalism, it kept her holster and gun under wraps.  She clipped her badge to the left side of her belt, above her hip. 
    Giving her hair a quick finger comb, she stepped out into the blazing sun. 
    At a little past one o’clock, the afternoon mail was delivered to Las Vegas television station LVTVS.  In it, was an envelope addressed to Ed Hershey.  The envelope’s contents were causing quite a commotion in the news room. 
    Ed buzzed his boss’s phone.  “Frankie, get down here.  Fa st . You absolutely will not believe what I just got in the mail.  You’re going to shit bricks.  Enough to build a new house.” 
    “Quit mumbling.  What’s that you said about a new house?”  “Never mind.  Just get here, quick.” 
    “Dammit, Hersh.  Is your timing always this bad?  I’ve got...  umm...  I’ve