Shouldering the duffel bag with the Marine Corps bulldog, Old Man knocked Jan's photo off the bed table. He turned to stone staring down at the photo. His face then splintered into hurt. Tears seeped into his eyes. He grappled for the nearest bedpost and slumped forward on extended arms. His shoulders jerked and head sagged a little while his heart broke. Old Man cried the mute cry of men of his generation.

From Chapter 1:The main rub was the lack of RnR and I burned out. Three years and three stripes later, I ejected from the MP Corps, vowing I'd never do police or criminal investigative work again. Instead, I returned home when I should've learned better.

P.I. Cassie Cruise--You don't have to like her, but you damn well better respect her

You do know I’m not psychic, right?’Dash looked down at her. ‘Joy...you do know that normal people don’t see ghosts, right?

Dash shoved his hands on his hips and looked down into the bowl. ‘You gave my fish pink rocks?’ he said as he turned to face her.Joy shrugged. ‘I didn’t really look at the colour I just grabbed the nearest bag.’‘It had to be pink?’‘There’s some blue as well.’He looked into the bowl again. ‘Not really.’Joy couldn’t believe she was having a conversation about pink rocks when the bigger question of what the hell he’d found out about the robberies was still unanswered. ‘You think it’s going to turn Ralph gay?’ she asked sweetly. ‘Given that he’s living his life out solo it’s kind of a moot question, don’t you think?’‘You’re right, I think he needs a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend.’‘With those rocks? I think he needs Fishtank Barbie in there.’‘Is your masculinity threatened because your fish has pink rocks?’Dash folded his arms. ‘He’s a bloke. He doesn’t do pink.’Joy glanced at the bowl. ‘It works,’ she said. ‘It...blends.’‘He’s orange,’ Dash said. ‘Since when have pink and orange gone together?

There was nothing like the cold, heavy steel of a gun, the soft moan of an appreciative woman or the sharp burn of a good single malt to make a man grateful to be alive. Tonight, with his gun gone and his sex life a wasteland, Dash had to settle for whiskey.

A woman could do a lot of crazy things for a pair of fine-looking dimples.

Most investigators don't even know what the word means. You stop the cops from using informants and the only crimes they'd ever solve would be those by deranged postal workers who come to work once too often.

It was a dark, dismal afternoon, like they all seem to bethese days, when I got this call. I could hear the rainbattering the windowpane of my office when the phone rang.

MacMillian steepled his fingers on the head of his cane. Anticipation rose in his chest. Lena and Cyrus Alan might have an advantage over him when it came to hunting ghosts, but this was where he excelled. This part of the game was all about patterns. He saw patterns. Always had.

What was she doing here? Private detectives were for insecure housewives, parents of troubled teens, bent old ladies who'd forgotten where they parked. She was none of the above. She was a sane, stable, capable adult. Yet here she was.Desperate times, and all that.