"It was the first apartment."

Now he unlocked the door and stepped inside, his Siamese cat saying hello, circling his legs and meowing.

Isobel had been his wife's cat. She would be his ex-wife if the lawyers ever got their asses in gear and finished the paperwork. Beth had begged him to take care of Isobel while she lived her new life on death row.

Siamese were supposed to be independent, but Isobel was one of the neediest damn cats David had ever seen. Then again, maybe the traumatic events of the past year had been tough on her too. Maybe she needed a shrink. A kitty psychiatrist.

David took a shower and dressed in gray pants and a white shirt. Shoulder holster and gun. He preferred a.40-caliber Smith amp; Wesson. He liked the weight, liked the accuracy, and liked the way it fit compactly against his body. He finished off with a jacket that matched his pants.

He'd been in Savannah three months and still felt as if he'd stepped into somebody else's life. As he moved through the days, nothing seemed to touch him-nothing felt real. It wasn't just Savannah. Nothing had felt real in a long time.

Antidepressants did that to a person.

Keys.

Badge.

Handcuffs.

And then there were the assholes at Headquarters who'd given him a hard time since his first day in their lovely city. Especially a couple of detectives David called various names, depending on his mood. Starsky and Hutch. Cagney and Lacey. Crockett and Tubbs. Shari Lewis and Lamb Chop.

They'd started the feud.

What exactly did they have against him?

He was from Ohio.

Translation: the North. The big, bad North, where all the obnoxious, rude Yankees lived.

Apparently the Civil War was still going on; the South just hadn't gotten the memo telling them it was over.

Screw them. He should care, but he didn't.