The ensuing confrontation added further fuel to the fire in Sanders’s digestive tract. “What’s this bullshit you’re giving me about not having any available men? You have a fifteen-man force here—or is that just for the taxpayers’ benefit?” “I do have fifteen men, but two are out with the flu, one’s on vacation, and one has a death in the family. That leaves me eleven—count ’em, eleven!” Allen glowered at Sanders. “Call in for help if you need it,” Sanders suggested. “Don’t need it. This is our baby and we’ll handle it. Eleven men, two murders.” Sanders remembered the beaten-up prostitute. “When did she die?” “Who?” “Who else—the hooker your boys are so fond of.” He restrained his rising temper. Discipline, he told himself. Discipline. “No, Candy is holding her own. We’re not stupid here, Sanders. We found traces of rotting apples on the floor and bedcovers in Candy’s cottage. All her shoes were clean, so we knew it had to have been tracked in by whoever beat her up.
