Murphy
Detective Pete Murphy stopped at the corner store to get milk and a couple of candy bars for his wife and kids before going home.
He cursed as he thought about the evening. He had promised the boys—aged six and eight now—that he’d play catch with them, but he was tired. Maybe they wouldn’t mind waiting until tomorrow. All he wanted to do was stretch out and crack the top on a cold beer.
He went home, pulled the car into the garage, and went inside, plopping into the La-Z Boy—never a more appropriately named piece of furniture. Fifteen minutes later, a knock sounded on the front door.
“I’ll get it,” he yelled.
Pete opened the door to see Detective Frankie Donovan standing before him. “Donovan. What do you want?”
“Just a minute to chat, if you don’t mind.”
“Hell no. Come on in.
