16th Seduction (Women's Murder Club 16)

“I don’t know any Connor Grant. And that’s the truth.”

Conklin was looking at something that was all but hidden under the bed on wheels. He reached under and with a gloved hand pulled out a fat notebook that looked to be handwritten and dog-eared.

I knew what it was. In fact, Conklin had found this notebook or one just like it in Grant’s garage laboratory.

He read the title out loud. “‘How to Make a Bomb: For Twenty-Five Dollars in Twenty-Five Minutes, by Connor A. Grant.’ Bedtime reading, Mr. Mitchell?”

Looked like Haight swallowed the ordinary and stupid protest I don’t know what that is or how it got there, but he wore the hangdog expression of defeat.

A man in black relieved Conklin of the notebook and bagged it. Niles turned to me.

“Sergeant Boxer? Will you d

o the honors?”

Conklin was right there with me when I spoke to the man sitting on his bed.

“Dylan Mitchell?”

He looked into my face and broke out into a smile.

“Oh, my God,” he said. “I lived long enough to actually see lipstick on a pig.”

I said, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Conklin walked behind him and cuffed him tightly.

“Mr. Mitchell, you have the right to remain silent, understand?”

I read him every one of his rights and stepped aside as he was dragged to his feet and out the door to an assault vehicle.

He was yelling now.

“You’ll never get away with this. I guarantee it.”

“Tell it to your lawyer,” I shouted back. “I’ve had a long day.”

CHAPTER 93

I SLEPT WELL that night, and the next day was shaping up beautifully.

Haight—guru to the kill, torture, and explode movement, a man who had reinvented Haight speech and who hid behind the name GAR—had spent the night in federal custody. One could only hope and pray that taking him out of circulation, eliminating the incendiary posts he sent out to the four corners of the planet, would have some slowing effect on homegrown terror everywhere.

In other news, there was a letter on my desk when I got to work that morning.

Conklin said, grinning sheepishly, “I read it. I couldn’t help myself. I’m a detective, you know.”

I said, “All right, all right. I love you anyway, you snoop.”

The letter was from Lietuenant William Hoyt, IAB, formally dismissing the complaint against me on the grounds that there was “no reason for further investigation.” Hoyt wrote, “You did your job by the book and went above and beyond. We’re lucky to have an officer like you on the force.”

Parisi stopped by with cupcakes and gave me a hug. When Parisi hugged me, I knew I’d been thoroughly hugged.

I called Joe from work and said, “How about dinner at our place?”

It was a big step, and I thought I was ready for it. I left work at six without anyone throwing spike strips in front of me and got home without incident.

I didn’t have much time, but I dressed for the occasion, wearing tight distressed jeans and a loose white shirt, and let my hair down, the way Joe likes it. I topped off my act with aqua-blue toenails, which I showed off by going barefoot.