4th of July (Women's Murder Club 4)

“I think these recent murders link up with an old homicide of mine,” I said. “The killer’s signature looks the same. We might be able to help each other.”

“Don’t use the we word with me, Boxer. You’re benched. Don’t mess with my crime scenes. Leave my witnesses alone. Take some walks. Read a book. Get a grip. Whatever. Just stay out of my hair.”

When I spoke again, my voice was so taut an aerialist could’ve cartwheeled across it to the other side of the room.

“You know, Chief, in your place, all I’d be thinking about is this psychopath wandering your streets. Thinking, How can I shut him down for good? I might even welcome a decorated homicide inspector who wanted to help out. But I guess we think differently.”

My little speech set the chief back a blink or two, so I seized the opportunity to get out with my dignity.

“You know how to reach me,” I said, and marched out of the police station.

I could almost hear my lawyer whispering in my ear. Relax. Keep a low profile. Nuts, Yuki. Why not advise me to take up the harp?

I revved the engine and peeled out of the parking lot.

Chapter 59

I WAS DRIVING ALONG Main Street, muttering under my breath, thinking up several new things I wish I’d said to the chief, when I noticed that my gas gauge light was practically screaming, Lindsay! You’re out of gas!

I pulled into the Man in the Moon, ran the Explorer over the air bell, and, when Keith didn’t appear, walked across the asphalt apron into the depths of his shop.

The Doors’ “Riders on the Storm” billowed out when I opened the door to the repair bay.

On the wall to my right was a calendar featuring Miss June wearing nothing but a wave in her hair. Above her was a splendid sight: rare and beautiful hood ornaments from Bentleys, Jags, and Maseratis, mounted on lacquered blocks of wood, like trophies. Curled inside a tire was a fat orange tabby cat having a snooze.

I admired the red Porsche parked in the bay and addressed Keith’s jeans and work boots in the pit below.

“Nice ride,” I said.

Keith ducked out from under the car, a smile already lighting his grease-streaked face.

“Isn’t it, though?” He climbed out of the pit, wiped his hands on a rag, and turned down the music. “So, Lindsay. You having trouble with that Bonneville?”

“Not at all. I replaced the alternator and the plugs. Engine purrs like this guy.”

“This’s Hairball,” Keith told me, scratching the cat under the chin. “My attack cat. He rode in on the carburetor of a pickup truck a couple of years ago.”

“Youch.”

“All the way from Encino. Burned his paws, but he’s good as new now, aren’t you, buddy?”

Keith asked if I needed gas, and I said that I did. We walked together into the soft afternoon sunshine.

“I caught you on TV last night,” Keith told me as high-test gurgled into the Explorer’s capacious tank.

“You did not.”

“No, I did. Your attorney was on the news, and they showed a picture of you in your blues,” he said, grinning at me. “You really are a cop.”

“You didn’t believe me?”

The kid shrugged winningly. “I pretty much believed you. But it was okay either way, Lindsay. Either you were a cop or you just had a great line.”

I hooted, and Keith’s face crinkled in laughter. After a bit, I told him about the Cabot case—just the overview, absent the grief and the gore. Keith was supportive and a damned sight more fun to talk to than Chief Stark. Hell, I was even enjoying his attention. Brad Pitt, right?

He unlatched the Explorer’s hood, pulled out the dipstick, and gave me a direct look with his bright blue eyes. I stared into them long enough to notice that his irises were rimmed with navy blue and flecked with brown, as if there were little drifts of gold dust in them.

“You need oil,” I heard him say. I felt my face color.