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

I was choking on this load of crap, sputtering, “You arrogant horse’s ass,” when I heard a voice saying, “Whoa. Please tell me you’re applying for a job here.”

A small man with a cheap green jacket buttoned over his beer belly appeared in the office doorway. He leaned against the doorjamb, an arm’s length from where I stood, running his eyes over me. It was a look that just about skeeved me out of my skin.

“Rick Monte, this is Lieutenant Lindsay Boxer. She’s a homicide cop from San Francisco,” Agnew said. “She’s on vacation—or so she says.”

“Enjoying your time off, Lieutenant?” Rick asked my bustline.

“I’m loving it, but I could make this an official visit at any time.”

As soon as I said those words, I felt a jolt straight to the heart.

What was I doing?

I was on restricted duty and out of my jurisdiction. I’d chased a citizen in my own car. I had no backup, and if either of these jerk-offs phoned in a complaint, I’d be up on disciplinary action.

It was the last thing I needed before my trial.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were upset,” Dennis said in his oily voice. “I haven’t done anything to harm you, you know.”

“Next time you see me,” I said through clenched teeth, “turn and walk the other way.”

“Oh. Pardon me. I must have it wrong. I thought it was you who followed me.”

I was hot to fire off a comeback, but this time I stifled it. He was right. He hadn’t actually done anything to me. He hadn’t even called me a name.

I left Agnew’s office, kicking myself for showing up on this lowlife’s turf.

I had pointed my nose toward the front of the shop, intent on putting this horrid little scene behind me, when my way was blocked by a brawny young guy with blond streaks in his mullet and tattooed flames shooting out of his T-shirt collar.

“Out of my way, hot stuff,” I said, trying to squeeze past him.

The guy held out his arms while standing like a boulder in the middle of the store. He smiled, daring me.

“Come on, mama. Come to Rocco,” he said.

“It’s all right, Rocco,” Agnew said. “This lady is my guest. I’ll walk you out, Lindsay.”

I reached for the door, but Agnew leaned against it, boxing me in. He was so close all I could see was his face: every pore, every capillary in his bloodshot eyes. He pressed a videocassette into my hands.

The cover advertised Randy Long’s epic performance in A Long Hard Night.

“Take a look when you have a chance. I put my phone number on the back.”

I pushed away from Agnew and the video clattered to the floor.

“Move it,” I said.

He stepped back, just clearing the door enough so that I could open it. Agnew had a grin on his face and his hand on his crotch as I left.

Chapter 68

I WOKE UP THE next morning thinking about Dennis Agnew, that slime. I took my coffee out to the porch and before it had cooled enough to drink, I was taking my agitation out on a rattle in the Bonneville’s engine.

I had a feeler gauge in hand and was fiddling with the valves when a car rolled up and parked in the driveway.

Doors slammed.

“Lindsay? Helllooo.”