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

I followed the patrolman as far as the front doorstep, where Carolee and Allison grabbed me in a much-needed two-tier hug.

“One of my kids monitors the police band,” Carolee said. “I got over here as soon as I heard. Oh, my God, Lindsay. Your arms.”

I glanced down. Broken glass had made a few cuts in my forearms, and blood had streaked down and stained my shirt.

It looked a lot worse than it was.

“I’m fine,” I told Carolee. “Just a few scratches. I’m sure.”

“You don’t plan to stay here, do you, Lindsay? Because that’s crazy,” Carolee said, her face showing how mad she was and how scared. “I’ve got plenty of room for

you at the house.”

“Good idea,” Stark said, coming up behind me. “Go with your nice friend. I’ve got calls in to the CSU techs, and they’re going to be prying slugs out of your walls and combing the place for the rest of the night.”

“That’s fine. I’ll be okay here,” I told him. “This is my sister’s house. I’m not going to leave.”

“All right. But don’t forget that this is our case, Lieutenant. You’re still out of your jurisdiction. Don’t go all cowgirl on us, okay?”

“Go all cowgirl? Who do you think you’re talking to?”

“Look. I’m sorry, but someone just tried to kill you.”

“Thanks. I got that.”

The chief patted down his hair out of habit. “I’ll keep a patrol car posted in the driveway tonight. Maybe longer.”

As I said good-night to Carolee and Allison, the chief went to his car and returned with a paper bag. He was using a ballpoint pen to lift the belt into the bag as I wrapped my dignity tightly around myself and closed the front door.

I went to bed, but of course I couldn’t sleep. Cops were coming and going through the house, slamming doors and laughing, and besides, my mind was spinning.

I stroked Martha’s head absently as she shivered beside me. Someone had shot up this house and left a calling card.

Was it a warning to stay away from Half Moon Bay?

Or had the shooter really tried to kill me?

What would happen when I turned up alive?

Chapter 113

A SUNBEAM SLIPPED THROUGH the window at an unaccustomed angle and pried my eyes open. I saw blue wallpaper, a picture of my mother over the dresser—and it all came together.

I was in Cat’s bed—because at 2:00 a.m. bullets had thudded through the house, plugging the headboard in the spare room inches above where my head would have been.

Martha pushed her wet nose at my hand until I swung my feet out of bed. I pulled on some of Cat’s clothes—a faded pair of jeans and a coral-colored blouse with a deep ruffled neckline. Not my color and definitely not my style.

I ran a comb through my hair, brushed my teeth, and stepped out into the living room.

The CSU techs were still digging bullets out of the walls, so I made coffee and toast for everyone and asked pointed questions that yielded the basic facts.

Twelve 9mm shots had been fired, evenly distributed through the living room and spare bedroom, one through the kids’ small, high window. The bullets and spent cases had been bagged and tagged, the holes had been photographed, and the forensic team was wrapping up. In an hour, the whole kit and caboodle would be sent to the lab.

“You doing okay, Lieutenant?” asked one of the techs, a tall thirty-ish guy with big hazel eyes and a toothy smile.

I looked around at the destruction, the glass and plaster dust over everything.

“No. I’m not. This makes me sick,” I said. “I’ve got to sweep up, get the windows fixed, do something about this . . . this mess.”