We looked around, shrugged, shook our heads. “We’re sort of a murder club,” I said.
“Lindsay’s deputized us.” Claire grinned.
“The Margarita Posse,” Jill threw out. “That has possibilities.”
“Bad-ass Bitches.” Claire giggled.
“One day, we’re all gonna be running things,” Cindy said. “Homicide Chicks,” she came back with a satisfied grin. “That’s who we are. That’s what we do.”
“Just shut me up if I start to roar,” said Jill.
We looked around the table. We were bright, attractive, take-no-shit women. We were going to run things — some day.
The waitress brought our drinks. We raised four glasses toward one another. “To us.”
Chapter 74
I WAS DRIVING HOME, really pleased at having brought Jill into the group, but it didn’t take long for the thought to worm its way in that I was still withholding from my friends.
My beeper sounded.
“What’re you doin’?” Raleigh asked when I buzzed him back.
“I was headed home. Beat.”
“You up for talking just a little? I’m at Mahoney’s.” Mahoney’s was a dark, crowded bar near the Hall that was usually thick with off-duty cops.
“Already ate,” I told him.
“Meet me anyway,” Raleigh said. “It’s about the case.”
I was only a few minutes away. Mahoney’s was on Brannan. To get to Potrero, I had to go right by it.
I found myself a little nervous again. I was scared we were no longer playing things by the book. The book was, partners didn’t get involved. Nor people with their lives ebbing away. I knew
that if I let things go, anything could happen. This wasn’t some casual fling we could go at for a night and try to rationalize away the next day. As much as I wanted him, I was holding back. Scared to let it all come out. Of letting myself go. Of dragging him in.
I was relieved when I saw Raleigh waiting for me outside the bar. He came up to my car. I couldn’t help noticing that he looked good, as usual.
“Thanks for not making me go in,” I said.
He leaned on the edge of my open window. “I looked into Nicholas Jenks,” he said.
“And?”
“The guy’s forty-eight. Went to law school but never finished. Started writing novels his first year. Wrote two books that didn’t go anywhere. Then this twisted thriller, Crossed Wire, hit.
“There’s something you should know. Maybe seven years ago, give or take a few, cops were called out to his home in a domestic dispute.”
“Who made the call?”
“His wife. His first wife.” Raleigh leaned in closer. “I pulled up the report. First-on-the-scene described her as pretty beat-up. Bruises up and down her arms. Large bruise on her face.”
A thought flashed in my head — Merrill Shortley, on Kathy’s boyfriend: He was into intense sex games.
“Did the wife file?” I asked.
Chris shook his head. “That’s as far as it went. Never pressed charges. Since then, he’s cashed in big-time. Six huge bestsellers. Movies, screenplays. New wife, too.”