2nd Chance (Women's Murder Club 2)

I ran behind the cover of the houses to the cul de sac at the top of the hill. From there, I reversed back, hugging the shadows of the buildings along the opposite side of the street.

Behind him…

The Toyota had parked across from my building, its lights off.

The driver in the front seat was smoking a cigarette.

I crouched behind a parked Honda Accord, clasping my gun. This is what it’s all about, Lindsay….

Could I take Chimera in the car? What if the doors were locked?

Suddenly, I saw the car door open, the interior light flash on. The bastard’s back was turned to me as he climbed out of his car.

He was wearing a dark weatherproof jacket, a floppy cap pulled over his eyes. He was glancing up at my house. My apartment.

Then he headed across the street. No fears.

Take him down. Now. The bastard had come for me. He’d threatened me in Mercer’s book. I moved out from the cover of the line of parked cars.

My heart was racing so fast and loud, I was afraid he would suddenly spin around. Now. Do it! You’ve got him!

I stepped up, the Glock firm in one hand. I wrapped the other around his neck, pulled, kicked his legs out from under him.

He toppled to the ground, landing hard on his front. I pinned him there. I pressed the barrel of my gun to the back of his head.

“Police, asshole! Hands out wide.”

A painful groan came from him. He spread his arms. Was it Chimera?

“You wanted me, you bastard, well, you got me. Now, turn around.”

I relaxed my knee just enough for him to maneuver around. As he did, my heart almost stopped.

I was staring into the face of my father.

Chapter 52

MARTY BOXER rolled onto his back and groaned, the air squeezed out of his lungs. He still had a glimmer of the rugged handsomeness I remembered, but it was different—older, leaner, worn. His hair had thinned and the once-lively blue eyes seemed washed out.

I hadn’t seen him in ten years. I hadn’t spoken to him in twenty-two years.

“What are you doing here?” I wanted to know.

“Right now,” he gasped, rolling onto his side, “having the shit beat out of me by my daughter.”

I felt a hard slab jutting out of his jacket pocket. I pulled out an old department-issued Smith & Wesson .40 caliber. “What the hell is this? How you say hello?”

“It’s a dangerous world out there.” He groaned again.

I rolled off him. The sight of him was an affront, a sudden illumination of memories I’d shut off years ago. I didn’t offer to help him up. “What were you doing? Following me?”

Slowly, he edged himself into a sitting position. “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t know it was your old man dropping in, Buttercup.”

“Please don’t call me that,” I shot back at him.

Buttercup was his pet name for me when I was about seven and he was still at home. My sister, Cat, was Horse-fly; I was Buttercup. Hearing that name brought a surge of bitter memories. “You think you can drop in here after all these years, scare the shit out of me, and get away with it by calling me Buttercup? I’m not your little girl. I’m a homicide lieutenant.”

“I know that. And you deliver a hell of a takedown, baby.”