Patterson, James - Womans Murder Club 4 - 4th of July

I parked my car down the block and walked toward the house, blending in with a clump of bystanders who were watching the police process the scene from the sidewalk across the street. It was a good enough vantage point, and as I stood there, I sifted through my impressions, hoping for a nugget of insight.

To start with, the houses of the victims were as different as chalk and cheese. Crescent Heights was a blue-collar community with Highway 1 whizzing between the unpretentious homes and their view of the bay. Ocean Colony backed up onto a private golf course. The O’Malley house and the others around it fairly glistened with all of the nicest things money could buy. What did the two homes and the people who’d lived in them have in common?

I studied the O’Malleys’ spiffy colonial, with its slate roof and boxwood topiaries in pots by the door, and once again I ran through the preliminary questions. What had drawn a killer here? Was it a personal hit or a random killing of opportunity?

I turned my eyes up to the blue-shuttered windows on the second floor, where Lorelei O’Malley had been stabbed to death in her bedroom.

Had she been whipped, too?

I was concentrating so intently, I must have attracted attention to myself. A young uniformed cop with a florid face and an excitable manner was headed toward me.

“Miss? Miss? I’d like to ask you some questions.”

Damn. If I had to show my badge, this cop would run me through the database. Pass the news along: Lieutenant Lindsay Boxer, SFPD, was at the scene of the crime. In twenty minutes the media would be ringing the doorbell and camping out on Cat’s lawn.

I assumed my most innocent expression.

“Just passing through, Officer. I’m leaving now.”

I flipped a little wave, turned around, and walked quickly to the Explorer.

Nuts. I saw him do it.

That cop wrote down my plate number as I drove past.

Womans Murder Club 4 - 4th of July

Chapter 49

THE QUAINT LITTLE WATERING hole was named for a soaring seabird, the Cormorant, an elegant facsimile of which hung from the ceiling over the bar.

The place had a raw bar, six kinds of beer on tap, loud music, and a full Friday-night crowd. I looked around until I spotted Carolee Brown at a table near the bar. She was dressed in slacks and a hot pink pullover; a gold crucifix glinted discreetly at her throat.

The Cookie Lady on her night off.

Carolee saw me a split second after I saw her, and she smiled broadly, gesturing for me to join her. I shimmied my way through the crowd and hugged her lightly as she stood to greet me.

We ordered Pete’s Wicked Ale and linguini with clams, and, as women sometimes do, we got personal within minutes. Carolee had been briefed by my sister, Cat, and knew about the shooting that had left me twisting slowly in the California legal system.

“I misjudged the situation because they were kids,” I told Carolee now. “After they shot my partner and me, I had to bring them down.”

“It really sucks, Lindsay.”

“Doesn’t it ever? Killing a kid. I never thought I could do such a thing.”

“They forced you to do it.”

“They were murderers, Carolee. They’d killed a couple of kids, and when we apprehended them, they saw only one way out. But you’d think kids with all the advantages these two had wouldn’t be so whacked.”

“Yeah, I know. But judging from the hundreds of kids who’ve come through my school, believe me, psychologically damaged kids come from everywhere,” Carolee said.

When Carolee spoke of damaged children, something slammed into my brain. I saw myself as a kid, flying across my bedroom, careening into my bureau. “Don’t talk back to me, missy.” My father swaying in the doorway, king of the hill. I was a damaged child myself.

I struggled to drag myself back to the Cormorant.

“So what are you, Lindsay?” Carolee was saying. “Single? Divorced?”

“Divorced—from a guy I think of as the brother I never had,” I said, relieved that she’d changed the subject. “But I could be talked into hooking up again.”

“Now I remember,” Carolee said with a smile. “If I’m not mistaken, you had company when I came around with my cookies.”

I grinned at the memory of answering the door in Joe’s shirt. I had opened my mouth to tell Carolee about Joe when my attention was drawn to the movement behind her.

I’d been aware of three guys drinking steadily at the bar. Suddenly two of them left. The remaining guy was strikingly handsome: dark wavy hair, a symmetrical face, rimless glasses, pressed pants, and a Ralph Lauren polo shirt.

The bartender rubbed the bar with a rag, and I heard him ask, “Ready for another?”

“Actually, I’d like some of that pint-size brunette. And I might go for that tall blonde as a chaser.”

Although this remark was accompanied by a pleasant smile, I felt that there was something wrong about this guy. He looked like an ex-jock JP Morgan banker, but he sounded more like a salesman living on his draw.

My jaw tensed as he swiveled on his bar stool and turned his gaze on me.

Womans Murder Club 4 - 4th of July

Chapter 50

I NOTED THE GUY’S stats automatically: white male, maybe six two, a fit 190, forty to forty-two years old, no distinguishing marks except for a healing wound between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. As if he’d been cut with a knife.

He got down off his bar stool and came toward us.

I said quietly to Carolee, “This is my fault. I looked at him.” I did my best to head the guy off, making a big show of turning my face toward Carolee, but he kept coming.

“How are you two ladies tonight? You’re both so pretty, I just had to say hello.”

“Thanks,” said Carolee. “Nice of you to say.” Then she turned her back on him.

“I’m Dennis Agnew,” he said, pressing on. “Sure, you don’t know me, but listen, we can change all that. Why don’t you girls offer me a seat? Dinner’s on me.”

“Thanks anyway, Dennis,” I said, “but we’re having a nice time on our own. You know. Girls’ night out.”

A frown suddenly crossed the guy’s face, like the lights dimming during a brown-out. A fraction of a second later, his cockiness surged back, as did his beautiful smile.

“You couldn’t be having such a good time. Come on. Even if you’re the kind of girls who don’t like guys, it’s okay with me. It’s just dinner.”

Dennis Agnew was a crazy blend of smooth and crude, but whatever he was up to, I’d had enough of it.

“Hey, Dennis,” I said, fishing my badge out of my handbag and flashing it at him. “I’m a police officer and this conversation is private. Okay?”

I could see the pulse beating in his temple as he tried to strike a face-saving pose.

“You really shouldn’t make snap judgments, Officer. Especially about people you don’t know.”

Agnew walked back to the bar, put down some bills, and gave us a final look.

“You take care, now. I’ll be seeing you around.”

Then he stiff-armed the door that led out to the parking lot.

“Nice work, Lindsay.” Carolee made a cocked gun of her hand and blew imaginary smoke off the end of her finger.

“What a creep,” I said. “Did you see the look on his face? Like he couldn’t believe we were blowing him off. Who does he think he is? George Clooney?”

“Yeah,” said my new friend. “His mom and his mirror have been telling him that he’s irresistible for his whole life.”

Too funny! We laughed hard, clinked glasses. It was great to be with Carolee; I felt that I’d known her for years. Because of her, I stopped thinking about Dennis Agnew, killers and corpses, and even my looming court date.