Devil in the Dock (A Robin Starling Courtroom Mystery) by Michael Monhollon

minute or so, he found something else of interest to run off and investigate.
     
    I was in the driveway washing the shoe polish off my windows when my cell phone rang. I put the hose down to fish the phone out of the pocket of my gym shorts, and Deeks lapped the water that arched from the end of it in a tiny fountain.
    “Hey, Paul.”
    “Hey. Where are you?”
    “At home.”
    “No, you’re not.”
    “I’m around back in the driveway. Someone scrawled graffiti on my car windows, and I’m washing the whole car while I’m at it.”
    “I’m coming out,” he said.
    “You’re inside?”
    “All of us are.”
    “All of you?”
    “Yeah. Hang on a minute.”
    “All of us”turned out to be Paul and Brooke and Mike. They came out through the garage, Mike saying, “We brought Italian. I thought we were going to have to eat without you.”
    Paul said, “We also brought two bottles of Sangiovese—Mike did.” Mike McMillan, in addition to being Brooke’s fiancé, was Paul’s best friend and had been since high school.
    “Hey,” Brooke said. “This dog is wet.” She pushed at Deeks, who was trying to rub his head against her leg.
    “Deeks! At least he’s not jumping on you.”
    She had both of her hands on his head now, fending him off.
    “He keeps leaping in front of the hose,” I said. “We’ve been running, so he’s hot and naturally assumes I got the hose out for his benefit.”
    Paul kissed my cheek, which was damp with soapy water and probably salty with dried sweat, but neither seemed to bother him. “Where did you pick up the graffiti?” He peered at the windshield, moving his head to change the angle. “Lawyer Bitch? Is that what it says?”
    “The worst was Evil’s Whore on this side, I think. It freaked out a boy and his momma on the way home.”
    “That’s pretty personal. I don’t like it.”
    “I don’t like it, either. Wait. ‘Evil’s Whore’ isn’t personal. What are you trying to say? What’s ‘Evil’s Whore’ got to do with me?”
    “I meant Lawyer . . . you know. Whoever did this knows what you do for a living. Where did it happen?”
    “Tell you about it over dinner. Here, you guys finish this, and I’ll get cleaned up.” I picked up the bucket, which contained soapy water and a sopping T-shirt for scrubbing, and handed it to Paul, kissing him on the mouth as I made the transfer.
    “We’ll get all wet,” Brooke said. “We’re not dressed for it.”
    “Deeks will help you.” I went inside, feeling only a twinge of guilt at using my feminine wiles to get Paul to take over washing my car. After all, everyone wanted to eat as soon as possible.
     
    It probably says something about the Robin-centric nature of my universe that I assumed the evening’s conversation would be about me and my new case. We weren’t halfway through our salads, though, before I detected tension between Brooke and Mike. It took longer than it should have, but, as I say, I was distracted by thoughts of myself and what was going on in my own life.
    “So,” I said to Brooke, who was sitting across from me at the kitchen table. “How was your day?”
    “Fine.”
    She continued to chew her salad savagely, and even crispy leaves of iceberg lettuce didn’t call for that. Paul gave me an infinitesimal head shake. Aside from a quick shift of his gaze in Brooke’s direction, Mike didn’t react.
    “That good, huh?” I said.
    Mike said, “You were going to tell us about the graffiti on your car windows?”
    “I can do that.” I gave them a brief synopsis over my chicken marsala, conscious that whatever we were not talking about was more engaging than my material. I caught Paul’s gaze, but he ignored my lifted eyebrow as he finished chewing his mouthful of chicken parmesan and swallowed.
    “I know you think of these neighbors of Shorter’s as a bunch of harmless busybodies,” he said, “but you shouldn’t underestimate their capacity for violence.”
    “These are ordinary,