left my coat behind.
The car following me, a dark sedan, turned into the lot, its headlights shining in my small mirror, so I couldn't see who was at the wheel. It parked well away from where I stood, almost out of sight around the side of the store. Confident that it wasn't going anywhere for the moment, at least not until I was, I entered the store and picked up a pack of gum from the candy aisle and placed it on the counter. "Hey, Rosalie," I said to the clerk, a Latina woman in her twenties.
"Hot date tonight?" she asked, eyeing my black sheath.
"One can only hope." I paid for the gum with change I dug out of the bottom of my purse. "Listen, I think someone's following me. Mind if I go out your back door?" "Suit yourself," she said with a shrug, then rang up the next customer. I started toward the back of the store when she called out, "Hey. You want me to phone the cops?" "Only if you hear gunshots." At the back of the store, I slipped out of my shoes and carried them in one hand, the pavement ice-cold beneath my feet. The predicted rain started to fall, but I barely noticed. With my free hand I slung my purse strap over my shoulder, reached into the purse, and grasped the butt of my gun, careful not to reveal it, then proceeded around the corner where the car was parked. If not for the two working headlights, I'd swear it was the same car I'd parked in front of last night at the doctor's homicide scene. IAE probably had half a dozen like it at any one time in the Hall of justice parking garage. It was a late model, blue or black, I couldn't tell in the dark. I knew a cop car when I saw one, but had no idea what sort of car Zimmerman had been given once he was transferred out of Homicide. I wasn't taking any chances.
Staying in the shadows of the building, I made my way to the car, my hand gripped tightly on my weapon. It wasn't Ed Zimmerman at all.
It was Torrance from IA.
"Son of a bitch," came his sharp oath. He nearly jumped from his seat when he discovered me at his window. His gaze dropped to the gun I partly concealed.
"Get in the car," he ordered. He leaned over, opened the passenger door.
He outranked me. I was close to hypothermia. But just to show I wasn't intimidated, first I dropped my shoes and put them on. The interior of his car was warm, but my teeth chattered uncontrollably, and I was grateful when he blasted the heater. His gaze swept over me. "It occur to you, Inspector, that it's the middle of winter?"
"Forget the weather report. What are you doing here?"
"Continuing my investigation."
"Am I a suspect now?"
"You said that Scolari broke into your house. We thought it possible he might return. You could be in danger.
"Great," I said. "Just how long do you plan to babysit me?"
"Depends on how long it takes to apprehend Scolari." "Have you considered that he might not be guilty?" Torrance watched the traffic on University for several moments, then said softly, "Patricia's throat was slit.
She was sitting in the Range Rover he'd just bought."
"You forget. I was there." A car pulled into the parking lot, its headlights flashing in my window, bringing with it Patricia Mead-Scolari's image as I saw her last night. Though I didn't know her as well as I knew Scolari, the thought of her so violently murdered-I fought to control the prick of tears. Then, without warning, a vision of her on a porcelain table flashed in my mind" somebody else performing the autopsy. I couldn't shake the cruelly ironic image, and nausea twisted my stomach. I stared out the window. Scattered raindrops dotted the glass. "His thumbprint was on the inside passenger door handle,"
Torrance said softly. "Look," I finally said when I thought I could talk without having my voice crack. "He owned the car. His prints were bound to be all over it."
"It wasn't your basic latent, Gillespie. It was a patent print."
"In what?" I asked, the evidence against
The car following me, a dark sedan, turned into the lot, its headlights shining in my small mirror, so I couldn't see who was at the wheel. It parked well away from where I stood, almost out of sight around the side of the store. Confident that it wasn't going anywhere for the moment, at least not until I was, I entered the store and picked up a pack of gum from the candy aisle and placed it on the counter. "Hey, Rosalie," I said to the clerk, a Latina woman in her twenties.
"Hot date tonight?" she asked, eyeing my black sheath.
"One can only hope." I paid for the gum with change I dug out of the bottom of my purse. "Listen, I think someone's following me. Mind if I go out your back door?" "Suit yourself," she said with a shrug, then rang up the next customer. I started toward the back of the store when she called out, "Hey. You want me to phone the cops?" "Only if you hear gunshots." At the back of the store, I slipped out of my shoes and carried them in one hand, the pavement ice-cold beneath my feet. The predicted rain started to fall, but I barely noticed. With my free hand I slung my purse strap over my shoulder, reached into the purse, and grasped the butt of my gun, careful not to reveal it, then proceeded around the corner where the car was parked. If not for the two working headlights, I'd swear it was the same car I'd parked in front of last night at the doctor's homicide scene. IAE probably had half a dozen like it at any one time in the Hall of justice parking garage. It was a late model, blue or black, I couldn't tell in the dark. I knew a cop car when I saw one, but had no idea what sort of car Zimmerman had been given once he was transferred out of Homicide. I wasn't taking any chances.
Staying in the shadows of the building, I made my way to the car, my hand gripped tightly on my weapon. It wasn't Ed Zimmerman at all.
It was Torrance from IA.
"Son of a bitch," came his sharp oath. He nearly jumped from his seat when he discovered me at his window. His gaze dropped to the gun I partly concealed.
"Get in the car," he ordered. He leaned over, opened the passenger door.
He outranked me. I was close to hypothermia. But just to show I wasn't intimidated, first I dropped my shoes and put them on. The interior of his car was warm, but my teeth chattered uncontrollably, and I was grateful when he blasted the heater. His gaze swept over me. "It occur to you, Inspector, that it's the middle of winter?"
"Forget the weather report. What are you doing here?"
"Continuing my investigation."
"Am I a suspect now?"
"You said that Scolari broke into your house. We thought it possible he might return. You could be in danger.
"Great," I said. "Just how long do you plan to babysit me?"
"Depends on how long it takes to apprehend Scolari." "Have you considered that he might not be guilty?" Torrance watched the traffic on University for several moments, then said softly, "Patricia's throat was slit.
She was sitting in the Range Rover he'd just bought."
"You forget. I was there." A car pulled into the parking lot, its headlights flashing in my window, bringing with it Patricia Mead-Scolari's image as I saw her last night. Though I didn't know her as well as I knew Scolari, the thought of her so violently murdered-I fought to control the prick of tears. Then, without warning, a vision of her on a porcelain table flashed in my mind" somebody else performing the autopsy. I couldn't shake the cruelly ironic image, and nausea twisted my stomach. I stared out the window. Scattered raindrops dotted the glass. "His thumbprint was on the inside passenger door handle,"
Torrance said softly. "Look," I finally said when I thought I could talk without having my voice crack. "He owned the car. His prints were bound to be all over it."
"It wasn't your basic latent, Gillespie. It was a patent print."
"In what?" I asked, the evidence against
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