scene andhospital. He found the call records from Jenny’s phone, but not for Samantha’s. It was a pain in the ass to get a search warrant for phone records, so he understood if Newman had tried to go through the family instead. Often, Sinclair just checked the call log on the phone, if he could get his hands on it. He scanned the property record. A tech had recovered items of bloody clothes and a rape kit from the hospital, but there was no mention of a phone. One more thing he had missed when he worked the case.
His cell phone vibrated. The text read, On my way home. He replied OK , stuffed everything back into the case packet, and returned it to Braddock’s desk.
Just before he flicked off the lights, he stopped. He returned to Braddock’s desk, pulled the legal pad out of the Arquette packet, and flipped to the end of Braddock’s notes. He wrote today’s date, followed by: Case reassigned to Sinclair , and put the packet in his desk drawer.
Chapter 10
The steam fogged the shower door, but Sinclair could still make out Liz’s lean, shapely body under the spray of water. Elizabeth Schueller, a natural blonde, had the same perfect body that won her runner-up in the Miss California pageant when she was a journalism student at UC, Davis, eight years ago. He watched as she arched backward to rinse the shampoo out of her hair, pushing out her chest and stretching her flat stomach.
He set his cell phone and gun on the nightstand and hung his clothes in the closet space she had set aside for him. Then he cracked open the shower door and stepped inside. She wiped the water from her eyes, smiled broadly, and without saying a word, pulled him in and kissed him long and hard. She wiggled into his arms, pressing her slippery body against his. Sinclair drew in the minty smell of her breath.
“I know where I want you tonight,” she whispered.
“Now?”
She pulled her head back and looked into his eyes. The playful look. “I’m in charge tonight. Dry yourself off and get in bed. I’ll be there in a minute.”
When she climbed into bed, Sinclair sat up to meet her, but she pushed him back down. “Just lie there,” she ordered.
She took her time with him, touching, kissing, and licking. Finally, she straddled his hips and slid onto him. She rocked slowly back and forth. She bit her lower lip, her eyes locked onto his as if she were trying to communicate something without words. Finally, her eyes went to the ceiling, her back arched, and a guttural moan came from deep inside her. She smiled and said, “Your turn.”
A few minutes later they lay on their sides, Liz’s back against his chest. He pulled her tight, nuzzling the nape of her neck.
“How’s it feel to be back working the murder police?” she said.
“I’ll let you know once I figure it out. At times, I felt like my first day in homicide. My new partner and I had a rough start, but I think she’ll work out.”
She wiggled her butt against him.
“You have a great ass,” said Sinclair.
“Hundreds of squats and lunges a week.”
He kissed the back of her neck and breathed in the scent of her hair. Something floral, maybe jasmine, he thought. He cupped one of her breasts. “And perfect boobs.”
“They should be. I had the best plastic surgeon in San Francisco.”
He was no longer shocked at how openly Liz talked about her breast implants—much the same way he might talk with another cop about a new pistol purchase.
“Having to get surgery . . . didn’t that make you feel . . .” Sinclair paused, searching for the right word. “. . . exploited?”
“Modeling is all about marketing a commodity. A five-foot-ten swimsuit model needs C cups. I made myself intothe commodity they wanted. Businesses do that all the time.” Sinclair felt her body tensing in his arms. “I could have spent ten years working my way up the ladder to even get an interview in broadcast. Had I come from a rich, connected family, my daddy might have gotten
His cell phone vibrated. The text read, On my way home. He replied OK , stuffed everything back into the case packet, and returned it to Braddock’s desk.
Just before he flicked off the lights, he stopped. He returned to Braddock’s desk, pulled the legal pad out of the Arquette packet, and flipped to the end of Braddock’s notes. He wrote today’s date, followed by: Case reassigned to Sinclair , and put the packet in his desk drawer.
Chapter 10
The steam fogged the shower door, but Sinclair could still make out Liz’s lean, shapely body under the spray of water. Elizabeth Schueller, a natural blonde, had the same perfect body that won her runner-up in the Miss California pageant when she was a journalism student at UC, Davis, eight years ago. He watched as she arched backward to rinse the shampoo out of her hair, pushing out her chest and stretching her flat stomach.
He set his cell phone and gun on the nightstand and hung his clothes in the closet space she had set aside for him. Then he cracked open the shower door and stepped inside. She wiped the water from her eyes, smiled broadly, and without saying a word, pulled him in and kissed him long and hard. She wiggled into his arms, pressing her slippery body against his. Sinclair drew in the minty smell of her breath.
“I know where I want you tonight,” she whispered.
“Now?”
She pulled her head back and looked into his eyes. The playful look. “I’m in charge tonight. Dry yourself off and get in bed. I’ll be there in a minute.”
When she climbed into bed, Sinclair sat up to meet her, but she pushed him back down. “Just lie there,” she ordered.
She took her time with him, touching, kissing, and licking. Finally, she straddled his hips and slid onto him. She rocked slowly back and forth. She bit her lower lip, her eyes locked onto his as if she were trying to communicate something without words. Finally, her eyes went to the ceiling, her back arched, and a guttural moan came from deep inside her. She smiled and said, “Your turn.”
A few minutes later they lay on their sides, Liz’s back against his chest. He pulled her tight, nuzzling the nape of her neck.
“How’s it feel to be back working the murder police?” she said.
“I’ll let you know once I figure it out. At times, I felt like my first day in homicide. My new partner and I had a rough start, but I think she’ll work out.”
She wiggled her butt against him.
“You have a great ass,” said Sinclair.
“Hundreds of squats and lunges a week.”
He kissed the back of her neck and breathed in the scent of her hair. Something floral, maybe jasmine, he thought. He cupped one of her breasts. “And perfect boobs.”
“They should be. I had the best plastic surgeon in San Francisco.”
He was no longer shocked at how openly Liz talked about her breast implants—much the same way he might talk with another cop about a new pistol purchase.
“Having to get surgery . . . didn’t that make you feel . . .” Sinclair paused, searching for the right word. “. . . exploited?”
“Modeling is all about marketing a commodity. A five-foot-ten swimsuit model needs C cups. I made myself intothe commodity they wanted. Businesses do that all the time.” Sinclair felt her body tensing in his arms. “I could have spent ten years working my way up the ladder to even get an interview in broadcast. Had I come from a rich, connected family, my daddy might have gotten
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