said, flipping through the file. “The autopsy is scheduled for later today.”
Condum-Cox frowned—or at least she made an attempt. Not much got past the Botox. “Autopsy? But I thought the cause of death was obvious. She was stabbed, right?”
“Multiple times. But we still need the medical examiner to confirm she bled out,” the chief said.
Condum-Cox nodded. Suddenly, she stiffened. She turned a wide-eyed stare on Seven, as if just realizing something.
“Detective Bushard, your brother was recently convicted of murder.”
It wasn’t a question.
Seven felt himself flush. “He pled guilty to second degree, yes, your honor.”
Seven could see the gears turning in the mayor’s head. A lead detective with a colorful background like Seven’s wouldn’t help her cause, not if she wanted to keep the networks off their backs.
The look she gave the chief was priceless.
“Detective Bushard and Detective Cabral are our most seasoned investigators. They have a top-notch record,” the chief said, coming late to Seven’s defense.
Not to mention they were the only two detectives in homicide for the city of Westminster—with a caseload that made Seven more than once wish he could clone himself.
Of course, none of that mattered at the moment. The long hours he’d put in; the tremendous responsibility he’d shackled on like a ball and chain, costing him his marriage. Hell, what was personal happiness compared to bad publicity for the city? He could almost hear fifteen years on the force being flushed down the crapper.
“Chief, I hate to interrupt, but—” Erika tapped her watch “—Detective Bushard and I have an interview with a vital witness for the Tran murder.” She glanced anxiously at Seven. “No promises, but this could be the break we need.”
Suddenly, all worries of a 60 Minutes segment vanished from the mayor’s porcelain face. “Well, goodness gracious.” Condum-Cox attempted a smile. “Proceed, of course.”
Seven grabbed his jacket, following Erika’s lead. “This might take a while.”
“Not a problem,” the mayor said. She waved them off, turning to the chief and the crestfallen Pham, who would be staying behind.
Outside, the sun felt warm on Seven’s face. “So,” he asked Erika, knowing full well she’d just bailed his ass. “What’s our hot date?”
She pulled on her Christian Dior sunglasses. They weren’t even fakes. She said spending money on shit like that made her feel rich.
“Starbucks.” Looking more like a starlet than a homicide detective, she headed for the car, a tan Crown Victoria. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a latte.”
Erika ordered a vanilla latte—nonfat, decaf, sugar-free.
“What’s the point?” Seven asked, grabbing his double espresso from the barista.
“A girl’s gotta watch her figure.”
“Right,” he said, holding the door open so that they could sit outside. “What are you, a size two?”
“Puhleeze!” She sat down at one of the cement benches. “Size four. That size two shit is for anorexic models with boob jobs.” She leaned forward, showing a hint of cleavage exposed by her button-down shirt beneath her jacket.
She cocked a single brow and lowered her voice to theatrical huskiness. “These babies are real.”
“No kidding?” He held back a smile, trying not to give her the satisfaction of cracking up.
She winked. “I figured you’d know the difference, cowboy.”
This time he did laugh. Ricky had been a plastic surgeon in Newport Beach before the AMA suspended his license. He’d had stories. The fact was, a boob job here was about as ubiquitous as a Lexus or a Mercedes on the 405 Freeway.
Seven took a sip of his espresso. “What’s going to happen when there’s no secret-weapon witness that we conveniently had to interview? Urgently? The chief is going to chew your ass.”
She rolled her eyes. “Give the man some credit. The chief knows what’s up. Dr. Rrrruth—” she rolled the
Condum-Cox frowned—or at least she made an attempt. Not much got past the Botox. “Autopsy? But I thought the cause of death was obvious. She was stabbed, right?”
“Multiple times. But we still need the medical examiner to confirm she bled out,” the chief said.
Condum-Cox nodded. Suddenly, she stiffened. She turned a wide-eyed stare on Seven, as if just realizing something.
“Detective Bushard, your brother was recently convicted of murder.”
It wasn’t a question.
Seven felt himself flush. “He pled guilty to second degree, yes, your honor.”
Seven could see the gears turning in the mayor’s head. A lead detective with a colorful background like Seven’s wouldn’t help her cause, not if she wanted to keep the networks off their backs.
The look she gave the chief was priceless.
“Detective Bushard and Detective Cabral are our most seasoned investigators. They have a top-notch record,” the chief said, coming late to Seven’s defense.
Not to mention they were the only two detectives in homicide for the city of Westminster—with a caseload that made Seven more than once wish he could clone himself.
Of course, none of that mattered at the moment. The long hours he’d put in; the tremendous responsibility he’d shackled on like a ball and chain, costing him his marriage. Hell, what was personal happiness compared to bad publicity for the city? He could almost hear fifteen years on the force being flushed down the crapper.
“Chief, I hate to interrupt, but—” Erika tapped her watch “—Detective Bushard and I have an interview with a vital witness for the Tran murder.” She glanced anxiously at Seven. “No promises, but this could be the break we need.”
Suddenly, all worries of a 60 Minutes segment vanished from the mayor’s porcelain face. “Well, goodness gracious.” Condum-Cox attempted a smile. “Proceed, of course.”
Seven grabbed his jacket, following Erika’s lead. “This might take a while.”
“Not a problem,” the mayor said. She waved them off, turning to the chief and the crestfallen Pham, who would be staying behind.
Outside, the sun felt warm on Seven’s face. “So,” he asked Erika, knowing full well she’d just bailed his ass. “What’s our hot date?”
She pulled on her Christian Dior sunglasses. They weren’t even fakes. She said spending money on shit like that made her feel rich.
“Starbucks.” Looking more like a starlet than a homicide detective, she headed for the car, a tan Crown Victoria. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a latte.”
Erika ordered a vanilla latte—nonfat, decaf, sugar-free.
“What’s the point?” Seven asked, grabbing his double espresso from the barista.
“A girl’s gotta watch her figure.”
“Right,” he said, holding the door open so that they could sit outside. “What are you, a size two?”
“Puhleeze!” She sat down at one of the cement benches. “Size four. That size two shit is for anorexic models with boob jobs.” She leaned forward, showing a hint of cleavage exposed by her button-down shirt beneath her jacket.
She cocked a single brow and lowered her voice to theatrical huskiness. “These babies are real.”
“No kidding?” He held back a smile, trying not to give her the satisfaction of cracking up.
She winked. “I figured you’d know the difference, cowboy.”
This time he did laugh. Ricky had been a plastic surgeon in Newport Beach before the AMA suspended his license. He’d had stories. The fact was, a boob job here was about as ubiquitous as a Lexus or a Mercedes on the 405 Freeway.
Seven took a sip of his espresso. “What’s going to happen when there’s no secret-weapon witness that we conveniently had to interview? Urgently? The chief is going to chew your ass.”
She rolled her eyes. “Give the man some credit. The chief knows what’s up. Dr. Rrrruth—” she rolled the
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