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I took in the Irish lilt in her voice, the black Irish coloring, and how she smelled of rosewater.
“I’m going to be late for my power coffee with Chief Fescoe.” I gave Colleen another kiss and took her mug to the sink. I rinsed it out with hot water and poured her a fresh “cuppa” from the teapot. I hadn’t completely put the murder out of my mind. But I needed to.
“Watch that someone doesn’t knock seven kinds of lightning out of you,” she said.
“And why would they do that?”
“Because a’ you standing there as naked as a miley goat, telling me you’re leaving to go to work, work, work.”
I laughed, and Colleen finally came into my arms, put her small hands on my ass. I wanted to try and go with it.
“I’m going to bar the door,” she said, giving my cheeks a squeeze. “Seriously, Jack.”
She’d gotten to me already. How did she do that? Zero to rock hard in five seconds.
“You’re a witch,” I said, pulling her robe down from her shoulders. I hoisted her into my arms so that her legs wrapped around my waist, and I pressed her back against the refrigerator door. She squealed at the touch of the cold metal.
Colleen had once told me a joke: “What’s
Irish foreplay?”
I gave her the punch line now. “Brace yourself, darlin’.”
She sucked in her breath, the two of us panting as the limited contents of the refrigerator rattled and danced to our beat.
“Sorry I made you late,” she said when we were done. Her sweet, toothy grin said she wasn’t sorry at all.
I smacked her bottom. “As long as I didn’t make you late.”
I left her standing under a hot shower, rosy cheeked and humming an old rock song she loved, “Come on, Eileen.”
I set her burglar alarm, locked the door behind me, and ran down the stairs. Getting seven kinds of lightning knocked out of me hadn’t felt too bad, actually. But now I needed to work, work, work.
Chapter 11
I STOPPED AT police headquarters on my way to Private. So far, there were no charges against Andy Cushman. I was already behind schedule, so I hurried to the office.
The “war room” at Private is octagonal in shape and features a round ink-black lacquered table, the only item there that once belonged to my father and the old Private. Padded swivel chairs are clustered around the table and jumbo flat-screens are mounted wall to wall.
Everyone was waiting for me when I walked in twenty minutes late. I was met with a stunned hush, pretty much what I expected.
“Sorry about Shelby,” said Del Rio. “She was such a sweetheart. I just can’t fucking believe it, Jack. None of us can.”
Condolences were echoed by the others at the table as Colleen Molloy came in with a Red Bull for me and my call sheet. I’m not sure what it says about me, but apart from Andy, the people I cared about most in the world were all there. They included half a dozen of my investigators, plus our criminalist, Sci, and a fiftyish computer genius, Maureen Roth, whom everybody called Mo-bot.
“Need me for anything else?” Colleen asked. She’d been my assistant for two years, which was how we met, and then it got more complicated than that, a lot more complicated.
“No, thanks, Molloy. I’m good.”
I scanned the call sheet and saw that Andy had phoned twice since I’d left LAPD headquarters a half hour ago. Andy was worried, and for good reason. The cops had only one suspect, and he was it.
I booted up my laptop and punched in the photos I’d taken of the Cushman crime scene. They filled the screens wrapping around the conference room. “I took these last night.”
There were extreme close-ups of the splintered door frame, the trashed bedroom, Shelby’s wounds, and even a shot of Andy sobbing into his bloody hands that was worthy of a newspaper front page.
“I’ve got to tell you all something,” I said to the group. “Shelby and I were once close. This was before she and Andy met. So, whatever you hear out there, Shelby was my friend, a good one.”
The room stayed very somber and silent. Justine stared at me and through me. I knew she was trying to fit Shelby into the time sequence of my checkered past. She had good reason to.
