I’ll blow his fucking brains out.
Goose bumps sprang up all over her arms as she remembered the twisted mouth, the spittle flying at her as he barked orders.
Her gaze landed on an expired six-pack of yogurt. Behind it was a salad kit full of wilted greens. She opened her pantry and pulled out the trash can.
Thunk. The yogurts were history. Thunk. Thunk. Ditto the expired mayo and a case of food poisoning disguised as ranch dressing. Thud. Year-old Pillsbury biscuits. Thud. Thunk. A tub of margarine and the Chinese mustard that had accompanied the egg rolls at last year’s Christmas party.
She pitched and tossed her way through the entire refrigerator, and when she was done, she stepped back.
Diet Cokes. And a jar of jalapeños.
Courtney snagged a soft drink and took it into the living room. She slumped onto the sofa and stared blankly at the darkened television screen.
The doorbell rang, and she shot off the couch.
Who would be here? It was almost nine. It wasn’t Fiona, because her sister always parked in the driveway and came to the back.
She tiptoed to the front door and peered through the peephole.
Amy Harris.
Courtney’s shoulders sagged. God, she was losing it. She flipped the bolt and swung open the door.
“Hey,” she said.
It wasn’t just Amy, but her son Devon, too. The eight-year-old wore a Houston Rockets T-shirt and looked sullen. Courtney immediately knew the reason for her neighbor’s visit.
“Sorry to drop in,” Amy said. “But I was wondering if you might do us a favor?”
“Let me guess,” Courtney said. “Someone needs a trim?”
Devon scowled down at his basketball shoes. He hated haircuts, but he was too proud to admit it.
“Would you mind?” Amy asked, mussing her son’s hair. “It’s getting so shaggy, and I can never seem to get off work in time to take him.”
Courtney stepped back to motion them inside. They’d been through this before. Typically, it irked her when friends asked for free cuts, but tonight she didn’t mind. She didn’t particularly want to be alone right now, and a cut would get her mind off everything.
Amy steered Devon into the kitchen. Courtney pulled out one of her four dining chairs and retrieved the bean bag cushion she kept on the top shelf of her broom closet for occasions like these. She tossed it on the wooden seat.
“Hop up.”
Devon complied, still looking mulish.
“Are you sure it’s all right? I hate to bother you.”
“It’s no bother,” Courtney said, although usually it was. She couldn’t count the number of times she’d been to parties or friends’ houses and someone had nudged her in the ribs and asked, ‘Hey, did you bring your scissors?’ It was incredibly rude, like her walking up to some doctor and asking if he’d mind giving her a quick checkup before the burgers came off the grill.
But Amy was different, sort of, because she had a nice kid and she was even more broke than Courtney.
“If you’re okay here, I’ve got to run back and check something on the stove.”
Courtney waved her off. “I’ve got it.”
When she was gone, Courtney stepped back and looked Devon over. His hair was long all around, and she guessed he hadn’t had it cut since the last freebie a couple months ago.
“What’ll it be?” she asked gruffly, because that’s what worked with this kid.
“I want a Mohawk.”
She opened the drawer where she kept a spare pair of scissors. “That probably won’t go over too well with your mom.”
“So?”
“Sit up straight.” She filled a spray bottle with warm water. “Sounds like you’re mad at her.”
He grunted.
“Shoulders back.” It was difficult to get an even cut when the client was slouching, which was one reason she disliked working with teenagers.
That, and the ones who could afford the rates at Bella Donna were a bunch of spoiled brats.
She misted his hair. “How ’bout just a quick trim today?” she suggested, even though he needed way more than a trim. She avoided the word cut around kids because they seemed to take it literally, like she was going to cut them.
Devon nodded, visibly relieved.
“If you get your mom’s permission, I’ll give you a faux-hawk for Halloween.”
He eyed her skeptically. “Is that, like, a wimpy Mohawk?”
For the first time in hours, she felt herself smile. “Not wimpy, just temporary. You comb all the hair up in the middle and spray it. Then it goes back to normal after you wash it. We can do some hair paint, too, if your mom says yes.”
Devon brightened considerably at this prospect. For the next few minutes, Courtney snipped and combed as he debated possible colors. When her floor was littered with three-quarter-inch brown locks, she dusted off his neck with a dish towel.
“All done.”
He hopped down from the chair. “Thanks. I’m gonna go tell my mom about Halloween.”
And he was out the door, without even remembering the Tootsie Pop she usually gave him.
Courtney reached for her broom and began sweeping up hair. She captured some dust bunnies, too, and tried to recall the last time she’d cleaned her house.
The bell rang again.
She grabbed a Tootsie Pop from her pantry before going to the door. Out of habit, she checked the peephole.
It wasn’t an eight-year-old boy but an oversize detective.
Was he here to arrest her? Her pulse started to race. Maybe she should pretend she wasn’t home.
But then she spotted the bag in his hand and pulled open the door.
“I didn’t know detectives made house calls,” she said.
His gaze skimmed over her, lingering on her navel. She remembered she was in a midriff shirt and yoga pants.
“Come in.” She gestured with an exaggerated motion to conceal how naked she suddenly felt. She wasn’t even wearing a bra.
He stepped into her house, and she closed the door behind him. She considered locking it, then noticed the gun at his hip and decided she didn’t need to. But then the ski mask flashed into her mind, and she flipped the bolt anyway. This guy was armed, but he might be a lousy shot.
“Detective Hodges, right?”
“Will.” He eyed the lollipop in her hand. “Am I interrupting dinner?”
“Not yet.” She forced herself to keep her arms at her sides instead of crossing them insecurely over her chest.
He held out the black leather handbag. It dangled from his thick fingers, and she could tell the simple act of holding a woman’s purse made him uncomfortable.
She took it from him. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” His gaze roamed the room, picking up details.
Her mammoth Visa bill sat open on the coffee table. Courtney strode into the kitchen, casually snatching it up as she went. She tucked the bill inside her purse and deposited everything on the kitchen counter.
“Any word on my car?” Not that she ever wanted to see it again, but she was searching for conversation.
“No.”
“You want a drink or something?” She opened a cabinet and pulled down two glasses.
“No.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him. He was hovering beside her CD tower, reading titles.
He looked up. “Thanks, but I’m still on the clock.”
“I’m not.” She fished several bottles out of her cabinet and poured two fingers of Grey Goose into one of the glasses, followed by a splash of lukewarm cranberry juice.
She went into the living room and made herself comfortable on the couch. Having a cop in her house didn’t faze her at all. She was perfectly at ease, not a thing to hide.
He wore charcoal slacks and black dress shoes along with a plain white shirt. The top button was undone, and she could see the white T-shirt he wore underneath. Very wholesome. Not a scrap of individuality to the entire e
nsemble.
She took a sip of her drink and placed the glass on the table. “A little late, isn’t it? Don’t you need to get home to the wife?”
He glanced over, his face unreadable. “I’m not married.” He nodded at the oil painting above her stereo cabinet, a desert landscape. “You paint this?”
“Fiona’s the artist in the family. You’ve met her, haven’t you?”
He grunted, which she took for a no.
“You will,” she said. “They’re always calling her in on murders and robberies, that kind of thing. She gets a lot of sexual assaults, too. She’s good with people.”
He didn’t respond. But then, he hadn’t come here to talk about Fiona. He sat down on the sofa arm, and Courtney’s heart started pounding.
“I have some follow-up questions.”
“Fire away.” She tucked her feet beside her and noticed his noticing her toenails. Men liked red. She didn’t know what it was.
“You said something earlier about your phone. How he asked you for it, and you reached in the purse for your defense spray.”
“That’s right.” She smiled cooperatively.
“So how’d your phone get in the backseat?”
“Huh?”
“Your cell phone. It was recovered from the floor of the backseat.”
Courtney thought back to the struggle. She’d given him the phone. Just before he’d forced the gun into her hand…
“I don’t know.”
His eyebrows arched.
“What? How should I know how it got there? Maybe he went through my purse after I ran away.”
“With a face full of Mace?”
She surged to her feet. “He could have done anything, for all I know! Or maybe he had an accomplice. A getaway driver. You ever think of that?”
He cocked his head to the side and watched her. He was calm. She was not. She was getting far too emotional about a little blip in her story. She forced her shoulders to relax and tried to make her face neutral.
“What else can I answer for you?”
“Also, I was wondering about the timeline. How long do you think—”
Pop!
“Gun!” she shrieked, and dove for the floor.
CHAPTER 3
Will gazed down at the woman sprawled flat on her stomach with her arms covering her head.
“Courtney.” He crouched beside her. “That wasn’t a gun.”
She looked up at him with terrified eyes.
“What was it? That noise?”
He tried for a soothing voice. “I don’t know. Something in your kitchen. It wasn’t a gunshot.”
She glanced at his sidearm. He hadn’t even reached for it, that’s how certain he was that they weren’t in any danger. She seemed calmed by this, but then her cheeks flushed, and he knew she was embarrassed. He offered her a hand and pulled her to her feet.
“It sounded like an explosion.” She peered into the kitchen. He doubted she realized she had a death grip on his fingers.
“Let me see,” he said, tugging his hand away. She glanced down and flushed even redder.
He stepped into the tiny kitchen. A broom was propped up against the counter, and wisps of hair covered the floor. He remembered she was a hairstylist at some place with a fancy Italian name. Apparently, she was moonlighting.
In the middle of the floor stood a trash can brimming with bottles, jars, and plastic containers. An exploded tube of biscuit dough sat on top.
“Found the culprit.” He picked up the can of dough.
She stood beside her breakfast table now, looking uncomfortable.
“It did sound kind of like a gunshot,” he lied.
She brushed her hair out of her face and blew out a breath. Then she sank into a chair.
“Sorry.” She closed her eyes. “My nerves are frayed.”
Will picked up an empty glass on the counter. He filled it with tap water and placed it on the table in front of her.
This visit was netting more information than he’d expected. Her behavior was that of a victim, not a perpetrator. Yes, her story still had holes in it, but he was becoming more and more certain she hadn’t killed her ex. The gunshot residue could have resulted from her struggle with the shooter.
Then again, maybe his brain was getting muddled by those tight pants she had on and the bra she wasn’t wearing. He needed to keep his distance.
“You eaten anything tonight?” He leaned back against the counter.
“No.” She sipped the water. She wouldn’t make eye contact, and her cheeks were still pink.
“You should eat something. And get a good night’s sleep.”
The doorbell rang, and she jumped to her feet. She hurried into the living room, and he followed.
“Check who it is.”
She glanced through the peephole. “My neighbor.”
She went back into the kitchen and returned with a Tootsie Pop. She unlocked the door to reveal a grinning little boy of about seven or eight. She handed him the lollipop and said something Will couldn’t hear.
After the kid was gone, she kept her hand on the doorknob and turned to face him. “Thanks for bringing over my purse.”
She was done talking. Which was okay. She obviously needed some rest, and he’d already learned more than he’d expected. He could come at her again later. In his experience, questioning a person on different occasions was more effective than hammering away for hours. It was especially useful to catch people off guard. They got flustered when they weren’t expecting to see you, making it more difficult to lie.
As he stepped over the threshold, he examined her door. It had a sturdy latch and a dead bolt.
“You have an alarm system?” he asked.
“No.”
He glanced up and down the block. It wasn’t a great neighborhood, but it wasn’t terrible. The streetlights glowed brightly, and the lawns appeared reasonably well maintained.
He looked her in the eye. “Lock up behind me.”
“I will.”
When he was halfway down the sidewalk, he glanced back at her over his shoulder. It was probably his imagination, but she seemed sorry to see him go.
Courtney Glass was in trouble again, and Nathan had the colossally stupid urge to help her. He watched APD’s newest recruit cross the parking lot. Hodges stopped beside the unmarked Taurus, looking none too happy to see him.
“Thought you were on the Goodwin case.”
“Waiting on labs,” Nathan said. “Figured I’d give you a hand this morning.”
They got in the Taurus, and Hodges didn’t say anything as they pulled out of the lot.
“Take Lamar to Ranch Road 2222,” Nathan advised. “You’ll miss the traffic on Loop 1.”
Hodges didn’t comment, but followed the instructions. The tension in the car was thick, and Nathan was getting some definite hostility.
“You and Webb got a list of suspects yet?” Nathan asked.
A microscopic nod.
“You want to tell me who’s on it?”
Hodges reached into the back and retrieved a brown accordion file from the floor. Nathan opened it. Under a tab labeled poi, he found a thick sheaf of papers. Nathan combed through. The Persons of Interest included two middle-aged males who had been arrested for armed robbery in various local parks. Also included were three women: the most recent Mrs. Alvin, Courtney Glass, and Alvin’s ex-wife, who had gotten royally screwed in their divorce.
“You guys thinking murder for hire?” Nathan asked, examining the ex-wife’s driver’s license photo. With the exception of a ten-year-old DUI, she’d never been in trouble with the law.
“Don’t know,” Hodges said.
Nathan skimmed the info on Courtney. He felt the weight of Hodges’s gaze on him as he reached the last page.
“Funny, you didn’t mention her arrest back in January,” Hodges said.
“Jail supervisor released her just after she came in. There’s no paperwork. How’d you find out about this?”<
br />
“Lopez told me.”
Nathan nodded. Lopez had been one of the beat cops patrolling Austin’s bar district when an extremely intoxicated Courtney took a hammer and a can of spray paint to Alvin’s red Porsche Carrera.
“Don’t pull that crap again,” Hodges said. “You got something relevant to this case, you tell me.”
Nathan closed the file. The kid was right. And once again, Nathan regretted calling in favors to get Fiona’s sister off the hook. At the time, he’d thought he was doing a good deed for a mixed-up young woman and a personal favor for Fiona, who had gone the extra mile for him more times than he could count. And since Alvin had wanted everything kept quiet, it had been a relatively easy favor to pull off.
He should have known it would come back to bite him in the ass.
“You’re right, I should’ve said something,” Nathan admitted. “And I see where you’re going with this, but I gotta tell you, I don’t think she did it.”
Hodges kept his eyes on the road. “Either way, it’s relevant. If you’re boning her sister, I don’t want to know about it, but don’t hold out on me again.”
Nathan shook his head. “I’m not boning her sister. Hell, I’m the best man in her wedding next month. You should be worried about yourself, not me. That woman’s manipulative. She’s also volatile, and she lies like a rug.”
“But you don’t think she did it.”
“That’s right,” Nathan said. “I understand you need to look at her, but don’t waste all your time there. There’s more to this thing than a mugging or a pissed-off ex-girlfriend.”
Hodges clenched his jaw but stayed silent. He didn’t seem to like getting advice, but Nathan didn’t much care. This was an important case, and he didn’t want it fucked up.
Ranch Road 2222 snaked through the hills of west Austin. The hot, hazy morning promised a sweat-drenched afternoon, and here they were, dressed for the occasion in dark suits so they wouldn’t stand out among the mourners.
“This thing’s gonna be a Who’s Who of big Democrats,” Nathan said, moving on to an easier subject. “Alvin was a hot-shot plaintiff’s attorney. Won a hundred-million-dollar lawsuit against a tractor company about two years ago. This winter he won another sixty mil in some pharmaceutical case. Wife’s family is in the meat-processing business. They call her the Weenie Queenie.”
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