I was choking on this load of crap, sputtering, “You arrogant horse’s ass,” when I heard a voice saying, “Whoa. Please tell me you’re applying for a job here.”
A small man with a cheap green jacket buttoned over his beer belly appeared in the office doorway. He leaned against the doorjamb, an arm’s length from where I stood, running his eyes over me. It was a look that just about skeeved me out of my skin.
“Rick Monte, this is Lieutenant Lindsay Boxer. She’s a homicide cop from San Francisco,” Agnew said. “She’s on vacation—or so she says.”
“Enjoying your time off, Lieutenant?” Rick asked my bustline.
“I’m loving it, but I could make this an official visit at any time.”
As soon as I said those words, I felt a jolt straight to the heart.
What was I doing?
I was on restricted duty and out of my jurisdiction. I’d chased a citizen in my own car. I had no backup, and if either of these jerk-offs phoned in a complaint, I’d be up on disciplinary action.
It was the last thing I needed before my trial.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were upset,” Dennis said in his oily voice. “I haven’t done anything to harm you, you know.”
“Next time you see me,” I said through clenched teeth, “turn and walk the other way.”
“Oh. Pardon me. I must have it wrong. I thought it was you who followed me.”
I was hot to fire off a comeback, but this time I stifled it. He was right. He hadn’t actually done anything to me. He hadn’t even called me a name.
I left Agnew’s office, kicking myself for showing up on this lowlife’s turf.
I had pointed my nose toward the front of the shop, intent on putting this horrid little scene behind me, when my way was blocked by a brawny young guy with blond streaks in his mullet and tattooed flames shooting out of his T-shirt collar.
“Out of my way, hot stuff,” I said, trying to squeeze past him.
The guy held out his arms while standing like a boulder in the middle of the store. He smiled, daring me.
“Come on, mama. Come to Rocco,” he said.
“It’s all right, Rocco,” Agnew said. “This lady is my guest. I’ll walk you out, Lindsay.”
I reached for the door, but Agnew leaned against it, boxing me in. He was so close all I could see was his face: every pore, every capillary in his bloodshot eyes. He pressed a videocassette into my hands.
The cover advertised Randy Long’s epic performance in A Long Hard Night.
“Take a look when you have a chance. I put my phone number on the back.”
I pushed away from Agnew and the video clattered to the floor.
“Move it,” I said.
He stepped back, just clearing the door enough so that I could open it. Agnew had a grin on his face and his hand on his crotch as I left.
Womans Murder Club 4 - 4th of July
Chapter 68
I WOKE UP THE next morning thinking about Dennis Agnew, that slime. I took my coffee out to the porch and before it had cooled enough to drink, I was taking my agitation out on a rattle in the Bonneville’s engine.
I had a feeler gauge in hand and was fiddling with the valves when a car rolled up and parked in the driveway.
Doors slammed.
“Lindsay? Helllooo.”
“I think she’s been swallowed by that big gold boat.”
I ducked out from under the hood, wiped my greasy hands on a chamois, and reached out my arms to Cindy and Claire, grabbing them both in one giant hug. We squealed and jumped around, and Martha, who’d been sleeping on the porch, joined in.
“We were in the neighborhood,” said Claire when we broke from our clinch. “Thought we’d stop by and see how much trouble you’ve gotten into. So what’s this, Lindsay? I thought all these gas gluttons had been crushed and outlawed.”
“Don’t be talking bad about my baby,” I said with a laugh.
“It runs?”
“No, sirree, Butterfly. She flies.”
The girls handed me a beribboned spa basket from Nordstrom’s full of great mood-altering bath and body stuff, and after a unanimous show of hands, we piled into the Bonneville for a ride.
I buzzed down the electric windows, and as the car’s big whitewalls softened the road, the zephyr coming off the bay mussed and tousled our hair. We rounded the loops of Cat’s neighborhood and were headed up the mountain when Claire showed me an envelope.
“Almost forgot. Jacobi sent this.”
I glanced at the eight-by-eleven-inch manila envelope in her hand. The night before, I’d called Jacobi and asked him to get me anything he could find on Dennis Agnew, aka Randy Long.
I filled Cindy and Claire in on my first accidental meeting with Agnew at the Cormorant bar, the set-to at Keith’s garage, and the near-rear-ender. Then I described my skeevy tour of the Playmate Pen in minute detail.
“He said that to you?” Cindy exclaimed after I quoted Agnew on “women debase themselves with men so they can feel powerful.” Her cheeks pinked; she was pissed off right up to her eyelashes. “Now, there’s someone who should be crushed and outlawed.”
I laughed and told her, “Agnew had this wall of fame, like something you’d see in Tony’s office in the Bada Bing. All these signed photos from porn queens and wiseguys. Unreal. Claire, will you open that, please?”
Claire took three pages from the envelope. They were stapled together and annotated with a Post-it note from Jacobi.
“Read it out loud, if you don’t mind,” Cindy said, leaning over the back of the front seat.
“There’s some minor league stuff: DWI, assault, domestic violence, a drug bust and some time at Folsom. But here ya go, Linds. Says he was charged with first-degree murder five years ago. Case dismissed.”
I reached over and peeled off Jacobi’s handwritten note: “The vic was Agnew’s girlfriend. His lawyer was Ralph Brancusi.”
I didn’t have to say more. We all knew Brancusi was a high-profile defense attorney. Only the wealthy could afford him.
Brancusi was also the lawyer of choice for the mob.
Womans Murder Club 4 - 4th of July
Chapter 69
WHEN WE GOT BACK to Cat’s house, there was a patrol car in the driveway, and Chief Stark was walking toward us. He looked as grim as ever, brow scrunched up, with a haunted look in his eyes that was actually contagious.
“What is it, Chief? What’s happened now?”
“The ME’s starting the posts on the Sarduccis,” he said, squinting into the sun. “This is your formal invitation.”
I felt a surge of excitement that I masked out of consideration for the chief. I introduced Cindy and Claire.
“Dr. Washburn is the CME in San Francisco,” I said. “Okay for her to come along?”
“Sure, why not?” the chief grunted. “Take all the help I can get. I’m learning, right?”
Cindy looked at the three of us and saw that she wasn’t being included in the invitation. Hell, she was the press.
“I get it,” she said good-naturedly. “Look, I’ll hang out here, no problem. I’ve got my laptop and a deadline. Plus, I’m a leper.”
Claire and I got back into the Bonneville and followed the chief’s car out to the highway.
“This is great,” I said, my enthusiasm brimming over. “He’s letting me into the case.”
“What am I doing?” Claire said, shaking her head. “Aiding and abetting your completely ill-advised involvement when we both know you should be out on the porch with a gin and tonic, your butt in a chair and your legs over the railing.”
I laughed. “Admit it,” I said. “You’re hooked, too. You can’t turn away from this thing, either.”