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Digging her fingers into his shoulders, she struggled for sanity. “We’re messing up, you know. The killer could be standing outside, hidden behind one of those big sidewalk trees.”
“Which is why I’m getting out first.”
Humor warred with desire. “You might want to hold up on that. Those jeans don’t hide much.”
The expression in his eyes made her laugh. Her tension abated. She kissed his cheek. “Life’s as twisted as the streets of San Francisco, isn’t it?”
“Only since I met you.”
Vanessa’s cell phone began to ring. Digging it from her bag, she checked the screen. “No ID. Could be one of my snitches. Detective Connor,” she answered.
A man’s voice snarled at her. “An eye for an eye, Detective. I’ve got mine on you.” The snarl became a rough whisper. “Don’t blink.”
“IT TOOK US TEN MINUTES to get inside your house from the curb, Billy.” Rick slapped his palm on the side of a mahogany cabinet. “I damn near shot a guy who was pulling a pack of smokes from his back pocket.”
“You didn’t, though, and neither did Vanessa.” The clatter of saws and hammers issuing from the kitchen forced Billy to raise his voice.
“Shows how well-trained you are.”
“Yeah, really well-trained.” Rick searched for something else to hit. He settled for the living-room wall. Two of the crosses Billy had hung there jumped.
“Don’t you start knocking God’s stuff around,” the old man ordered. “Those crosses belonged to my Louisiana granny.”
So had the rosary beads and the three crucifixes above the foyer door. The portrait of the Madonna had been painted by Billy himself at the tender age of twelve.
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