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to do with
his performance on the job and everything to do with the one aspect of his life
he’d never had any control over—his father, the unstoppable defense attorney
from hell.
    “Yeah,” he answered. “But he
knows I’d rather stay here.”
    She snorted. “No kidding. It
wouldn’t be a threat if you wanted to work somewhere else, dingdong. You
think he might do it?”
    He threw a pencil at her. “What
do you care? You’ll be on maternity leave.”
    Carver scooped up the pencil and
stuck it behind her ear. “Raising a kid without a father will be hard enough.
Coming back without my partner—now, that might be too much. I expect your butt
to be in that chair.”
    “Then let’s get back to work.
What do we have?”
    “First off, a witness.”
    “Potential witness,” Davis
corrected. “She called it in, she didn’t say she saw it.”
    “Whatever.” Carver sucked loudly
on the cough drop, most likely to annoy him. “Obvious surfaces were wiped
clean, but forensics is checking the rest of the place for prints.”
    Davis nodded. “Lots of traffic,
so that will take a while.”
    “A single blonde hair found stuck
in the blood. What color is the witness’s hair?”
    As if he could forget. “Blonde.”
    Carver retrieved the pencil from
her ear and scratched a note on her desk calendar. “So, we might have a
suspect.”
    Wrong. “No motive, no suspect.
Statistically, most killers are men who–”
    The lead snapped from Carver’s
pencil. “Statistically, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Davis didn’t look at her. He already knew.
    “The M.E. said Turner’d been shot
in the crotch. Crotch shots are personal. Personal, Hamilton. Turner being
ridiculously heterosexual, one has to assume the perp could be a disgruntled
female.”
    “Our job isn’t to assume. Our job
is to find proof.”
    Carver rolled her eyes.
    “First we have to be suspicious.
Hence, a suspect. Let’s see, perp might be female. Whaddya know, Ms. Summers is
female. Blonde hair found on scene. Whaddya know, Ms. Summers is blonde.
Motive? Hookup gone bad, spurned for a new lover, could be anything. Means?
Money buys guns and supermodels have money. Opportunity? She called it in
herself. And—here’s the big ‘and’—the blonde hair was lodged in a pool of the
vic’s blood.”
    Carver crunched on her lozenge.
“What the hell was she doing next to the body if she wasn’t killing him?”
    Davis wished he could throw
something at Carver heavier than a pencil.
    “Checking his pulse?” he
suggested. “CPR?” Lots of reasons. Hell, Lori didn’t even kill flies. “In every
murder case, somebody has to come across the body or the police would
never be involved. Crotch shots can come from jealous boyfriends, too. Bet not
all of Turner’s women were single.”
    “So let me get this straight. She
hears shots. She knows somebody with a gun is inside.” Carver’s tone turned
sarcastic. “So she enters, despite a deranged gun-wielder present, just in case
there’s any dead bodies she can do CPR on?”
    Put like that, his explanation
did sound a little weak. “We’ll have to ask her.”
    “Oh yeah, suspects are always
truthful. That’ll clear things right up.”
    Davis counted to ten before
answering. Lori had never been a liar. Or a murderer. Of course, that had been
high school, but how much could someone change?
    “I ran her name through every
database we’ve got. Nothing. Not even a parking ticket.”
    “See!” Carver’s eyes lit with
triumph. “You thought she was mighty convenient, too.”
    “No, I’m a cop. I’m efficient.
Stop making me crazy.” Davis counted to twenty this time. “Carver, you said
yourself that supermodels have money. Why would a supermodel steal a wallet?”
    She shrugged. “There’s more
reasons to steal a wallet than just money.”
    “Top secondary reason being to
conceal identity of the victim. You can’t tell me she thought nobody