Intimate Relations by Rebecca Forster (most popular ebook readers TXT) 📕

and not have some visceral reaction. Think about it, even if our friend here didn't cry out there would be the sound of bones breaking. That alone might give a normal human being a shiver," Paul said. "And the first blow did most of the damage. I would guess there were no more than two after that."

"A jealous lover in a fit of passion who retreated when he realized what he had done." Cori mulled that theory over.

"Very possible," Paul agreed.

"The man who owned the studio was distraught," she said.

"That's a place to start," Paul said.

"And Bev," Cori said. "She was angrier than a nest of hornets. She's tall enough, and strong enough to do this."

"I wouldn't want to be the one to go there," Paul said. "But I fear you must."

"First things first," Cori said. "We need a name for our lady from The Brewery."

"I wish I could oblige." Paul reached under the table and brought up a plastic bag. "Here are her things. A dress. No shoes—"

"We've got the shoes, and let me tell you she was shittin' in high cotton" Cori said. Paul looked at her as if she were speaking another language. "She had money, Paul. Geeze, you Northerners."

He sighed, and turned the bag a quarter turn.

"No underthings. No jewelry. The little lady was very comfortable in her own skin. The dress is very well made. Custom I suppose since there was no label." Paul pulled up his lips, his shoulders rose too. "So there you have it, Cori."

"Guess it's back to work for me."

"For both of us," Paul said. "I hope that ten more haven't come in while we've been shooting the breeze."

Cori and Paul turned their back on the girl, leaving her naked and alone in the cold room. They walked to the front office and waited for the elevator together.

"You know, Cori," Paul said. "I keep thinking about the differing force of the blows. That speaks volumes to remorse."

"So does picking her up and holding her tight," Cori said, thinking of Enver Cuca and his blood soaked shirt.

"Or grief," Paul said. "Maybe you're not looking at a real murderer. A crime of passion is different from intent to kill."

"Oh, lordy, doc. Murder is murder if you've got one person alive and one person dead. That's the law. We can't afford to have soft souls."

"Then may I make one suggestion if you need to question Beverly O'Brien again?" Paul said

"What would that be?"

"Keep Finn out of that conversation if you can."

"You're preachin' to the choir," Cori said. The elevator door opened. She got in, put her finger on the down button, and said, "Thanks again, doc. Get some sleep."

And Cori was gone.

12

There were quite a few things Finn O'Brien missed about Wilshire Division, and his office was at the top of the list. Modest as it had been, it had a door that he could close. The solitude let him focus on his work. That door also shut out the anger that flared when someone remembered the officer who had died by Finn's hand.

The fact was, Finn missed Hollywood in all its iterations. Families, freaks, runaways, rising starlets rushing off to their auditions. He missed seeing Batman and Superman battle it out for prime space in front of Grauman's Chinese Theater even as they shamed tourists into paying for the privilege of  taking their photograph. Finn missed the hills where the rich folk hid behind the walls of their homes and businesses and did unspeakable things to one another in their off hours. He missed the lowlands of Fairfax and Little Ethiopia, and the food booths at Farmers Market. He loved The Grove, the synagogues, and television studios. Finn O'Brien missed the crazy quilt of real estate. He missed the rainbow population that bubbled with dreams and disappointments.

Most of all, Finn missed Captain Fowler. He  had a deep and abiding respect for the man who had reluctantly taken in the tarnished detective.  Fowler had given Finn a fair shot, and that was all he ever wanted. The captain was intelligent and unflappable.  He was loyal to those he commanded until they betrayed that loyalty. Finn couldn't have asked for more in a captain.

Now he and Cori were lent to a different division because money was tight after the riots.  Ranks were diminished as disillusioned officers took their retirements.  Where Wilshire Division had been a kaleidoscope, East L.A. was daguerreotype. It was a richly shaded, but it was a monotone of a place. Finn's office was a desk that faced Cori's.  They could talk to one another across the expanse, but they could say nothing that wasn't meant for other ears. Until she got in, Finn was the lad on the school yard eating lunch alone. The cool kids kept their distance, but never let him forget they were there.

Finn had made no friends by questioning Officers Hunter and Douglas's decision not to engage at The Brewery. But the two cops told a story of intimidation and high-handedness by the on-loan detective. It was passed on in whispers loud enough for Finn to hear. His colleagues cast sidelong glances, hoping to make him uncomfortable in their midst. Such an inflation of the events was not unexpected, Finn just found it wearying. He longed for a door he could close. It was mid-morning. He and Cori had slept well, grabbed breakfast when they woke and gone their separate way. Cori to a hearing; Finn to the office. Now Carol Smith, Captain of East Los Angeles Division, was at the door of the bullpen calling him away.

Her name left no particular taste on the tongue. The woman herself  left no particular impression on Finn and Cori. She had welcomed them by laying out their work load, addressing Finn's possible problems, and telling Cori she was the only female detective onboard. They had been assigned cars and desks and neither detective had seen hide nor hair of the woman until now.

Finn didn't bother to cover the