24

I spent hours that night in my father’s study, Justice lying next to the front window, while I obsessed over the blogs. I knew better than to surf the Internet and read all the vitriol from the hatemongers, but I couldn’t help myself. The paper already had an article online about Tate’s polygraph test and my “lynching” comment. My apology—short, sweet, and unconditional—was contained in the final paragraph. The comments following the story were brutal. One person called me the Mark Fuhrman of the DA’s office. More than half the negative comments were aimed at Bill Masterson—another alleged Republican racist who tolerated folks like me in his organization.

I had a few defenders. One said this entire thing was overblown and that Tate had no business playing the race card. Another guy, who didn’t attach his name, said my comments sounded presidential, citing an Andrew Jackson quote when the South threatened to secede from the Union: “If any man has been found to be plotting secession, I will find the nearest rope and hang him from the nearest tree.”

But many of my defenders were explicitly racist. And seeing the online fury my statement had elicited, I felt more ashamed than ever.

Earlier that day, I had been angry at Masterson for not standing up for me. But as I spent time online, I realized that he had no choice. I was lucky I hadn’t been suspended from the department altogether.

It was astonishing how one stupid comment and a clever media ploy by Caleb Tate could turn the momentum so quickly. I felt like I had betrayed not only the DA’s office but also my family’s quest for justice.

I was still in my dad’s study at nine thirty when I saw a small sports car come flying around the corner into the cul-de-sac. There were only seven houses on our cozy little court, and from watching out the window in my dad’s study, I knew by heart the types of cars that came and went. Once in a while, someone would come in and hang a U-turn, but this car came straight into my driveway and parked behind my dad’s car. It was a red convertible, a car I had never seen before, and I wondered if the press was going to start stalking me over this story. I quickly left the study before I could be seen and peeked through a window in the dining room. Justice, on the other hand, stayed at the picture window in the study, his tail straight up and wagging, barking to welcome the new visitor to the Brock estate.

To my surprise, LA got out of the car and walked up the hill toward the house. He was wearing jeans with holes in the knees, a white T-shirt, and sandals. Definitely off duty.

What was he doing here?

The doorbell was Justice’s cue to go bonkers, which was exactly what he did. I commanded him to sit, and he crouched into a near-sitting position, his butt a few inches from the floor, ready to pounce. His tail was wagging fiercely, he was already hyperventilating, and his wild eyes were focused on the handle of the door.

I cracked the door open, and Justice rammed through, jumped on LA, and began licking the poor man and rubbing against his legs.

“Hey, big fella,” LA said. I could tell by the way he started scratching Justice’s back that LA had a dog.

“Think your mom will let me in?” he asked Justice.

“You got a search warrant?” I asked.

He patted his pockets. “Uh . . . left it at the office.”

I showed him in and Justice calmed down. A little. He fetched a rope toy, hoping LA would play tug-of-war.

“You want anything to drink?” I asked. “Or something to eat? I’ve probably got some two-week-old funeral food.”

He smiled and showed off the dimples. According to my sources, that smile was nearly legendary for putting female witnesses at ease, even to the point of telling LA their deepest secrets. And now I realized I had already been acting a little stupid, trying a joke that was moronic at best.

I decided to keep my guard up.

LA and Justice had taken center stage in the family room, flexing their muscles. Justice hunched down, one end of the rope between his teeth, jerking as hard as he could. LA smiled and laughed while he egged Justice on with some trash-talking. I couldn’t help but notice the muscles in LA’s right arm, the one pulling the opposite end of the rope. I made an effort not to stare.

“I actually didn’t have supper yet,” LA said. “And funeral food wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.” He dropped his end of the rope—darn—and rubbed Justice’s head. “You win, buddy. You’re too tough for me.”

He stood and showed me the dimples again. “Great dog.”

“Yeah.”

“Listen, I’ve got some theories about the Tate case that I want to bounce off you. Wanna go grab a bite?”

“I’m not on the Tate case anymore.” Where have you been?

“I know,” LA said. He knelt down and started petting Justice again. “But I thought as a completely disinterested observer with total objectivity, you might be a good person for me to talk to. And I hear there’s an outside possibility that if you behave yourself and kiss all the right rings, they might ultimately allow you the honor of working 24-7 on the case again so you can make Masterson look good at trial.”

Despite my cynical man-shield, I was starting to like this guy. As for Justice, he was on his back, allowing LA to rub his stomach. “Well . . . I actually haven’t eaten either.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. But we’ll have to take your car,” he added.

“What’s wrong with yours?”

LA gave me a hurt look as if he were shocked that anybody could suggest something was wrong with his car. “It’s a Mazda MX-5 Miata with heated leather seats, a turbo-charged engine, and a six-speed manual transmission. Best car on the road. But it does have one glaring weakness.”

I’m not much of a car person, so I gave him a bored, unimpressed look.

“It’s only got room for two,” he said. “When I take my dog, I drive the Element.”

Okay, this guy was good. The way to a woman’s heart is straight through her dog. But I wasn’t going down without a fight. And I made a mental note—two vehicles on a detective’s salary.

“I don’t like to leave him in the car that long, especially at night.”

“Who said anything about leaving him in the car? I say we get the food to go and eat in the car with him. We can stop by the grocery store and get him a rawhide.”

“You’ve got a dog, huh?”

“An English bulldog,” he said proudly. “Greatest breed going. . . . Well, maybe second greatest.” He gave Justice a pat.

“What’s his name?”

“It’s a her. And her name is J-Lo.”

“Figures,” I said. Then I went to get my shoes.