Read Online RK02 - Guilt By Degrees by Marcia Clark - Free Book Online Page A

for months, but I wasn’t ready to pick out any china patterns. Toni likes to call me commitment challenged. I like to tell her that’s the pot calling the kettle African- American . Though she hides it well, I know she finds this hilarious every time I say it.
    I answered Drew with a shake of my head. “Graden’s ‘bonding’ with his brother tonight.”
    Drew nodded, then favored Bailey with a slow, sexy smile. “How was your day, baby?” That voice had surely undressed enough women to populate a small country.
    “Okay,” she replied, her voice so silky, she practically purred. Hell, men at the end of the bar started loosening their ties. It was enough to turn your stomach. “And what about you? Did you talk to the bank today?”
    Drew had been working on getting a small- business loan for his bar.
    “I did,” Drew replied. “So far, so good.” He held up crossed fingers. “So, ladies, the usual?”
    “Sure,” Bailey replied, managing to give the word two syllables.
    They exchanged another sappy smile.
    “No,” I replied. “I’ll have a shot of Pepto-Bismol.”
    They both laughed.
    “I wasn’t kidding,” I said.
    They smiled, apparently unconcerned that their “sweet nothings” had caused a bilious “something” to rise in the back of my throat.
    I fixed them with a steely glare. “I guess I’ll let you pay off your bet now after all.” I gave Bailey a smug look. “I’ll have a Russian Standard Platinum martini, straight up with a twist.” It was one of the most expensive vodkas in the house.
    Bailey’s expression turned dour. I smiled back sweetly.
    I take my revenge very dry and very cold.

14
    The only downside to a meeting at the Los Angeles County Men’s Central Jail was that I’d have to go to the Los Angeles County Men’s Central Jail. Entering the dank, sprawling concrete monstrosity, the largest county jail in the world, always made me feel like I was walking through the seventh gate of hell. The mixture of disinfectant, sweat, and misery lingered in my nostrils for days, and it took just as long to get the echoes of clanging metal doors and gates out of my head.
    “You find out what Stoner’s done to identify our victim?” I asked Bailey. “I haven’t had time, since I kind of got stuck into this case headfirst—”
    “It doesn’t count as got stuck when you do it to yourself.”
    She was right, of course, so I ignored her. “You know anything?”
    “Stoner ran the fingerprints through all databases, asked for DNA testing —”
    “So we’ll get those results about six months after we get his killer,” I said dryly.
    The crime lab was notoriously backed up. It was hard to get fast results even when we had a suspect set for trial. Getting them to do testing just to identify a victim—a homeless victim, no less—would go to the bottom of the pile.
    Bailey nodded. “Yeah. Especially because we probably don’t even have his DNA on file. So far, his prints don’t show up anywhere.”
    “A homeless person who’s never been busted? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
    Usually there’s at least a shoplifting or panhandling conviction. Either someone had dropped the ball and failed to print the guy, or this was one of the most unusual homeless people I’d ever encountered.
    “Makes me wonder how long he’d been out on the streets,” I remarked. “What’d the coroner say about his physical condition?”
    “Don’t know yet,” Bailey replied. “Haven’t had time to get the report since we ‘got stuck into this case headfirst.’” She shot me a meaningful look. I busied myself with a search for my badge at the bottom of my purse.
    We crossed the lobby and held out our badges to the deputy sheriff behind the bulletproof glass.
    “Drop ’em in the slot,” she said. “You carrying?” she asked Bailey.
    Bailey removed her service 9 mm Glock while I fished out my .38 Smith & Wesson. She passed us a key, and we locked our guns in one of the boxes lining the