Brody Law: The Bridge / The District / The Wharf / The Hill

“Not literally?”

“An emotional ledge.” Courtney presented a bottle of wine to Elise, label out. “I think you need a little vino tonight.”

“I think you’re right.” She took the bottle from Courtney and held out her hand. “Corkscrew.”

Elise poured two glasses of wine and sidled next to Courtney at the sink. “Let me make the salad since you’re sacrificing your Saturday night to stay in with me, and don’t even deny it. Did Derrick ever call?”

“He texted me. We’ll probably get together sometime this week. He’s out of town this weekend.” She stirred the pasta into the bubbling water as steam rose to the ceiling.

They worked side by side in the kitchen for several minutes, and Elise soaked in the normalcy. She had a hard time grasping the events of the past twenty-four hours. She’d been abducted, had escaped and had been attacked again—and she’d met Sean Brody. This time yesterday, she’d been getting ready to go out with Courtney.

As her friend dumped the pasta into a colander in the sink, Elise carried the salad to the table. “Do you mind if I turn on the local evening news?”

“Really? I don’t mind but it’s the last thing I thought you’d want to watch.” Courtney wiped her hands on a dish towel and retrieved the remote from the coffee table in the living room.

They settled at the kitchen table, and the smell of the garlic mingled with the hint of fennel in the sausage to make Elise’s mouth water. She took a sip of red wine, lolling it on her tongue before she swallowed.

Then she clicked on the TV and muted the sound. She kept her eye on the commercials as she stabbed a couple of rigatoni with her fork. “Yummy. You’ll have to give me...”

A wind-blown reporter was speaking into a mic, a shot of the Golden Gate Bridge behind him. Elise pointed the remote at the TV and stabbed at the volume button.

“...found this morning by a couple of fishermen.” The reporter backed up to the yellow crime tape flapping in the breeze. “Detective? Detective? Ray Lopez, KFGG News. Can you tell us anything about the victim? Does this murder have anything to do with the transient murders in the Tenderloin or that woman found near the Presidio?”

Sean’s profile looked carved from stone. He barely moved his lips when he said, “No comment at this time.”

“What about the attack on the woman last night? Is this related, Detective?”

“No comment.” Sean turned his back on the reporter and bent his head to talk with one of the cops on the scene.

“There you have it, Jan. The police are keeping tight-lipped about this one, but the women of this city want to know. Is it safe to go out at night?”

The anchor and the reporter prattled on for several more seconds before Elise muted the TV again. “I guess my story’s already out there.”

“Sounds like it.” Courtney raised her glass and swirled the contents. “But if those vultures ever get your name, make sure you follow Brody’s example. No comment. They’ll tear you apart.”

“The last thing I need is publicity.”

Courtney ran her fingertip along the rim of her glass. “Detective Brody sounds familiar to me. Did he write a book or something? Or maybe he was involved in a big case.”

“If so, it was before my time here.”

“Brody, Brody.” Courtney’s brow furrowed. “He must’ve been in the news.”

“Probably. More wine?”

“Sure. It’s Saturday night. Why not live it up?”

“You don’t have to babysit. My leg feels fine, and I’ll probably just go to bed early.”

Courtney tossed back the last of her wine and held out her glass to Elise. “No problem. I’m tired from last night anyway. Besides, what did that reporter say? Is it even safe to go out at night?”

Elise took the glass by the stem and padded back to the kitchen, running her tongue along her lower lip. Apparently, it wasn’t even safe for her to go out in broad daylight. At least not without the protection of Detective Sean Brody.

And how long could that last?

* * *

SEAN STARED AT the severed finger with the blue nail polish nestled in cotton. The package in which it had been delivered had come addressed to SFPD—Homicide. But when the front desk opened the box, they’d found the gruesome souvenir with a note pasted in the lid of the box: This finger is pointing at you, Brody.

“What does it mean, Brody?” Captain Williams’s dark eyes drilled him. “This along with the note at the escaped victim’s house make it clear that this is the same guy—and for some reason he’s got it in for you.”

“I’m supposed to know why?” Sean closed the lid on the finger and pushed it across the captain’s desk. “Has the lab tested the finger yet?”

“Not yet, but who else’s could it be?” Captain Williams steepled his own fingers and peered at Sean over the pinnacle. “I don’t like this communication business, Brody.”

Sean pinched the bridge of his nose. “That makes two of us.”

“We took a risk bringing you into homicide, a risk I never regretted for one minute based on your performance.”

“Until now?” Sean’s fingers curled around the arms of the chair.

“Do you really think this killer would be sending you messages and uh...other gifts if not for your father?”

“Serial killers send messages to homicide detectives. It happens all the time.”

Williams snorted. “Happens all the time in movies and TV. You and I both know it’s not so common in real life.”

“What do you want from me, Captain? I’m not going to hide under a rock. I have a murder and an attempted murder to solve, and if this guy wants to give me clues, so be it. I’ll take whatever I can get.”

“All right. I just hope some hotshot reporter doesn’t start snooping around and dredging up old news. The department doesn’t need it.”

“Neither do I, sir.”

“Now, do your job and—” he waved one hand over the box on his desk “—take this thing with you.”

Sean picked up the box and walked out of the captain’s office, his back stiff and his chin held high. If just one person mentioned his father, he’d deck ’em.

He strode down the hallway, holding the box in front of him, daring anyone to make a comment. Nobody even seemed to notice what he was holding.

Blowing out a breath, he poked his head into the lab. “I think you guys are waiting for a finger.”

Tom Kwan, one of their forensic guys, smirked. “I could go all out with the black humor of that comment, but you already look like you’re in a black humor so I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

“Good idea, Kwan.” Sean placed the box on one of the chrome tables. He could exchange gallows humor with the best of them. It blew off steam, made the unbearable bearable. But with Elise out there in danger, it didn’t seem right.

“When are we getting the finger, and I don’t mean from the captain.” Jacoby had burst through another door and stopped short when he saw Sean. “I guess you heard.”

“Heard,” Sean flicked the box, “and saw. We’ve got one twisted individual on our hands. I thought he’d kept the finger as a trophy.”