Free Murder on Lovers' Lane (Brody and Hannigan Mysteries) by Paula Graves

more common to lifelong bachelors than married men.  Definitely connected to Weatherford Community College.  A fastidious disdain for the carnal—he'd expressed his disapproval of his young, sex-obsessed charges in their very first meeting.  He'd even scolded her, politely, about the racy attire she'd worn Monday night. 
    He never had told her when he'd seen her in that outfit, had he?  She'd assumed he'd been on campus that night, but she hadn't noticed him.  Had he followed her and Brody that night?
    Her heart dipped wildly. 
    Had he followed them tonight?
    "It's really quite fascinating, you know.  Watching you put all the pieces together.  A bit too slowly to be of much use to you, of course."  His smile was touched with disappointment.  "Addled by your lust for your partner, I suppose."
    Heat burned her cheeks.  Had he been at Magnolia Park tonight, watching them?  Had he seen—?
    "You have no appreciation what we work so hard to offer young people, do you?  The hours of devotion to study, the money spent and the lives dedicated to learning.   Did you attend college yourself, detective?"
    She cleared the lump of fear from her throat.  "Yes."
    He arched an eyebrow.  "State school?"
    Anger added a spark to the answering look she shot his way.  "Yes.  One a bit more prestigious than a community college."
    Anger flashed in his pale eyes.  "Touché, my dear.  Though I assume you must have attended on scholarship, since your parents could hardly afford to send you."
    Fury burned a path up her neck.  "Full academic scholarship, you snobbish little prick."
    He laughed.  "So much potential, wasted on pursuits of the flesh."  He shook his head.  "I don't enjoy this, you know."
    "Of course you do," she snapped.
    "I would much rather the young people of the world behave as if they actually appreciated the opportunities afforded them.  So many people in the world, with no chance for learning, no chance of advancing themselves from their hellish lives—"
    "So you consider your students ingrates?"
    He looked up at her with earnest eyes.  "Don't you?
    In some ways, she supposed, she did.  She'd had to struggle hard to get anywhere in her life.  Worked afternoon jobs to help finance her hopes for a college education, studied hard and always went the extra mile for a step up.  It had grated on her, sometimes, to see her less motivated and less financially-strapped fellow students laugh at any attempt to cajole them into greater achievement.
    But she'd never pulled out a gun and shot any of them.
    "You do understand," he said softly.  "I see it in your eyes.  Which is why I really don't understand the choices you've made, my dear.  You seem to be a true aficionada of the learning arts.  I saw it in you that first day we met.  You were irritated with your partner, but I saw the interest.  The intrigue with what you might learn."
    "What choices have I made that don't meet your approval?"
    He shook his head, looking genuinely regretful.  "Your carnal lust for your partner, my dear.  It oozes from you like an infection.  I can smell it on you now."  His eyes narrowed. "I smell him on you now."
    Hannigan's skin crawled.
     
     
    Within eight minutes, Brody turned down Rosedale Drive, toward Hannigan's pretty little bungalow in the middle of the block.  He started to pull into the driveway, but something stopped him short. 
    Something wasn't right.
    He drove on to the end of the block and turned around in a neighbor's driveway.  He came back up the street slowly, taking in his surroundings.  What was different?
    There.  A sedan parked two doors down from Hannigan's bungalow.  Dark blue Lexus.  No identifying stickers or parking decals visible.
    He backed up until he could read the license plate.  Cutting the engine, he pulled a penlight from his pocket and flashed the narrow beam on the tag.  He dialed the office number and got a night officer.   "This is Brody, badge number 10301979.  Run