Free 4th of July by James Patterson, Maxine Paetro Page B

about you.”
    “Not exactly a mechanic. I’m a cop.”
    “You lie.”
    “I don’t lie,” I said, laughing off the kid’s moon-eyed attention.
    He stretched a muscular arm toward me and with a cursory “Do you mind?” snatched up my guitar.
    Help yourself, buddy.
    The kid put the Seagull in his lap, strummed some chords, then belted out a few lines of a country sob song of the “My baby’s left me all alone” variety. He put so much ham into it, I could only laugh at his performance.
    Keith took a mock bow, then handed the guitar back to me.
    “So what’s your specialty?” he asked.
    “Acoustic rock. The blues. I’m working on a song right now. Fooling around with some pieces and parts.”
    “Here’s an idea. Why don’t we talk about it over dinner? I know this fish place in Moss Beach,” he said.
    “Thanks, Keith. That’s a nice idea, but I’m already taken.” I reached up and clutched the Kokopelli Joe had given me.
    “I don’t mind telling you that you’re breaking my heart.”
    “Awww. You’ll survive.”
    “No, it’s true. I’m smitten. Beautiful, a mechanic in her spare time. What more could a guy ask for?”
    “Come on, Keith,” I said patting his arm. “Show me around my new car.”
    I stepped down from the porch with Keith behind me. I ran my hand over the Bonneville’s fender, opened the driver’s door, and settled in. The car had a good roomy, comfy feel, and the dash was full of whizbang dials and gizmos, just as I remembered.
    “It’s a good choice, Lindsay,” Keith said, leaning on the roof of the car. “I wouldn’t sell you a junker. My backup toolbox is in the trunk, but call if you have any problems.”
    “Will do.”
    He flashed a sheepish smile, took off his cap, shook out his sandy hair, repositioned his cap, and said, “Well, take care, okay?”
    I waved as he drove away. Then I put the key into my new baby’s ignition and turned it.
    The engine didn’t start. It didn’t even cough, buzz, or whine.
    It was dead as a flat frog in the middle of the road.

Womans Murder Club 4 - 4th of July

Chapter 43
    I MADE A SHOPPING list of the parts I’d need, and then spent the rest of the day bringing up the Bonneville’s shine with a tube of compound I found in Keith’s tool kit. I was supremely happy buffing dull brown into a high bronze gleam.
    I was still admiring my work when the evening paper came sailing out the window of a passing car. I backpedaled quickly and plucked it out of the air, earning a “Nice catch!” from the paper guy.
    I snapped open the thin local Gazette, and the bold black headline grabbed me:
    LOCAL DOCTOR’S WIFE STABBED TO DEATH AT HOME
    DOCTOR MISSING
    I stood rooted to the lawn and read:
    Lorelei O’Malley, wife of Dr. Ben O’Malley, was found slain in her home on Ocean Colony Road this afternoon, apparently the victim of a burglary gone wrong. The victim’s stepdaughter, Caitlin, 15, found her stepmother’s body in the bedroom closet when she returned home from school. Dr. O’Malley, a respected general practitioner and longtime member of the community, is missing.
    This afternoon, Chief Peter Stark asked the crowd outside the police station to be calm but vigilant.
    “There appear to be similarities in the recent homicides,” said Stark. “But I can’t comment because it would jeopardize the overall investigation. What I can do is give you my word, this police force will not rest until the murderer is caught.”
    In answer to questions from reporters, Chief Stark said, “Dr. O’Malley was last seen at around noon. He was on his way out to lunch but did not return to his office or call in. He’s not a suspect at this time.”
    I rolled up the paper and stared blankly at the pretty pastel and shingled houses on Sea View Avenue. My instincts were screaming. I was a cop without a case, a cop without a job. I didn’t want to read about homicides. I wanted firsthand information.
    I put away the tools I’d been using to