Free The Front by Patricia Cornwell

car, refusing to look at him.
    â€œAnd I could have, if you really want to know,” he adds. “I don’t say that to brag. But after the fact, she was . . . how to put this? Very vulnerable.”
    â€œWhat about now?” Stump starts entering an address into her jerry-rigged GPS.
    â€œAfter what happened to her? She’ll always be vulnerable,” he says. “Problem is, she’ll never know it, just walk into one bad mistake after another. For all her brashness, Lamont runs like hell from herself. For all her smarts, she has no insight.”
    â€œThat’s not what I meant. What about now?”
    â€œNot even close. Where are we going, by the way?”
    â€œI need to show you something,” Stump says.

FIVE
    The Dorchester Hotel is for heads of state and celebrities, not for the likes of Killien, who can scarcely afford a cup of tea there.
    A Ferrari and an Aston Martin are being valet-parked in front as a taxi unceremoniously deposits him in a cluster of kaffiyeh-clad Arabs, who aren’t interested in getting out of his way. Probably related to the Sultan of Brunei who owns the damn place, Killien thinks as he enters a lobby of marble columns and gold cornices, and enough fresh flowers for several funerals. One advantage to being a detective is he knows how to walk into a place or situation and act as if he belongs.
    He buttons his wrinkled suit jacket, takes a left, enters the bar, makes a point of appearing indifferent to the red art glass, the mahogany, the purple and gold silk, the Asians, more Arabs, a few Italians, a couple of Americans. Doesn’t seem to be a single Brit except the commissioner, sitting alone at a small, round table in a corner, his back to the wall, facing the door. After all is said and done, at heart the commissioner’s still a cop, albeit a well-heeled one because he’s made good choices in life, including the baroness he married.
    He’s drinking whisky, neat, probably Macallan with a sherry finish. Silver dishes of crisps and nuts nearby look untouched. He’s impeccable in gray pinstripes, white shirt, dark red silk tie, his mustache neatly trimmed, blue eyes typically vague, as if he’s preoccupied, when in fact he doesn’t miss a thing. Killien’s barely in his chair when a waiter appears. A pint of stout will do. Killien needs to keep his wits about him.
    â€œI need to fill you in about this American case,” the commissioner begins, not one for small talk. “I know you’re wondering why it’s a priority.”
    â€œCertainly I am,” Killien says. “Haven’t a clue what this is all about, although what I’ve seen so far is rather curious. For example, Monique Lamont . . .”
    â€œPowerful and controversial. Quite stunning, I might add.”
    Killien thinks of the photographs. The commissioner would have looked at them as well, and he wonders if his boss shares his same rather unsettling reaction. It’s not proper to look at photographs associated with a violent crime and allow one’s attention to wander beyond the woman’s wounds, into areas that have nothing to do with good policing. And Killien can’t stop thinking about the pictures, envisioning her supple . . .
    â€œAre you with me, Jeremy?” the commissioner asks.
    â€œYes, indeed.”
    â€œYou seem a bit foggy.”
    â€œNot a-tall.”
    The commissioner says, “So. Several weeks ago, she rang me up, asked if I was aware that a possible victim of the Boston Strangler was a British citizen. Said the case had been reopened, and suggested the Yard get involved.”
    â€œFrankly, I don’t know why we would do more than make a couple of inquiries behind the scenes. Sounds political to me.”
    â€œOf course. She already has extravagant publicity planned, including a BBC special that she guarantees would air if we participate, and so on and so on. Rather presumptuous, as if we need