Free Speak No Evil by Allison Brennan Page A

daughter. “The vic?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Shit, my daughter has a MyJournal page. Just for her friends, but . . . I think I need to have a talk with her. Make sure she’s being safe.”
    “Talk to Patrick and you’ll learn there’s no way to be a hundred percent safe,” Carina said.
    “No way to be safe in anything these days,” Fields said. “I just don’t understand why a smart, pretty girl like the vic would put stuff like that out for every scumbag to see.”
    “They think it’s a joke, or fun,” Carina said, still unnerved by what they’d discovered. It wasn’t that she was naive, she knew what people did online, in chat rooms, the child predators, the pornography. It was making the connection between Angie Vance, dead; Angie Vance, alive; and Angie Vance’s wild and reckless lifestyle. Her supposedly
secret
lifestyle.
    Carina’s thoughts instantly brought down a veil of guilt. Angie hadn’t deserved what happened to her. Irresponsible, yes; but she was practically a kid, dammit, and she shouldn’t have had to suffer violence any more than any other woman who walked the streets of San Diego, saint or sinner.
    “What’s up, Sarge?” she asked Fields.
    He flipped open his notepad. “Daniels called to say that Thomas arrived home a few minutes ago. Diaz reported that he talked to Masterson’s employer and he took a week’s vacation at the last minute. Called in Sunday saying he needed the time. Guy’s ready to fire him, he does this all the time. And for Hooper,” he handed over a note, “Deputy District Attorney Chandler said your presence will be required in court—that would be the San Francisco Appeals Court—Friday eight a.m.”
    “Aw, shit,” Will muttered. “Sorry, Kincaid. It’s that damn Theodore Glenn appeal. I swear, that guy should have been put out of my misery years ago.”
    Theodore Glenn had killed four female strippers six years ago, before Carina and Will had been partners.
    “I’ll be fine for the day,” Carina said.
    “You can have Diaz if you need him,” the Sarge offered.
    “Thanks, I might take you up on that.”
                      
    Nick arrived in San Diego after the lunch hour and rented a car. He hadn’t visited Steve in years, since before he was elected sheriff nearly four years ago, but remembered the location of his beachfront apartment.
    A crime scene van was parked in front of the building, plus two marked cars and a sedan Nick pegged as unmarked police issue. Detectives.
    He didn’t feel comfortable going into an unknown situation, but knowing Steve, he hadn’t called an attorney. Why is it that the innocent think they don’t need a lawyer? Truth is, even those with nothing to hide need someone to protect their rights.
    His right knee protested when he stepped out of the car, but he hadn’t been on his feet much today so his joints weren’t unbearably sore. He leaned back into the car to retrieve his Stetson and put it on his head, then walked up the single flight of stairs to Steve’s apartment.
    The door was open and Nick stopped just across the threshold.
    An attractive female plainclothes cop approached him. Five-foot-eight, one-forty, muscle where there should be muscle, and softness where there should be softness. She carried her primary gun in a side holster, but a slight bulge at her back showed a secondary firearm. Nick liked women who knew how to pack.
    Her dark, sun-streaked hair was pulled into a loose French braid, and fathomless brown eyes sized him up quickly. Nick could tell she was a cop by her eyes—they took in everything about him all at once, just like he did her.
    “Can I help you?” Her tone was polite, her body alert.
    “Yes, ma’am. Steve Thomas, please.” He took his hat off and held it at his side.
    “Your business with him?”
    “Personal.”
    The subtle change from professional curiosity to frustration on the pretty detective’s face would have intrigued Nick if he weren’t concerned about