Free Kiss Her Goodbye (A Thriller) by Robert Gregory Browne Page B

Maybe she was simply as puzzled by relationships as he was. Whatever the case, she was a good sounding board for his parental insecurities.
     He glanced at Jessie’s photo again. “You think I’ll ever see the day she actually wants to spend time with me?”
     Rachel raised an eyebrow. “You’re lucky any of us do.”
     Donovan shook his head and smiled as she gathered up an armload of files and headed for the door. Shifting his attention to the collage on the wall, he stood up, grabbed the cluster of darts adorning Gunderson’s forehead, and pulled them free. “Tell me something, Rache.”
     She turned, waited. She looked good framed in the doorway like that, her straight, dark hair parted at the side and cut just below the shoulder. Her brown eyes were always bright and clear and attentive. And her body …
     Donovan moved around to the far side of his desk, putting some distance between himself and Gunderson’s photo. “What do you see when you look at that face?”
     Rachel frowned. “Besides the bad complexion? Killer. Sociopath. Someone who enjoys inflicting pain. He’s what my grandmother would call a si futt lou.”  
      “Si futt lou?”  
     “An asshole,” she said flatly. “Reminds me of my ex.”
     Donovan knew he was supposed to laugh, but instead returned his attention to the dark malevolence of Gunderson’s stare. “Sometimes I look into those eyes and it’s like he’s crawled inside my brain: ‘Better come at me with everything you’ve got, hotshot, ’cause I’ll take you down the very first chance I get.’ ” He looked back at Rachel. “Live with that long enough and you’re bound to be grumpy, too.”
     Rachel gave him one of her patented smirks. As always, it looked great on her. “Jack, I mean this in the nicest possible way: have you ever considered therapy?”
     With that, she spun on her heels and walked to her desk outside. Donovan watched her go, thinking thoughts he knew he shouldn’t be thinking, then turned and fired a dart toward that well-worn spot between Gunderson’s eyebrows.
     Bull’s-eye.
     
    A .J. MOSLEY HAD never met a cup of coffee he didn’t like, and today’s blend was particularly satisfying. A buddy from the Federal Public Defender’s Office in Honolulu had shipped him an entire case of Kona dry-processed beans that produced a full-bodied cup of perfection that went down oh-so-smooth, without even a hint of bitterness.
     A.J. had sampled just about any bean you could think of, from the mild sweetness of the Sul de Minas crop, to the heavy acidity found only in Zimbabwe’s Chipinge region. He didn’t consider himself a connoisseur by any means—even a stale cup would do in a pinch—but he certainly knew what he liked. If it started with a C and ended with double E , chances were pretty good it would bring a smile to his face.
     He was savoring a much needed second cup when the telephone on his desk bleeped.
     He snatched up the receiver. “A.J.”
     It was one of the division operators. “Got a call from a Ron Stallard at Chicago PD. Want me to transfer it?”
     “Send it on over.”
     After a couple of clicks, Stallard was on the line. A.J. had sent him a bag of the Kona and figured this was a thank-you call. “Hey, big guy, am I a god or what?”
     “I’ll leave that to you and your flock to figure out. Got a situation you’ll definitely be interested in.”
     “Yeah?” A.J. said. “What’s going on?”
     “You sitting down?” Stallard’s voice was tight with excitement and A.J. knew this was something big.
     “Come on, Ron, spit it out.”
     “Strap your balls on, buddy boy. Guess which weasel just popped his head out of the hole?”
     

16
     
    H ALF A CITY block was cordoned off. Chicago PD had been generous with the yellow tape, steering the press and any curious bystanders clear of the immediate area. A couple of police choppers hovered high overhead, keeping the sky clear of pesky newscopters and