Free Inherit the Dead by John Connolly, Jonathan Santlofer, Charlaine Harris, Heather Graham, Val McDermid, Lawrence Block, Lee Child, Max Allan Collins, Stephen L. Carter, Alafair Burke, Ken Bruen, Mark Billingham, Marcia Clark, Sarah Weinman, James Grady, Bryan Gruley, S. J. Rozan, Dana Stabenow, Lisa Unger, C. J. Box Page B

I’m sure.” She smiled, but it was forced, and her eyes weren’t smiling at all. “She told me abouthis tattoos— all of his tattoos. And his body is quite extensively covered in art, if you know what I mean.”
    So Angel had been dating a hot sweaty mechanic who provided amazing sex.
    “Did he leave her?” Perry asked.
    “Well, of course, he couldn’t really leave her, because he was never really with her. He could infuriate her—she’d go to see him, and he’d want to spend a night with his hot, dirty friends, drinking at the dive bar on the very wrong side of town and picking up loose one-hour stands. Well, fifteen-minute stands, from what I understand. Angel would go away furious, swearing she’d never see him again. Then she’d go back to his wretched garage and he’d see her, walk over to her, just about throw her up against a car . . . and she would be all over him again.”
    “This tattoo guy have a name?” Perry asked.
    “Randy Hyde,” Lilith said, a frown immediately replaced by a leering smile. “He’s tall; he’s built like a brick; and he’s handsome, rough and tough. Ill-mannered and ill-tempered. I mean, I wouldn’t even glance the man’s way—not even for great hot, sweaty sex.” She turned away again, wrapped her arms around her chest. Then back, her voice tougher. “He’s . . . uncouth! I wouldn’t let Angel bring him here—ever. I mean, don’t let Jeeves fool you; if I say someone should be thrown out on his ass, it will happen!”
    “So you met him,” Perry said.
    A moment’s hesitation then she nodded. “We were going to the club—my yacht club. I made the mistake of letting her drive. I mean, it was just supposed to be the two of us for lunch. What Monsieur DeVeau—the chef at my club—can do with a foie gras is quite amazing. But Angel claimed that there was something wrong with her car and that we just had to stop and get it fixed. So we went by the garage, and there he was—tattooed, tall and muscled, arms gleamingsince he wore one of those ridiculous wife-beater shirts even in the cold! She seemed to melt in the car seat.”
    “And what then? Did he ignore her, disdain her . . . ?”
    “No. He came swaggering over and ignored me and planted a totally graphic kiss right on her lips.”
    “And then?”
    “And then it turned out that her car was just fine and I was driving off to lunch on my own and Angel was staying behind, sitting up on some kind of a mechanical thing, just waiting for her wretched grease monkey to be done with work—and done being a tough guy around his greasy friends—so that they could go off to fornicate wherever it is that the two of them go,” Lilith said. She repeated the word. “ Fornicate . It does really sound dreadful, doesn’t it? Nothing like making love. But then, there is just a difference, don’t you think?”
    “But you said that she was passionate.”
    Lilith nodded. “Still, one should bathe, don’t you think?”
    Perry lowered his head, escaping the question. “Lilith, this fellow’s name is Hyde. Randy Hyde, right? Can you tell me where to find him?”
    “I can tell you where to find the garage—I’m sure you’ll find him there.” She stood up and walked over to one of her cabinets, drew out a piece of paper and a pen, and scratched down an address. Perry noticed that her hand was shaking.
    “This is what you need, Mr. Christo. Angel is my friend. If she’s with any man—or if any man has held her . . . harmed her in any way—this is the one you want. He’s the only one she cared enough about to look for if she was in any kind of trouble. And as greasy and sweaty and rude and crass as he could be . . . there was something about her that made him keep coming back, too. I can’t believe that he’d hurt her—I won’t believe that he’d hurt her. But if anyone knows anything, and it isn’t me . . . you’ll want to talk to Randy Hyde.”
    She handed him the paper.
    He rose. “Thank you,