Hot Pursuit Read Free Page A

eyes.”
    â€œAnonymous,” Taylor repeated. “A possible lead right off the bat.”
    â€œThat would be too easy.” Shane stood, groaning. “And let me guess: it’s our turn.”
    â€œYep, you’re on.” The captain looked at Taylor. “You up for this?”
    â€œI’m here, aren’t I? If I was going to laze around, I’d stay home.”
    Rainey grinned. “That’s the spirit. Now go get fucking busy.” Turning, the captain strolled out, whistling.
    â€œHe’s all heart,” Shane said, making a face.
    â€œAt least he’s in a good mood today. Wonder what’s up with that.”
    Their captain was having serious marital problems—as in going down the tubes permanently. He’d been tired and haggard the past few months, and they had all been worried about his health. Today, however, he had a spring in his step.
    â€œNo clue, but let’s not rock the boat.”
    Taylor rose with some difficulty and stiffly followed his partner out the door. Turning down his partner’s offer to drive, he slid behind the wheel and they were off.
    On the way, he thought he saw a black truck in traffic, three cars behind. Then it turned and was gone.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    As though nearly being run over wasn’t enough, the corpse with the neat little hole in the center of its forehead turned out to be a harbinger.
    A sign of a shit storm heading his way.
    Taylor stood next to Shane as both of them studied the dead man sprawled faceup on the floor. His salt-and-pepper hair was surrounded by a sticky pool of blood congealing on the industrial-grade carpet, and his expression was vaguely surprised.
    â€œWho the hell was the poor bastard?” Taylor muttered. “And why did he get popped here, of all places?”
    Shane snorted. “He could’ve had the decency to get his ass killed in Nashville, out of our jurisdiction.”
    Taylor rolled his eyes at his partner’s crappy joke. “You know what I meant.”
    â€œYeah.”
    Both of them glanced around the small motel room, but there wasn’t much to see. At least on the surface. Carefully stepping around the body, Taylor noted a few clothes hanging in the closet next to the bathroom.
    â€œA change of suits, a couple of pairs of jeans, and three polo shirts.” He peered into the bathroom. “A shaving kit in there. That’s all.”
    â€œGot a small leather carryall on the table, containing underwear and socks. A plane ticket, too, round-trip from LAX to Nashville International and back. Looks like he arrived yesterday, was supposed to fly back in three days. Car keys and his wallet beside the bag.” Shane left the leather trifold sitting on the dresser and flipped it open with the edge of one latex-covered finger. “Max Griffin, born December twelfth, 1946. San Diego address.”
    California. Taylor’s heart gave a lurch. He stared at Shane, his friend unaware of his sudden chill.
It means nothing. San Diego is not Los Angeles. They’re two different cities 121 miles apart, almost a two-hour drive.
    â€œInteresting,” he managed. “So, the car outside is his rental. He was here for a specific reason, but there’s no evidence of what that might’ve been.”
    â€œNot yet.” Turning, Shane yelled out the open door to the officer who’d arrived first after the call of a gunshot had come in. “Jenk!”
    Aaron Jenkins, their new hire at the department, stuck his head in the door. “Yes, sir?”
    â€œTake these and open that rental. See if you can find anything inside to give us a clue why our dead guy was in town.” Shane tossed him the car keys, and the kid caught them one-handed. “Be careful about touching stuff.”
    â€œOn it!” His boy-next-door face lit up at the prospect of helping with the investigation.
    As he ducked out again, Taylor chuckled.