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47 pages

English

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From Amazon Bestselling Author Alexi VeniceWhere lesbian romance and murder mystery mingle. Detective Tommy Vietti expects the Feds to take a murder case from him since it involves an employee of a high-profile, international institution. Instead, they send Roxy MacNeil, a Scottish banking expert, to co-investigate with him. Smoking her cigarettes, using vulgar language and drinking Scotch, Roxy gives the impression that shes a sluff-off. However, Tommy notices that things arent quite what they seem when Roxy is working with him. Who is she really?District Attorney Amanda Hawthorne wonders if she should have a baby, like her fiancee, Dr. Jen Dawson. As they consider who might be the perfect sperm donor, Amanda becomes immersed in Tommy and Roxys murder investigation. Fighting off Roxys overtures, Amanda cant help but be impressed by Roxys skills.Juggling her busy clinical practice and raising baby Kristin, Jen is by Amandas side at public events. She can handle Amanda being a semi-celebrity, having a ton of old girlfriends, and even being hit on by strangers the Dyke March. Roxy, however, is Jens worst nightmare. Beautiful. Mysterious. Smart. Sexy. And powerful. As far as Jen knows, Roxy is more powerful than Amanda, and Amanda is drawn to power like a dog to raw meat.

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Publié par	eBookIt.com
Date de parution	02 septembre 2017
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781456629373
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0300€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Stabscotch
_________________________________________
The San Francisco Mystery Series, Book 3

ALEXI VENICE

Copyright © 2017 Alexi Venice. Second Edition Copyright © 2019. All rights reserved.

Published by eBookIt.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-2953-3

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, corporations, countries, medicines and incidents are the product of the author ’ s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Professionally edited by Rob Bignell at Inventing Reality Editing Service. inventingrealityediting.wordpress.com/home
Books by Alexi Venice

The San Francisco Mystery Series
Bourbon Chase, Book 1
Amanda ’ s Amanda, Book 2
Stabscotch, Book 3
Tinted Chapstick, Book 4
Sativa Strain, Book 5

Empty Nest Does Not Mean Naked Nest! A collection of blog posts

The Pepper McCallan Series
Ebola Vaccine Wars
Svea ’ s Sins
Victus – Margaret River Winery (Part I)
Margaret River Winery (Part II)

Hit up Alexi ’ s blog at www.alexiveniceblog.com

Dedicated to the loving men in our lives

Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Message from the Author
Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

San Francisco
Tommy slept soundly, bracketed against the bare back of Sadie Cintean, her ample butt tucked into his groin. She had accepted his invite for a night cap after dinner at Don Pistos in North Beach — their fourth date. They made love into the wee hours of the night, her boundless energy as refreshing as it was exhausting.
He was awakened by his cell phone ringing. He broke from Sadie and rolled over to grab it from the night stand.
“ Hello? ”
“ Hey cuz, it ’ s Ryan, ” Assistant Chief of Police Ryan Delmastro said.
“ Shit, ” Tommy mumbled. “ You ’ re gonna ruin my Sunday, aren ’ t you? ”
“ Last time I checked, you were a homicide detective, and we have a homicide that needs detecting. ”
“ Where? ”
“ Muir Beach. ”
“ Outside my jurisdiction, ” Tommy groaned.
“ Marin County Sheriff ’ s Department is short on detectives. We owe them for helping us out on the gang bust last year. ”
“ When did it happen? ” Tommy rubbed his eyes.
“ Overnight. Found early this morning. ”
“ Who? ”
“ San Francisco resident. Jina Pak — of Korean descent. ”
“ How? ”
“ They told me she has a neck wound. ”
“ Why? ” Tommy asked.
“ That ’ s for you to find out. What ’ s with the one-word questions? ” Tommy heard Ryan slam his hand on a table. “ You ’ re with a woman, aren ’ t you? ”
“ Yep. ”
“ Smile if you got any last night. ”
“ I ’ ll be there in an hour. ” Tommy broke the connection.
“ What ’ s going on? You have to be somewhere in an hour? ” Sadie moved to rest her head on his chest.
“ Yeah. Homicide on Muir Beach. Gotta go. ”
“ One more time around? ” She cupped his balls with her hand.
“ As much as I ’ d like that, and I would, I ’ m afraid the dog needs a nap. He might be ready tonight. What are you doing for dinner? ”
“ Meeting you somewhere. Text me. ”
“ Count on it. Stay as long as you like. I have to shower and go. ”
“ I ’ ll shower with you, ” she said, and did.
They left together and strolled down the hill from Tommy ’ s house at Kearny and Vallejo to his haunt, Caff é Trieste. He ordered a biscotti and cappuccino to go, and bought a mocha for his lover, who happened to be a criminal defense lawyer, but he didn ’ t hold that against her.
They walked to her car, which was parked on a hill a few blocks away. Never one to gush over fantastic sex, he simply said, “ Sorry I gotta run. ”
“ Me, too. Text you later. ” She raised herself on her tiptoes and lightly kissed the underside of his unshaven jaw.
“ Whatever works for you. ” He watched her start her car, use the wiper blades to remove the film of fog, then pull out of her tight spot.
He turned and walked toward his car — an unmarked police cruiser — which was on a side street a few blocks up the hill. He couldn ’ t use his garage because he leased it to pay his monthly mortgage. He was grateful for the rental income, allowing him to own a house in a market that otherwise was too expensive for a detective ’ s salary. He unlocked the cruiser, got in, and drove toward the Golden Gate Bridge.
When he exited Tamalpais Valley, a sign indicated that the segment of Highway 1 leading to Muir Beach was closed. It ’ s gonna be one of those days. The detour added thirty minutes to his drive as he zigzagged through the redwood forest on Muir Woods Road, the fresh scent of the giant trees tempering his sour mood. He drove past the Pelican Inn, reminiscent of an English Inn from the fifteenth century and dropped down to the beach parking lot.
The lot was crammed with Marin County Sheriff cruisers. A patrol officer stood at the entrance, directing traffic, so Tommy flashed his badge and found an empty spot. A cluster of curious locals stood by with their dogs, their Sunday morning routine of walking the beach interrupted by a murder in their peaceful neighborhood.
He got out of his car, stretched, and walked to the footbridge that took him from the lot, over the marsh, to the base of the sand dunes. It had been several years since he had visited this popular location, and he was impressed with the improvements. At almost two hundred yards in length, the new bridge was solid and attractive. Beyond it, nestled between the grassy sand dunes, was a long path to the beach. With each step on the sand, his street shoes sinking deep, he felt the sense of doom attendant to a murder scene.
Emerging from the high dunes, he didn ’ t have any difficulty spotting the crime scene on the rocky beach. The local police had strung the tell-tale yellow tape around spindly posts in a thirty square-foot area, just below the massive hill that rose like a bookend at the north end of the beach.
The beach itself was as he remembered — a quarter-mile long, dark cliffs on the south side, residences neatly terraced into the hillside with stunning views of San Francisco in the distance. The sand was caramel-colored closest to the dunes, transitioning to small black and grey pebbles by the water, but not as fine as the black lava sand he had experienced in Hawaii. His mind briefly flitted back to the beaches he and his Hawaiian girlfriend, Vhina, had had sex on, but there was no time for reminiscing about past lovers this morning.
Directing his attention to the beach, where there was smoke wafting from a dying campfire, he let his gaze wander over the murder scene before officially ducking under the yellow tape to perform the grisly tasks of his profession.
The campfire site was nestled at the foot of a steep hillside, covered with dense grass and shrubbery. Massive benches, fashioned from broken pier pilings, were arranged in a square around the round fire pit. An otherwise serene setting on a Sunday morning was marred by the young woman ’ s dead body.
From outside the tape, he observed that she was fully clothed, lying on her side in the sand next to the rocks that surrounded the embers. He breathed in the salty ocean air and calmly pushed it out of his lungs, preparing his gag reflex to stand down while he examined the corpse. Despite eighteen years of police work, he had never become desensitized to inspecting the victim of a murder. He supposed that was a good sign, still clinging to some innocence of spirit in himself.
He lifted his navy windbreaker to show his badge to the officer who stood over the body, then ducked under the crime tape. “ Detective Tommy Vietti, SFPD. ”
The officer nodded and wrote Tommy ’ s name in the scene log book.
Careful to approach on the same path that the officer had used, Tommy studied the details. He stood silently, assessing the young woman ’ s body and any clues that might be strewn amongst the litter beside her.
She was positioned on her left side, her outstretched hand lying next to the fire, congealed blood covering her neck. Ever-present blood. Splattered, streaked or pooled, no murder scene was complete without it. Unlike a hard surface, where it formed a lake around the victim, hers was dried into the sand. He assumed that most of it had soaked through the granules, but, unlike salt water, some of the viscus red fluid had remained on top.
She was a petite young woman, dressed in skin-tight blue jeans, sneakers, a sweatshirt and a jacket. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. What surely had been an attractive neck only twenty-four hours earlier now had an engorged wound, her skin filleted open and dark red blood crusted along its edges.
“ Victim ’ s name? ” he asked.
“ Jina Pak if we believe the car in the parking lot is hers. I haven ’ t searched her body for an I.D., ” the officer reported.
“ Time called in? ”
“ Approximately 0710. ”
Tommy snapped photos of the body and environs with his cell phone. “ Witnesses? ”
“ None, ” the officer said.
“ Did you interview the person who called it in? ”
“ Only enough to know she called. She ’ s standing over there with her dog. ” The officer pointed to a woman forty yards down the beach who paced uncomfortably, her dog in tow on a short leash.
“ Waiting for me to question her? ” Tommy asked.
“ Yes. ”
“ Anything else you can tell me? ”
“ No signs of a struggle anywhere. Looks like she was sitting on the bench, enj