Cut to the Quick Read Online Free

hair and those green eyes?”
    â€œAlmost a pretty boy—he dresses like Mr. Preppy.”
    â€œI think you’ve identified one of his problems—he still considers himself a young preppy swinger. As I started to say, he has a thing about Tim Hortons. He despises the doughnut-eating cop stereotype. Don’t ever suggest picking up anything there.”
    Rhona considered dumping sweetener in her coffee, but she’d read that every kind but Splenda pickled your brain. Hers needed all the help it could get. She was cultivating a love of black coffee but finding it difficult. “Thanks, I’ll remember no dogs, no bimbos, no hunches and no doughnuts.”
    Zee Zee impaled a chunk of pie. She considered it. “Later I’ll fill you in on the others. A good bunch, but not as enlightened as they should be.”
    â€œSince you’re the source of all knowledge, what do you know about me?”
    Zee Zee pushed her half-eaten pie to one side and leaned back. She tilted her head and contemplated Rhona. “Really want to know?”
    After Rhona nodded, she held up her left hand, extended her left index finger and used her right index finger to tick off her points. “You left Ottawa because you didn’t like the old boy network. Don’t you have a First Nations grandmother who lives on a reserve somewhere in Ontario? You filed a complaint about references to squaws.”
    â€œIt didn’t do any good.”
    â€œYou never know—won’t whoever made the remark be more careful in the future? Anyway, to continue, you solved your last homicide case. You wear cowboy boots because you’re short.” She cocked her head to one side. “I have a thought. Do you think it’s because you watched too many cowboy and Indian movies where the good guys, the cowboys, got to wear the boots?”
    Rhona laughed. “No doubt you have a psychology degree?” “To continue—you followed your boyfriend, who’s with the Ontario Provincial Police, to Toronto. You’ve broken up with him. And you had luck and connections to get moved to Homicide.”
    Did she have no secrets? “Where did you find out all that information?”
    â€œA constable’s brother is with the Ottawa police.”
    â€œMy turn,” Rhona said.
    â€œYou want to hear why I’m a police officer—that’s always the question,” Zee Zee said. “I’ve told the story so often, I could recite it in my sleep. As a six-year-old Somalian refugee, didn’t I come to Canada from one of the most lawless countries in the world? Although I was young, I’ve never forgotten what it was like to live without law and order.” Her dark eyes clouded, and she seemed to be picturing something horrible. “I studied business at York University—I wanted to be a successful businesswoman. I opened a gallery to showcase African artists. The arts community and the buying public loved it, and I made money.” She shook her head. “It wasn’t very fulfilling.” She clasped her hands together. “I thought that if I became a police officer, I could make a difference. In our community, women are not equal. I’m not ashamed to say I’m a role model—our women need them.” She laughed. “Talk about touching speeches. Why aren’t you mopping your eyes? Enough. Time to get back. Did I say that Frank’s a stickler for promptness?”
    Back at her desk, Rhona evaluated what she’d heard. Good to know about her boss. His aversion to Tim Hortons disturbed her—she depended on coffee and doughnut fixes. But she recognized that this was her big chance. Misogynist or not, she intended to prove she could do the job.
    She surveyed her overflowing in-basket. Since her move to Homicide, she’d been assigned routine tasks. Many required filling out paper work. Although only thirty detectives worked Homicide, their case