Samantha Moon: First Eight Novels, Plus One Novella Read Online Free

his hands. “Now, I need to soak these in ice.”
    “Sorry about that.”
    “ You kidding? It’s an honor working with you. I tell everyone about you. No one believes me. I tell them I’ve got a woman here that could take on their best male contenders. They never believe me.”
    Around us the sparring gym was a beehive of activity. Both boxing rings were now being used by kick boxers. Women and men were pounding the hell out of the half dozen punching bags, and the rhythmic rattling of the speed bags sounded from everywhere.
    “You know I don’t like you talking about me, Jacky.”
    “ I know. I know. They don’t believe me anyway. You could box professionally with one hand behind your back.”
    “ I don’t like attention.”
    “ I know you don’t. I’ll quit bragging about you.”
    “ Thank you, Jacky.”
    “ The last thing I want is you pissed-off at me.”
    I box for self-defense. I box for exercise. Sometimes I box because it’s nice to have a man care so vehemently whether or not my fists were up.
    I kissed his forehead again and walked out.
     
     
     
    7.
     
     
    I drove north along Harbor Blvd, through downtown Fullerton and made a left onto Berkeley Street. I parked in the visitor parking in front of the Fullerton Municipal Courthouse, turned off my car, and sat there.
    While I sat there, I drank water from a bottle. Water is one of the few drinks my body will accept. That and wine, although the alcohol in wine has no effect on me.
    Yeah, I know. Bummer.
    My hands were still feeling heavy from the boxing workout. I flexed my fingers. I couldn’t help but notice my forearms rippling with taut muscle. I like that. I worked hard for that, and it was something I didn’t take for granted.
    I sat in the minivan and watched the entrance to the courthouse. There was little activity at this late hour. I wasn’t sure what I was hoping to find here but I like to get a look and feel for all aspects of a case. Makes me feel involved and informed.
    And, hell, you never know what might turn up.
    Two security guards patrolled the front of the building. So where had they been at the time of Kingsley’s shooting? Probably patrolling the back of the building.
    Behind me was a wooded area; above that were condominiums. A bluejay swooped low over my hood and disappeared into the branches of a pine tree. A squirrel suddenly dashed along the pine tree’s limb. The jay appeared again, and dove down after the squirrel.
    Can’t we all just get along?
    When the guards disappeared around a corner, I got out of the van and made my way to the court’s main entrance. My legs were still shaky from the workout; my hands heavy and useless, like twin balloons filled with sand.
    The courthouses consisted of two massive edifices that faced each other. Between them was a sort of grassy knoll, full of trees and stone benches. The benches were empty. The sun was low in a darkening sky.
    I like darkening skies.
    Shortly, I found the infamous birch tree. The tree was smallish, barely wide enough to conceal even me, let alone a big man with broad shoulders. As a shield, it was useless, as the additional bullets in Kingsley’s head attested. To have relied on it for one’s sole protection of a gun-wielding madman was horrifying to contemplate. So I did contemplate it. I felt Kingsley’s fear, recalled his desperate attempts to dodge the flying bullets. Comical and horrific. Ghastly and amusing. Like a kid’s game of cowboys and Indians gone horribly wrong.
    I circled the tree and found four fairly fresh holes in the trunk. The bullets had, of course, been dug out and added to the evidence. Now the holes were nothing more than dark splotches within the white bark. The tree and Kingsley had one thing in common: both were forever scarred by bullets from the same gun.
    The attack had been brazen. The fact that the shooter had gotten away clean was probably a fluke. The shooter himself probably expected to get caught, or gunned down