Wolf in the Shadows (A Sharon Mccone Mystery)
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While investigating her lover's disappearance, San Francisco private investigator Sharon McCone stumbles upon some unpleasant truths. By the author of Pennies on a Dead Woman's Eyes. 25,000 first printing. Tour.
out and stay out. “What don’t you know?” I asked him. “You got a guy here”—he gestured at Mourning—“so stoned he can’t walk right. I’m all set to go when you get here, but now where’s the others? I tell you, this whole thing’s looking fuckin’ iffy.” “The other man’ll be here soon.” I glanced at Mourning, who leaned heavily on the table, mug of coffee in a death grip. I wasn’t sure he comprehended the situation, although I’d explained it to him after we came inside the house. “This one will
there. Plus he’s a nice guy, the kids like him, and Karen’s so happy she’s practically turned into a human being.” “Well, you’ve come a long way since the days when you wouldn’t call her anything but ‘that bitch.’ ” I raised the mug in a toast. “Yeah, I guess I have.” He looked away from me, gaze turned inward, but he glanced back just in time to see me gag on the strong coffee. “Shar, you don’t look so good. And what’re you doing here at seven-thirty in the morning, anyway?” I set the mug
to get an appointment at the clinic right away?” She didn’t reply, and for a moment I thought she hadn’t understood. Then she fumbled alongside the chair’s cushion for a tissue, and I saw she was crying. “Ms. Orozco … Ana,” I said. She held up her hand. “No, I am okay. It is … I know that what I will do is wrong. Are you católica?” “Yes.” At least, I’d been raised Catholic. “Then you must know how I feel,” she said. “I did not believe in … this thing before I knew I was to have the child.
Abrego, Navarro, or Brockowitz. Got that?” “Yes, boss.” John unfolded his long frame from the Scout. “I saw a convenience store with an intact pay phone right around the corner. Will you be okay if I leave you alone here?” “I’ll fend off any muggers by running them over.” As soon as he was out of sight, though, I began to feel uneasy—that particular brand of unease that makes me suspect somebody’s watching me. I glanced in the rearview mirror, checked out both side mirrors. No one in any of
never met Stan Brockowitz’s wife and had approached Ana Orozco because he expected Ann to look Hispanic. “It is wonderful,” I said of the parrot. “We have smaller ones that cost less.” “No.” I shook my head regretfully. “It’s his personality that drew me.” “Cranky, isn’t he? I call him W. C. Fields.” “Where do you get your merchandise?” “Mostly Mexico. There’s a firm that we order from that employs a stable of talented folk artists.” She hesitated, studying the parrot. “Look, I think we