Monkeewrench by P. J. Tracy

Author:P. J. Tracy [Tracy, P. J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780141888057
Publisher: E-Penguin
Published: 2003-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

27

When the Monkeewrench entourage filed into the room, the ambient temperature seemed to drop about ten degrees. Magozzi wasn’t sure if the human iceberg leading the pack was responsible or if it was the collective hostility of a roomful of defensive cops. If it was the latter, MacBride seemed utterly oblivious to the chilly reception.

She was wearing the same canvas duster and high English riding boots she’d worn at the Monkeewrench loft the day before. Everything black, right down to the jeans and T-shirt beneath. He’d already decided that for this woman it wasn’t a fashion statement, more like a uniform that served a function he hadn’t completely figured out yet. He put the jeans and T-shirt off to comfort, and the duster to hide the gun, but the boots were a mystery. They were that thick, rigid leather that never yields, made for riding, not walking, and you had to think they were hot and uncomfortable as hell.

The duster flapped open as she walked, exposing the empty leather holster, and most of the eyes in the room went to that. Nothing made cops more nervous than armed civilians.

Her hair swung as she turned to face the room, as dark and loose as her eyes were cool and steady, and while the cop in Magozzi bristled at the arrogance of her demeanor, the artist in him was struck again by that kind of pure physical beauty that makes you take a quick mental step backward, simply because you don’t see it very often.

None of which mitigated her irritating bitchiness one iota.

He gave her a curt nod, which she returned in kind, along with a searing glance that seemed to be a challenge of some sort. Just what she was challenging, he had no idea. His competency? His suit? His existence on the planet? Maybe all of the above. But he had no interest in petty brinksmanship right now; he only cared about what she had to say.

Magozzi watched the faces of his detectives shift from angry to curious as the bizarre assemblage gathered in a cluster close to the door. Grace MacBride in her fox-hunter/gunslinger garb; Roadrunner towering in bright yellow Lycra, looking disturbingly like a pencil; the husky, leather-clad Harley Davidson with his ponytail and beard; fat Annie Belinsky in an impossibly orange getup, exuding sensuality no Playboy centerfold had ever come close to; and Mitch Cross, whose conservative appearance looked positively eccentric next to the others. Magozzi still couldn’t quite figure him into the picture. He stood off to one side, looking confused, displaced, and on the verge of meltdown.

Cross and Chief Malcherson had a lot in common, he realized – right down to the expensive suits and the high blood pressure. Maybe the two of them could get together later for beers and Xanax.

Gino stared at the group with the dull disbelief of a World War II vet suddenly transported to Woodstock, then moved back along the wall, distancing himself.

Magozzi didn’t waste any time with polite preambles or introductions.

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