Thin Air (Jessica Shaw, #1)

by Lisa Gray

Outside in the parking lot, the temperature had hit the high eighties, and the heat from the steaming blacktop burned through the soles of her sneakers. Her armpits felt damp under the light cotton T-shirt she wore. She wiped sweaty hands on the back of her gray skinny jeans and walked over to a black Chevy Silverado languishing in the shade of a giant oak tree.

The blonde was replaced by a good-looking black man who was speaking to a bunch of reporters. He was probably in his late forties or early fifties but wore the years well. He had a couple of days’ worth of stubble, closely cropped dark hair smudged with gray at the temples, and a physique that suggested he worked out daily. His charcoal dress pants and black open-necked shirt looked both smart and expensive. The shirtsleeves were rolled up, exposing well-defined arms. On his wrist was a big gold watch. On his belt was a big gold cop’s badge. The name across the bottom of the screen identified the man as LAPD detective Jason Pryce.

Thirty-five minutes later, Jessica stood in front of the room’s three-quarter-length mirror and scrutinized her appearance. She had deliberated for a good ten minutes over what to wear, finally selecting a black-and-white-plaid baby doll dress and black leather ankle boots. She blow-dried her hair and teased it into loose waves. Carefully applied eye makeup and a sweep of blush to her cheeks and a matte red lipstick blotted with tissue paper.

Next to Daniels sat his lawyer. As far as looks went, the two men couldn’t have been any more different. Mel Munro was small, rake thin, and mustachioed, and he wore the furtive expression of a weasel. His cheap navy pinstripe suit hung off his narrow shoulders like it would have hung off the hanger in the store. A battered briefcase was open on the table in front of him. He looked like a weasel, but he had the reputation of a rat.