Instead, he found himself in front of Linda Baylor’s beach house thirty minutes later. Fried, feeling elephant-fucked by the world at large ... yet here nevertheless. And why? He tried to convince himself he was just wrapping up an already shitty day of investigation by yet one more round of questioning with Dame Baylor, Esq. The convincing died after one second of honest, objective self evaluation. He wasn’t here to interrogate anyone. He knew exactly why he was here. Shit. He stopped the car and made a quick call to Forensics to see if the boys in the lab had discovered anything more about the bullets or the gun that were found in Don Simpson’s house. After about three minutes, he was told they had nothing. “Same weapon, same bullets, Lou,” Marcos, the head lab technician, muttered. “But what the fuck. That info is about as useful as a feathered dildo in the fun-hole of Typhoid Mary.” “That bad,” Lou chuckled. “It was remote anyway, you know that.”
