I CROAKED.Okay, so it wasn’t the smartest statement I’ve ever made. The cops might never have known that I owned the murder weapon. My fingerprints weren’t in any criminal data bank. I really was going to have to work on this impulse honesty thing.“That’s your brush?”I could see I’d surprised Lieutenant Jackson Scythe for the fourth time that morning. I allowed myself a small shot of pleasure at that thought, not that I was keeping count or anything.“At least, I think it’s mine.” Uh-oh. I’d backed up too late. My qualifier only intensified his interest.His eyes roamed over my hands, my bodysuit, my skirt, my boots, in a detailed survey—different from his earlier perusal. He was using his cop’s eyes now, after using his man’s eyes to appraise me earlier. I swear, it was laser vision—sharp and hot, cataloging things on me I know I’d never recognize. I had nothing to hide, but I took a few steps closer to Ricardo to escape the scrutiny. As I did, I caught sight of movement above me, and I looked up at the ceiling, where I met my own eyes in a mirror.
