4th of July
Chapter One
IT WAS JUST BEFORE 4:00 a.m. on a weekday. My mind was racing even
before Jacobi nosed our car up in front of the Lorenzo, a grungy
rent-by-the-hour "tourist hotel" on a block in San Francisco's
Tenderloin District that's so forbidding even the sun won't cross
the street.
Three black-and-whites were at the curb, and Conklin, the first
officer at the scene, was taping off the area. So was another
officer, Les Arou.
"What have we got?" I asked Conklin and Arou.
"White male, Lieutenant. Late teens, bug-eyed and done to a turn,"
Conklin told me. "Room twenty-one. No signs of forced entry. Vic's
in the bathtub, just like the last one."
The stink of piss and vomit washed over us as Jacobi and I entered
the hotel. No bellhops in this place. No elevators or room service,
either. Night people faded back into the shadows, except for one
gray-skinned young prostitute who pulled Jacobi aside.
"Give me twenty dollars," I heard her say. "I got a license plate."
Jacobi peeled off a ten in exchange for a slip of paper, then turned
to the desk clerk and asked him about the vic ... read full excerpt from: 4th of July ebook
