After cleaning up at the station, Mulrooney and Clarke headed for Donna Blair"s house. The home was on a bluff in a ritzy area of Long Beach overlooking a stretch of beach a half mile west of Belmont Shore.
“Is it my imagination, or does everything we touch turn to goat piss?” Mulrooney groaned as he pressed an ice bag against his ankle. He then studied his hands. Blood was caked beneath his cuticles; and large calluses, like antique leather buttons, adorned the knuckles of his right index and middle fingers.
“Did the van ever catch up with the Mercedes?” Clarke asked.
“No, they lost them on the Vincent Thomas Bridge. No plates.”
“f**k. I hope Kristin gets some use of that hand back.”
“Yeah, she"s a good cop. I wish she"d stop blaming herself for losing Lauren Connolly at LAX. She"s t
