40
There was a solid knock on the front door. I pushed Conor aside. “Let me handle it. People like me.”
Conor cough-laughed. “Oh really? I’ve met sandpaper less abrasive than you.”
I gave him an eat-s**t look. “Don’t push me, Doyle.” I pulled off my ballistic vest and tactical belt, tossed them to the side, and opened the door.
Officer Quiroz, whose name was on a brass name tag, was slender with a smallish face, wary eyes, and a pleasant smile, which I tried to return as convincingly as I could.
“Hi,” I said. “What’s up?” Mentally, I kicked myself. Could I sound more like a vapid teenager?
“Afternoon, ma’am. Are you the owner of the house?”
I thought about saying yes but didn’t figure I could pull it off. “No, I’m afraid the owner of the house isn’t here right now. I’m house-sitting
