CHAPTER THREEShe staggered back and bounced off the door. Her right hand moved to her holster and her fingers reached for the snap that secured her S&W .40 automatic. Night had fallen but light from a streetlamp on Barbara Jordan Boulevard combined with the glow that penetrated the frosted glass of the KRED doors. There was enough illumination to show her the man she had collided with.
He looked a lot like Bob Bjorner. A little thinner—not much—and a little younger. And his skin wasn’t bright red. It was the khaki-tan shade that Marvia had seen on many brothers and sisters of mixed ancestry. His hair was crinkly. His eyes were pale blue. He wore a quilted jacket and patched khaki trousers.
Marvia dropped her hand to her side. Paranoid cop. Typical paranoid cop reflex.
An old woman swath
