Chapter Seventy Five
Because Lieutenant Victor Garcia simply didn’t care any longer, for burnout was always burnout, he lurked within the darkness of the alley across from the artist’s loft, his gray sedan parked behind him some distance.
The fact that once again he could not get a warrant to roust Just Mal had pushed him to the limits of his patience and above all his anger.
Close to 2 AM, his feet felt like iced blocks, perhaps very much like the beautiful girl now calling a stainless steel crypt buried in the tombs of the Las Vegas PD felt just before she’d been murdered.
Very capable of breaking all the rules now, he knew that he clearly remembered the freezer and the painting and the rest of the queer world of the artist when he had visited some days earlier.
Frustration blackens
