The Hill by Carol Ericson Page B

he’d done it for spite.
    Maybe father and daughter never got along. She hadn’t seemed all that broken up over his death. Of course, what gave him any idea that he could adequately judge grief? He’d stuffed his away for years.
    His brothers had been stoked when the real Phone Book Killer had revealed himself, but the news had left him empty—as usual. His old man had still offed himself. What kind of man did that to his family?
    From all accounts, his father had been a good detective. When the Phone Book Killer had started his killing spree, the killer had begun sending messages to Detective Joseph Brody. The SFPD brass had become suspicious about the messages, and then evidence linking his father to the crimes turned up. His father was innocent, so why didn’t he stick around and fight for justice instead of ending it all with a jump from the Golden Gate Bridge?
    Celine knocked on the door for the tenth time in an hour, and he invited her in. This time she had company.
    â€œJudd? Sorry to bother you again, but we need to leave something on London’s desk.”
    The older woman with Celine scowled at him over her glasses, her gray eyebrows meeting over her nose. “Who are you?”
    Celine’s cheeks sported two red circles. “I told you, Mary. He’s working for London.”
    Mary’s gaze traveled from Judd’s face to his arms, which were bared to the elbow. “As what?”
    Celine giggled and rolled her eyes. “He’s in security.”
    The woman turned, blocking Celine’s entrance. “That’s all, Celine. I’ll take it from here.”
    Shooting him a glance over the ogre’s shoulder, Celine backed out of the room.
    When the door closed, Mary broadened her stance and crossed her arms over her ample bosom. “BGE security working alone in the boss’s office?”
    Judd kicked his feet on top of London’s desk and crossed his arms behind his head. “Celine forgot her manners. Who are you and what do you want to leave for London?”
    â€œYou’re a smooth operator, aren’t you?” She pulled back her shoulders and Judd feared the buttons on her high-necked white blouse would pop. “My name is Mary Kowalski, and I was Mr. Breck’s secretary for forty years. None of this administrative assistant nonsense. I wasn’t Mr. Breck’s assistant. I was his secretary—I took shorthand, typed one hundred words a minute and, yes, I got him coffee and picked up his dry cleaning, because that’s what we did back when I was first hired, and I was grateful for the job. I maintained the same level of service until the day I retired.”
    Judd’s eyebrows had been rising with each of Mary’s words, so they were probably somewhere on the back of his skull by now.
    He removed his feet from the desk and rose, Mary’s eyes following his ascent. “Nice to meet you, ma’am. I’m Judd Brody, and Ms. Breck hired me as her personal bodyguard.”
    â€œYou’re a big ’un, aren’t you? That’s handy in a bodyguard.” She reached into her enormous handbag and drew out a white envelope. She shook it at him. “You’re one of those Brody boys. I followed your father’s case closely. He’d been a good cop for years. I knew Detective Brody was no killer.”
    â€œThat I am, ma’am.”
    â€œYou can stop with the ma’am nonsense. Call me Mary and I’ll call you Judd.” She settled herself in the chair facing the desk. “How’s our girl doing?”
    â€œOur girl?”
    â€œLondon.” She chuckled. “Is she stepping in it yet with those ridiculous heels she favors?”
    â€œStepping in it?”
    â€œAre you a P.I. or a parrot?”
    He choked and took a swig of water. “I think she’s doing just fine.”
    â€œNonsense. She’s not cut out for this. I don’t know what Mr. Breck was