Kill Smartie Breedlove (a mystery) by Joni Rodgers

there was a deep-throated GZZZZZZZ.
    “The sound of information about to be extracted,” Nash intoned.
    “Either that or a lesbian with a hard-on.”
    “Holy jacks. What’s this for?” asked Smartie.
    “Shaving,” said Shep, but wanting to make it spy-like, he added, “When I tape a wire inside my shirt. Hurts like hell if you don’t shave first.”
    “Where’s your gun?”
    “Handy.”
    Poking through a compartment on the side, she reached between Shep’s worn key maps and drew out a copy of Smack Wilder #3: Too Easy .
    “I liked it,” said Shep. “The plot was clever, but there were a few procedural—”
    “I didn’t ask you what you thought,” she clotheslined him midsentence. “You don’t hear me criticizing your job skills.”
    “I wasn’t criticizing. I just wanted to offer, you know, if you ever have questions about police or investigative procedures. Feel free to give me a call.”
    “Clearly you’re the expert.” She flicked a crumble of safety glass off the seat with her finger.
    “Things get up close and personal.” Shep stretched his arm along the back of her seat, no more suave or less brazen than a kid at the drive-in. “Nature of the beast.”
    He pulled Smartie close and brushed his mouth down her salty neck. For a moment it seemed like she might settle into it, but then she shifted and said, “I need to get inside.”
    “Yeah, me too.”
    “Shep, I told you that was a one-time thing.”
    “Right.” He nuzzled her bare shoulder. “This would be a one-time thing, too.”
    She was on the fence. He could feel it.
    “Blink once for yes, twice for no,” he murmured in her ear. “And don’t blink twice.”
    Smartie looked into his eyes without blinking at all. “You already struck out with your first choice tonight, didn’t you?”
    He took one last breath of her neck and settled back into his seat. “Oh-for-two now.”
    “You are an honest man, Shep. I admire your candor.”
    “That’s rewarding.”
    “Have you given any further thought to Charma’s case?”
    “No, but I’ll bet you have.”
    “I’ve narrowed it down to three basic theories,” said Smartie.
    “What are they?”
    “Do you really want to know? Or are you trying to work your way upstairs?”
    “Both.”
    “You’re not getting upstairs.”
    “Let’s have the theories then,” Shep sighed. It was still better than soup for one.
    “Theory A.” Smartie tucked one foot under her and framed each hypothetical between her hands. “ I Love You to Death : She was having an affair, and her lover killed her. Maybe she tried to break it off and he went crazy, or maybe it was an accident. Remember that case over in San Antonio, where the guy was making love to a woman on the balcony? In the heat of the moment, he lifted her hips up on the railing, and next thing he knows, she’s ker-shplunken . My problem with this scenario is that I simply do not believe she was having an affair.”
    “Why not?”
    “If she was in love, she would have told me,” said Smartie. “And if she wasn’t in love, why in the name of Queen Anne’s panties would she risk it? It makes no sense. So we move on to Theory B: Killer in the Mist . Some random deviant dragged her up there and took her underwear and killed her for the heck of it, and it had nothing to do with who she was or what she was doing.”
    Shep shook his head. “Like I said: I don’t believe in coincidence.”
    “Plausibility is always a problem with a random killer,” she conceded. “Logistically, it’s a stretch to make that work as a plotline. And Charma wasn’t dumb. She wouldn’t have gone up there with some stranger. According to the police report, the room was registered to her and there was no forced entry, no sign that anyone else was ever there. This leaves us with Theory C: The Best Little Divorce Lawyer in Texas .”
    “Here’s the problem with that theory,” Shep interrupted. “It’s ludicrous.”
    “An extremely proficient