Excerpt from Chapter 1 :
"Ever kill anybody, Ms. West?"
The clerk in the gun store had my permit so he knew my profession. A woman who makes her living as a PI ought to be used to the kind of sly eagerness for blood-and-guts details I heard in his voice. I'm not.
I said, "If you do the job right, you don't have to kill people."
"Yeah, but have you?"
"No."
"Sometimes I bet you'd like to," he said sagely. "Otherwise you wouldn't be looking at this."
This was a Beretta mini-automatic with a blue-steel finish and walnut grips. Ten shots--one in the chamber and nine in the magazine. Not much stopping power, but it would certainly slow a person down. The sneaky little piece was made for close-up work and could be tucked in a pocket or worn in a clip-on holster.
Theoretically this meant I would keep the gun on my person and have it handy when the bad guys showed up. I'd had a couple of experiences recently that convinced me I ought to be taking such precautions. And, yes, if I'd had such a weapon in my hands during those times I would have put some neat little .22-caliber holes in a couple of very nasty people. However, I was not going to tell this guy about any of that.
He looked disappointed at my silence, said, "Well, you need some protection, this baby will certainly fill the bill. And nobody'll ever know you have it."
Sure.
The gun might be small, but only a moron would fail to discover it on a routine pat down.
"I'll take it," I said.
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