words faded away, but her thoughts didn’t and I found my self glancing at the clock again, eager to focus on something other than the vivid image of Mandy and my brother and—
“Would you look at the time?” I blurted. I snatched the pillow from Jack’s hands and stretched out on my back. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Love hurts, bro. Love hurts.” I wedged the pillow up under my head and tried to ignore the cold feel of the tray seeping through the sheets.
“Pretty comfy, huh?” Jack asked.
“You’re deranged.”
“Just close your eyes and sleep.”
“I’ll close my eyes,” I said as he started to slide the drawer in. “But I can’t imagine I’ll get any sleep.”
“You’re a vampire. Trust me, you’ll sleep.”
“Says you,” I replied just as the drawer slid completely shut. Metal clicked. Blackness settled around me. My heart chugged like a freight train racing for the next stop.
Ka-thunk, ka-thunk, ka-thunk…
Sleep? Yeah, right.
I was in the morgue, for Damien’s sake. On the run for a murder I didn’t commit. I had no money of my own. On top of that, the damned tray was as hard as a rock. And cold.
I shifted for a more comfortable position and forced myself to take a mental detour away from the misery of my predicament. Instead I headed for my triple M fantasy—Mexican beach, megalicious bounty hunter, and mango margarita.
Now that was more like it. I had sand. I had rays. I had a really killer Italian leather bikini.
Ty loomed over me, blotting out the warm sun as his hands trailed over my body. Leather fell away and the bikini landed in a heap next to me. He reached for the frosty glass and the mango concoction dribbled onto my bare stomach. The sticky juice slid over my heated flesh.
He smiled again and then he leaned down. His tongue flicked my… Zzzzzzzzzz !
“T he decedent is a twenty-six-year-old white female transient found in an alley near Fifty-second Street by other transients. Apparent cause of death was strangulation.”
The voice slid under the cover of sleep and wiggled its way down next to me. Ugh. My neighbor was watching another CSI rerun.
Now I like CSI as much as the next person. Sort of. I mean, my receptionist, Evie, is somewhat of a junkie and I have to admit that I don’t totally understand that. But overall, I think it’s all right. In a morbid, depressing sort of way. I mean, geez, a dead body here, a dead body there. It’s enough to make the average person rethink the whole people-are-basically-good-if-you-can-get-past-all-the-crap concept.
I desperately needed to drag my ass out of bed and knock on the wall. But exhaustion still tugged at my arms and legs and the only thing I really wanted to do was stay right where I was, my feet nice and toasty under the sheets.
“There don’t appear to be any ligature marks on the victim’s throat.”
Duh. She didn’t die of strangulation, buddy. If it were that easy, the ratings wouldn’t be so high.
“Vessels around the mouth and nose appear in tact.”
Another big surprise. The nails, guy. Check under the nails.
“There are no apparent signs of bruising on the extremities. Nails are well manicured and appear intact.”
Atta boy.
“Are you sure this victim was ruled a strangulation?”
“That’s what the file says, doc. Said the body had all the classic signs.”
“To a rookie, maybe. If this woman was strangled, I’m Britney Spears. There’s something else going on here.”
Uh, yeah.
A camera clicked and the flash cha-chunk ed. Once. Twice. Loud. Talk about a building association meet ing just waiting to happen.
“Let’s get ready to open her up and take a look.” The doctor traced the Y path of incision with a blunt edge. (I definitely needed to get a life, right? I shouldn’t know this stuff.) “Looks good,” the man said. “Let’s make the first cut.” He touched the tip of the scalpel to the victim’s breastbone and white-hot pain rushed
“Would you look at the time?” I blurted. I snatched the pillow from Jack’s hands and stretched out on my back. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Love hurts, bro. Love hurts.” I wedged the pillow up under my head and tried to ignore the cold feel of the tray seeping through the sheets.
“Pretty comfy, huh?” Jack asked.
“You’re deranged.”
“Just close your eyes and sleep.”
“I’ll close my eyes,” I said as he started to slide the drawer in. “But I can’t imagine I’ll get any sleep.”
“You’re a vampire. Trust me, you’ll sleep.”
“Says you,” I replied just as the drawer slid completely shut. Metal clicked. Blackness settled around me. My heart chugged like a freight train racing for the next stop.
Ka-thunk, ka-thunk, ka-thunk…
Sleep? Yeah, right.
I was in the morgue, for Damien’s sake. On the run for a murder I didn’t commit. I had no money of my own. On top of that, the damned tray was as hard as a rock. And cold.
I shifted for a more comfortable position and forced myself to take a mental detour away from the misery of my predicament. Instead I headed for my triple M fantasy—Mexican beach, megalicious bounty hunter, and mango margarita.
Now that was more like it. I had sand. I had rays. I had a really killer Italian leather bikini.
Ty loomed over me, blotting out the warm sun as his hands trailed over my body. Leather fell away and the bikini landed in a heap next to me. He reached for the frosty glass and the mango concoction dribbled onto my bare stomach. The sticky juice slid over my heated flesh.
He smiled again and then he leaned down. His tongue flicked my… Zzzzzzzzzz !
“T he decedent is a twenty-six-year-old white female transient found in an alley near Fifty-second Street by other transients. Apparent cause of death was strangulation.”
The voice slid under the cover of sleep and wiggled its way down next to me. Ugh. My neighbor was watching another CSI rerun.
Now I like CSI as much as the next person. Sort of. I mean, my receptionist, Evie, is somewhat of a junkie and I have to admit that I don’t totally understand that. But overall, I think it’s all right. In a morbid, depressing sort of way. I mean, geez, a dead body here, a dead body there. It’s enough to make the average person rethink the whole people-are-basically-good-if-you-can-get-past-all-the-crap concept.
I desperately needed to drag my ass out of bed and knock on the wall. But exhaustion still tugged at my arms and legs and the only thing I really wanted to do was stay right where I was, my feet nice and toasty under the sheets.
“There don’t appear to be any ligature marks on the victim’s throat.”
Duh. She didn’t die of strangulation, buddy. If it were that easy, the ratings wouldn’t be so high.
“Vessels around the mouth and nose appear in tact.”
Another big surprise. The nails, guy. Check under the nails.
“There are no apparent signs of bruising on the extremities. Nails are well manicured and appear intact.”
Atta boy.
“Are you sure this victim was ruled a strangulation?”
“That’s what the file says, doc. Said the body had all the classic signs.”
“To a rookie, maybe. If this woman was strangled, I’m Britney Spears. There’s something else going on here.”
Uh, yeah.
A camera clicked and the flash cha-chunk ed. Once. Twice. Loud. Talk about a building association meet ing just waiting to happen.
“Let’s get ready to open her up and take a look.” The doctor traced the Y path of incision with a blunt edge. (I definitely needed to get a life, right? I shouldn’t know this stuff.) “Looks good,” the man said. “Let’s make the first cut.” He touched the tip of the scalpel to the victim’s breastbone and white-hot pain rushed
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