of her hoped she never did. No matter how many corpses she came across—and she’d seen her share—she couldn’t look down on a victim’s bloodless face and unblinking gaze without wondering about favorite colors and favorite foods, secrets fears and passions, victories celebrated and losses mourned—all the trappings of a life, a human life, cut short by senseless violence.
Moment of truth time, Delinski. No guts, no glory.
Mandy dropped her gaze—and froze.
Oh, God, no. Please…no.
The face was waxen, the chiseled features frozen stiff rather than mobile and yet there was no mistaking the dead man’s identity. He was Josh, her Josh, or at least she might have had the chance to make him hers if he’d lived. Josh of the laughing blue eyes, sexy smile and strong, knowing hands. When she’d stepped out of his arms last night to go home, she’d never guessed their next date would be at the morgue.
“Officer Delinski, do you know this man?” McKinney, impatience sharpening his voice, hovered over her.
The plummeting sensation in her stomach reminded her of riding the Twilight Zone Tower of Terror attraction at Disney’s MGM Studios theme park as a kid—a drop of thirteen gut-wrenching stories experienced again and again. Fighting the urge to be sick over the tops of her polished shoes, Mandy considered the question. Had she known Josh? In one sense, she hadn’t known him at all, not even his last name let alone why he’d left his home in Boston. In another sense, though, she’d known him well indeed—his favorite ice cream flavor, his favorite movies, how he liked to be kissed, held, touched.
“Officer Delinski, please answer the question. Do you or do you not recognize this man?” McKinney again, louder this time, as though she were deaf instead of stunned to speechlessness from looking on at a lost life—a life that had touched hers intensely albeit briefly.
Slowly, like a coma victim coming into consciousness, she nodded. “He introduced himself as Josh. I never knew his last name. We met last night at an event at the Baltimore Museum of Art. I was working an overtime security detail, and he was tending bar.”
“I see.” McKinney’s gaze honed in on her, and Mandy felt a blush creeping up her throat.
A horde of heated memories rushed her, an oddity in this cold, cold place—the melting stares coming across the atrium from a pair of blue bedroom eyes; the way he’d swiped away the whipped cream smudge below her mouth and pronounced her, not it, to be delicious; that ready hard cock rubbing against her, driving her crazy, until she hadn’t known what she wanted to do more, spread her legs and take him inside her in a single, satisfying thrust or open her mouth and spend the time to taste and suck and savor.
She heard the M.E.’s voice as if it came from the opposite end of a tunnel. “Cause of death was a gunshot wound to the back of the head, a classic execution-style hit.” He slid an arm beneath the victim’s head, Josh’s head, turning the body onto its side to reveal the wound. “We dug out a .22-caliber slug from the left occipital lobe. The bullet transected the bone and lodged in the soft tissue, so there was no exit wound. The mechanism of death was massive traumatic hemorrhage of the brain.”
Forcing the cop part of her brain to kick in, Mandy focused on the facts of the case. A .22-caliber pistol was frequently the firearm of choice among mob enforcers for practical reason. Because of its small size, the bullet lacked the velocity to penetrate the skull a second time; instead ricocheting around inside and bringing about massive brain hemorrhage and death. With a clean, close shot, victim fatality was virtually guaranteed.
Sounding like a museum docent reciting the details of a particular piece, the M.E. continued, “Note the ragged, star-shaped wound. That tells us that the weapon was fired at close range, likely with the barrel pressed directly against the skin. The
Moment of truth time, Delinski. No guts, no glory.
Mandy dropped her gaze—and froze.
Oh, God, no. Please…no.
The face was waxen, the chiseled features frozen stiff rather than mobile and yet there was no mistaking the dead man’s identity. He was Josh, her Josh, or at least she might have had the chance to make him hers if he’d lived. Josh of the laughing blue eyes, sexy smile and strong, knowing hands. When she’d stepped out of his arms last night to go home, she’d never guessed their next date would be at the morgue.
“Officer Delinski, do you know this man?” McKinney, impatience sharpening his voice, hovered over her.
The plummeting sensation in her stomach reminded her of riding the Twilight Zone Tower of Terror attraction at Disney’s MGM Studios theme park as a kid—a drop of thirteen gut-wrenching stories experienced again and again. Fighting the urge to be sick over the tops of her polished shoes, Mandy considered the question. Had she known Josh? In one sense, she hadn’t known him at all, not even his last name let alone why he’d left his home in Boston. In another sense, though, she’d known him well indeed—his favorite ice cream flavor, his favorite movies, how he liked to be kissed, held, touched.
“Officer Delinski, please answer the question. Do you or do you not recognize this man?” McKinney again, louder this time, as though she were deaf instead of stunned to speechlessness from looking on at a lost life—a life that had touched hers intensely albeit briefly.
Slowly, like a coma victim coming into consciousness, she nodded. “He introduced himself as Josh. I never knew his last name. We met last night at an event at the Baltimore Museum of Art. I was working an overtime security detail, and he was tending bar.”
“I see.” McKinney’s gaze honed in on her, and Mandy felt a blush creeping up her throat.
A horde of heated memories rushed her, an oddity in this cold, cold place—the melting stares coming across the atrium from a pair of blue bedroom eyes; the way he’d swiped away the whipped cream smudge below her mouth and pronounced her, not it, to be delicious; that ready hard cock rubbing against her, driving her crazy, until she hadn’t known what she wanted to do more, spread her legs and take him inside her in a single, satisfying thrust or open her mouth and spend the time to taste and suck and savor.
She heard the M.E.’s voice as if it came from the opposite end of a tunnel. “Cause of death was a gunshot wound to the back of the head, a classic execution-style hit.” He slid an arm beneath the victim’s head, Josh’s head, turning the body onto its side to reveal the wound. “We dug out a .22-caliber slug from the left occipital lobe. The bullet transected the bone and lodged in the soft tissue, so there was no exit wound. The mechanism of death was massive traumatic hemorrhage of the brain.”
Forcing the cop part of her brain to kick in, Mandy focused on the facts of the case. A .22-caliber pistol was frequently the firearm of choice among mob enforcers for practical reason. Because of its small size, the bullet lacked the velocity to penetrate the skull a second time; instead ricocheting around inside and bringing about massive brain hemorrhage and death. With a clean, close shot, victim fatality was virtually guaranteed.
Sounding like a museum docent reciting the details of a particular piece, the M.E. continued, “Note the ragged, star-shaped wound. That tells us that the weapon was fired at close range, likely with the barrel pressed directly against the skin. The
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