crime rate. “ Shame DeeDe e’ s working for the Enquirer and NPD is a conflict ,”I’ d told him. “ She could make up better statistics for NPD and then write whatever the hell NPD wanted her to . ”
The remark had n’ t gone over well.
Do I dislike my boss? No, h e’ s a good administrato r— as they go. H e’ s a good cop.
“ I do n’ t give a ra t’ s ass ,” I say, finally ,“ but if you want my opinion, he worries more about tracking data, about solve rates, and about NP D’ s image, than he does finding killers and protecting and serving . ”
“ Wow. Do n’ t hold back ,” DeeDee says.
“ Not to worry . ” I rake my gaze across her and watch her squirm. “ Holding back in anythin g’ s not my style . ”
Tha t’ s a lie. Recalling the most recent vi c’ s body dumped like garbage behind Oma r’ s pisses me off, same as it does Captain Meyers. But I hold back telling DeeDee what I thin k’ s the real problem eating at the captain. I t’ s not that the vics have been brutally murdered. I t’ s the fact Sixth and Monmout h’ s a few blocks from Newpor t’ s city building, thanks to Irene Blackmoore. She leveled the neon-signed, black-windowed nude bars in old Sin City, clearing space for the new town hall. So the only two rat holes left, the Brass Ass and Oma r’ s, are in city hal l’ s back yard.
I want to tell DeeDee ,“ Does n’ t look good, does it? Bodies piling up back there faster than last wee k’ s garbage ? ” But I hold back, aware I’ ve more problems than one man needs. Yet another problem giving me heartburn, and one more reason I do n’ t share what I know with DeeDee, is the way Captain Meyers sucks up to Mayor Darlene Laws, DeeDe e’ s mother. Rumor has it h e’ s doing Darlene. Maybe my ego wo n’ t let me admit it, but I doubt it. I know from experience that Darlene demands sexual anarchists in bed, not impotent derelicts like Captain Meyers.
Popping a grape between lush pink lips, DeeDee gives up her game of fifty questions and uses her butter knife to trace something on the photo. “ Mmm ,” she says, as I watch intently ,“ h e’ s a serial biter and gosh dar n— Ai d— are we looking at a signature here, or what ? ”
“ Good ,” I say, uneasy because I agree. My roo k’ s turning out to be more than merely perceptiv e— and more than a fluffy Barbie doll. Sure, bite wounds are clearly visible in the photo. But it would take a solid background in criminology, a deeper level of forensic knowledge than I at first believed DeeDee has, to discern a serial bite r’ s signature in the middle of the vi c’ s mushed-up shoulder.
I grudgingly give my rook more credit. “ The vi c’ s neck and shoulders are literally gnawed off, as you can see ,” I explain, agreeing with her. “ The bite wounds are so deep her e ” — I point to the right shoulde r — “ h e’ s reached bone in multiple spots . ”
“ Why, yes . ” She glues her gaze to the photo. I sit back and watch her use the butter knife like a Ninja. “ He sure does love to bite ,” she says, pointing to deep punctures. “ But Aid, look here. H e’ s left this spot of flesh nearly intact, except for this pattern right . . . damn . . . here . ” She emphasizes her point by spearing the vi c’ s mottled shoulder in the photograph. “ I t’ s like he wants us to be able to identify his signature, do n’ t y’ all think ? ”
I smile. Did she just say damn ? Did Miz Sweetness and Light, who does n’ t like cursing, just fucking cuss?
She swings her gaze up to meet mine, her face so close I can kiss her. I get a whiff of her perfume. Joy de Jean Patou ? Expensive. Nice shit. Heady. I relax. Not to worry, Aidan. Yo u’ re safe from her wiles. I like the trampier scents, the earthier smell of wet glistening sweat on a woma n’ s bare thigh s —
Fighting a bolt of
The remark had n’ t gone over well.
Do I dislike my boss? No, h e’ s a good administrato r— as they go. H e’ s a good cop.
“ I do n’ t give a ra t’ s ass ,” I say, finally ,“ but if you want my opinion, he worries more about tracking data, about solve rates, and about NP D’ s image, than he does finding killers and protecting and serving . ”
“ Wow. Do n’ t hold back ,” DeeDee says.
“ Not to worry . ” I rake my gaze across her and watch her squirm. “ Holding back in anythin g’ s not my style . ”
Tha t’ s a lie. Recalling the most recent vi c’ s body dumped like garbage behind Oma r’ s pisses me off, same as it does Captain Meyers. But I hold back telling DeeDee what I thin k’ s the real problem eating at the captain. I t’ s not that the vics have been brutally murdered. I t’ s the fact Sixth and Monmout h’ s a few blocks from Newpor t’ s city building, thanks to Irene Blackmoore. She leveled the neon-signed, black-windowed nude bars in old Sin City, clearing space for the new town hall. So the only two rat holes left, the Brass Ass and Oma r’ s, are in city hal l’ s back yard.
I want to tell DeeDee ,“ Does n’ t look good, does it? Bodies piling up back there faster than last wee k’ s garbage ? ” But I hold back, aware I’ ve more problems than one man needs. Yet another problem giving me heartburn, and one more reason I do n’ t share what I know with DeeDee, is the way Captain Meyers sucks up to Mayor Darlene Laws, DeeDe e’ s mother. Rumor has it h e’ s doing Darlene. Maybe my ego wo n’ t let me admit it, but I doubt it. I know from experience that Darlene demands sexual anarchists in bed, not impotent derelicts like Captain Meyers.
Popping a grape between lush pink lips, DeeDee gives up her game of fifty questions and uses her butter knife to trace something on the photo. “ Mmm ,” she says, as I watch intently ,“ h e’ s a serial biter and gosh dar n— Ai d— are we looking at a signature here, or what ? ”
“ Good ,” I say, uneasy because I agree. My roo k’ s turning out to be more than merely perceptiv e— and more than a fluffy Barbie doll. Sure, bite wounds are clearly visible in the photo. But it would take a solid background in criminology, a deeper level of forensic knowledge than I at first believed DeeDee has, to discern a serial bite r’ s signature in the middle of the vi c’ s mushed-up shoulder.
I grudgingly give my rook more credit. “ The vi c’ s neck and shoulders are literally gnawed off, as you can see ,” I explain, agreeing with her. “ The bite wounds are so deep her e ” — I point to the right shoulde r — “ h e’ s reached bone in multiple spots . ”
“ Why, yes . ” She glues her gaze to the photo. I sit back and watch her use the butter knife like a Ninja. “ He sure does love to bite ,” she says, pointing to deep punctures. “ But Aid, look here. H e’ s left this spot of flesh nearly intact, except for this pattern right . . . damn . . . here . ” She emphasizes her point by spearing the vi c’ s mottled shoulder in the photograph. “ I t’ s like he wants us to be able to identify his signature, do n’ t y’ all think ? ”
I smile. Did she just say damn ? Did Miz Sweetness and Light, who does n’ t like cursing, just fucking cuss?
She swings her gaze up to meet mine, her face so close I can kiss her. I get a whiff of her perfume. Joy de Jean Patou ? Expensive. Nice shit. Heady. I relax. Not to worry, Aidan. Yo u’ re safe from her wiles. I like the trampier scents, the earthier smell of wet glistening sweat on a woma n’ s bare thigh s —
Fighting a bolt of
Similar Books
