The 1st Victim by Tami Hoag

looked like a freaking zombie—one eye wide open, mouth gaping in a scream; half her face looked melted away. She was covered in blood.
    The screams were deafening then as the Wild Thing struck the zombie—Jamar’s screams, the screams of the girls behind him, the shouts of the guys. The Hummer went into a skid, sliding sideways on the ice-slick road. Bodies were tumbling inside the vehicle. There was a bang and a crash from the back, then another. The Hummer came to a rocking halt as Jamar’s bladder let go and he peed himself.
    Twenty percent gratuity included . . .
    Happy New Year’s fucking Eve.

2
    “Happy freakin’ New Year,” Sam Kovac said with no small amount of disgust.
    What a mess. Headlights and portable floodlights illuminated the scene, with road flares and red-and-blue cruiser lights adding a festive element. The television news vans had already swooped in and set up camp. The on-air talent bundled into their various team color-coordinated winter storm coats had staked out their own angles on the wreck.
    Fucking vultures. Kovac kept his head down and his hat brim low as he walked toward the scene.
    A white Hummer of ridiculous proportions sat sideways across two lanes of road. The back window was busted out, allowing a glimpse of the interior: purple LED lights and zebra-striped upholstery.
    Erstwhile holiday revelers milled around the vehicle, overdone and underdressed for the weather. Most of them were either talking or texting on their cell phones. The girls, who had undoubtedly begun the evening looking the height of hip fashion, now looked like cheap hookers on a hard night: hair a mess, makeup smeared, clothes disheveled. They were in short dresses. One was wrapped in a fur coat; another was wrapped in a tuxedo jacket. They all either had been crying or were crying, while their dates tried to look important and serious in the face of the crisis.
    A Lexus coupe appeared to have rear-ended the party-mobile, which hadn’t worked out for the Lexus. With the front end smashed back almost to the windshield, the car looked like a pug dog on wheels. A third car had hit the Lexus from behind. A Chevy Caprice with a busted-up front end had pulled to the shoulder.
    But Kovac hadn’t come out in the minus-freezing-ass cold on New Year’s Eve to attend to a three-car pileup. He was a homicide cop. His business was murder. How murder figured into this mess, he had no idea. But it was a good bet it was going to take half the damn night to sort it out.
    Not that he had anything better to do with his time. He didn’t have any hot date to ring in the New Year with. He wasn’t going to any parties to watch people get drunk and make fools of themselves for no other reason than having to buy a new calendar.
    “Happy New Year, Detective.”
    Kovac growled at the fresh-faced uniformed officer. “What’s happy about it?”
    “Uh . . . nothing, I guess.”
    “I’m assuming there’s somebody dead here. Should we be happy about that?”
    “No, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”
    “Jesus, Kojak. Just ’cause you’re not getting laid tonight doesn’t mean you get to take it out on young Officer Hottie here.”
    Kovac turned his scowl on his partner as she walked up. Nikki Liska was decked out in her standard subzero outfit—a thick down-filled parka that reached past her knees and a fur-lined Elmer Fudd hat with the earflaps down. She looked ridiculous.
    Liska was five foot five by sheer dint of will. Kovac called her Tinks—short for Tinker Bell on steroids. Small but mighty. If she’d been any bigger, she would have taken over the world by now. But bundled up like this she looked like the little brother in
A Christmas Story,
ready to have someone knock her down on the way to school so she could lie helpless on her back like a stranded turtle.
    “How do you know I’m not getting laid tonight?” he grumbled.
    “You’re here, aren’t you?” she said. “Neither one of us is ringing in the New Year with