The Killing Game by J. A. Kerley Page A

Mayor, right?” I divined.
    “How did you know?”
    I winked. “I’m a detective, Wendy. I detect. Where’s the rest of the class?”
    “Dismissed a few minutes ago.”
    “And up you snuck.”
    “I was just going to peek through the door. Then I saw you and Detective Nautilus. And, uh, sort of kept walking.”
    “Here’s the homicide floor. Peek away.”
    She turned to look across the room, a full floor of cubicle offices. I almost avoided lowering my eyes past the knee-top hem for a mental photograph of the long, sun-browned legs, the slight front bow of her shins perfectly complementing the swell of calf.
    “It seems kind of dark compared to the other floors,” she noted, turning my way as my head snapped up.
    “Good catch,” I said, hoping she hadn’t caught me ogling. “When the building was put up, before my time, the latest in high-intensity ceiling lights were installed. Within two weeks the dicks had removed the fluorescent bulbs and brought in floor and desk lamps, creating an atmosphere better suited to solving mortal crimes.”
    “Chiaroscuro,” Holliday said. “The juxtaposition of dark and light.”
    “Nice vocabulary, Wendy.”
    She blushed again and turned toward the door. “I guess I’ll see you in class, right?” she said over her shoulder.
    “Looking forward to it,” I nodded, fighting to keep my eyes level.

11
    Gregory was sleeping when his cell rang from the bedside table. He tried to ignore it until his eyes caught the clock: 10.17 a.m. He never slept past eight …
why did I
…
    The horrors of his night flooded into his head.
    You fart while you screw, little ones that leak out.
    The goddamn woman, the slut who’d insulted him. It was all her fault, making him need a whore, leading to getting stopped by the goddamn cops. Then the filth, shame, humiliation.
    Step out of the car please
…
    The smell of shit was everywhere.
    Officer—
    … no not here no not now
…
    What happened after that?
    GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE GODDAMN CAR.
    My pants—
    Officer, please, I can’t—
    What happened next?
    It’s one of them pervert magazines, Horse. Something called
Women in Agony.
    Gregory moaned. The phone rang a third time.
    If you jam rubber balls in their mouths, it doesn’t leave room for your dick.
    You stink like a sewage factory, poopy. Go home and learn how to use a toilet.
    What happened next? What happened next?
    The phone rang again. The answering machine came on. “
Leave a number and I’ll get back to you
.”
    “
Gregory?
” a voice said, worried. “
Gregory? Are you all right?
”
    Ema.
    “
Gregory? Are you there? Please pick up if you are. I’m so worried that you—
”
    He grabbed the phone. Pushed the thoughts of last night from his head. Ema was the current problem.
    What happened next?
    “I’m here, Ema. What the hell’s wrong now?”
    A pause as his sister swallowed hard. She hated it when he cursed. “I’ve been … worried about you. We had breakfast scheduled for nine-thirty. I waited a half-hour and left.”
    “Why didn’t you call from the restaurant?”
    “I was afraid you might be ill. I didn’t want to wake you.”
    “I simply forgot to set my alarm, Ema. I’m fine.”
    “You never oversleep.”
    Gregory felt his guts cinch up. “I never tell you when I oversleep because you’ll fucking think I have sleeping sickness.”
    “I couldn’t eat at the restaurant,” she said. “I just had coffee. Why don’t you come over and I’ll fix us a healthy breakfast.”
    “I can’t, Ema. I have so much to do today and—”
    “Grigor, you have to eat. And you know you won’t unless I—”
    “It’s Gregory, Ema. G-r-e—”
    “It pops out when I get worried. I’m sorry, Gregory. I worry about my little brother too much; it’s stupid.”
    Christ, Gregory thought,
Grigor
. The fucking name was a dozen years gone, but poor addled Ema still used it several times a year.
    “You’re not stupid, Ema, you have a big heart,” Gregory said,