Working Stiff by Annelise Ryan Page B

heart isn’t through his stomach, it’s through his penis. So I shift into light flirt mode, hoping that Arnie isn’t gay and likes to read comic books about women from the planet Amazon.
    â€œYou sound like a pretty versatile guy,” I tell him, making and holding eye contact. “You must be very smart to know how to analyze all those different types of evidence.”
    â€œWell, I have had a lot of experience,” he says, puffing his chest out a bit.
    â€œI’ll bet you have,” I say, flavoring my tone with the barest hint of innuendo. “And since I need to learn how to do some of this stuff, I’d love to be able to watch what you do. To see you in action.”
    Arnie’s smile broadens into something uncomfortably close to a leer. He stares at me a moment and then officially completes our little mating dance by ogling me from head to toe and winking. “I’d love to show you some action,” he says with a crooked, half grin.
    Damn, Animal World would be proud.
    â€œGood idea,” Izzy says, seemingly oblivious to all the innuendo zipping through the air. “We don’t have any autopsies pending so why don’t you take Mattie up to your office, Arnie, and show her a few ropes.”
    The mention of me and ropes in the same sentence makes Arnie’s eyes grow wide. “Sounds good to me,” he says, licking his lips and making me wonder if I’ve taken the flirting thing a bit too far.
    â€œWhen you’re done with Arnie you can take the afternoon off if you like, Mattie. Make up for the time we spent out in the field last night.”
    â€œThanks. I could use a nap.”
    â€œOne other thing,” Izzy says, opening his desk drawer. “I want you to have this so I can reach you more easily.” He hands me a cell phone along with a battery charger, and I realize my days of ignoring pages are over. Then he hands me a piece of paper. Typed on it is the number for my phone and instructions for its use. At the bottom, written in Izzy’s hand, are instructions for paging his beeper.
    Fully wired for communication, I leave Izzy’s office and follow Arnie down the hallway, studying a bald spot that is starting to appear on the crown of his head. He stops by a locked door that marks a flight of stairs, sliding a card into a panel on the wall. I hear a faint click and he pulls the door open.
    â€œOnly one flight up,” he says.
    â€œA key card?” I say with a sinking feeling. Without access to the area where the evidence is kept, it’s going to be much harder than I thought to steal back my underwear.
    â€œDidn’t Izzy give you one yet?”
    I shake my head.
    â€œHe should have. Ask him about it. He probably just forgot. All the employees have one. It’s one of the security measures we use to assure the integrity of any evidence we keep here.”
    I make a mental note to ask Izzy about the key card as soon as possible. Arnie waves me through the door, insisting I go up the stairs first. I sense his eyes on me as I climb and try to clench my ass cheeks together so they won’t jiggle too much. But this makes me feel like Herman Munster when I walk so I give up, letting my jiggly parts jiggle and letting Arnie watch. I consider it a fair trade. After all, I did gawk at his bald spot.
    Arnie’s office is nothing more than a desk parked in one corner of a laboratory. Lining the walls are various machines, several of which are humming, whirring, or making other odd mechanical noises. A gooseneck lamp sits on the desk—the only significant source of light in the room at the moment, though I notice there are fluorescent fixtures in the ceiling.
    â€œThis is the true brain of forensics work,” Arnie says proudly as we enter the room. “Sometimes the cause of death is as obvious as the nose on my face and then there are times when the cause isn’t obvious at all. That’s when you