LITMIR.BIZ

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the whopping five grand membership fee for Becky and Jane.

      Becky Jameson and I work together at a law firm in West Palm Beach. She’s an attorney in the contracts department, while I’m a few rungs down on the professional ladder. I’m an estates and trusts paralegal.

      Because of Patrick, I was blissfully exempt from the freebie. Jane was willing to give it a try. Becky was not. If I remember correctly, her exact words were, “I’d become a celibate lesbian before I’d go out on a buy-a-guy date.”

      Back to dead Paolo. “So he was your date and…?”

      “Heart Association Fund-Raiser at the Breakers. Cocktails after. Then he drove me home. He had chilled champagne waiting in the limo and by the time we got to my place I was feeling pretty good. So I invited him up for some coffee and we, um, you know. At least I think we you knowed.”

      “You don’t remember?” God, sex with Patrick was methodical, but at least it was memorable.

      “We must have,” Jane decided with a small shake of her head. “Why else would I be wearing my get lucky lingerie?”

      Good point. “And then?”

      “I woke up and there was bloo—”

      “You fell asleep?”

      “Apparently,” Jane snapped. “I know, total breach of first sex etiquette, but I must have had more to drink than I realized and the guy was gorgeous. Anyway, he was on one side with his back to me. I thought he’d breached too, and was fast asleep, so I shook his shoulder.”

      I felt her shiver before she yanked her hands free of mine.

      “He was ice cold, and then I went to move closer to him when I felt the wet sheets.”

      “Gorgeous and incontinent. Interesting combination.”

      Jane glared at me. “I tossed back the covers and there was blood everywhere. It was exactly like that producer guy in The Godfather who wakes up with the horse head in his bed.

      “I think I crawled over him or maybe it was around him and I see this big knife in his chest. I pulled it out, rolled him over, and was about to feel for a pulse when I just happened to glance down and see…”

      Jane looked like she wanted to vomit. Her skin bleached white and her eyes squeezed shut for a second.

      “And saw what?”

      “It was gone.”

      “What was gone?”

      “It,” Jane repeated succinctly.

      “It it?” I felt disgust churn in my stomach along with serious confusion. “So what? The police showed up, took your statement, and then just let you leave? Dressed like that?”

      “I didn’t call them.”

      I practically leapt to my feet. “What?”

      “Everything was so bloody and I’d just touched a dead guy. I was terrified and not exactly thinking straight. It isn’t like I’ve ever awakened and found a man with his privates cut off in my bed before. Plus, I didn’t know if the killer was still in my apartment so I just grabbed my keys and jumped out the window.”

      I blinked. “You live on the second floor.”

      “The jump wasn’t bad. The landing was a bit of a bitch. So what do I do?”

      “We call the police and then we call Becky.” I reached for the phone, changing the order of the calls in my mind.

      Becky answered in a groggy, guttural voice. “Hello.”

      I don’t think I stopped to breathe as I quickly told her the tale of Jane’s date culminating in the discovery of Dickless Paolo.

      She mumbled a few curses, then said, “Call the police and stay put. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

      “Okay.”

      “Finley?”

      “Yeah?”

      “I don’t want either one of you to say a word to the cops until I get there. Understand?”

      “Not a word.” I glanced over at Jane, who was now curled into the fetal position at one end of my sofa. I had a feeling the cops would expect more than a “no comment” when they got their first glimpse at Jane. “Do we tell them our names?”

      “Name, address, age, occupations, all fine.”

      “Jane is covered in blood. I’ll get her cleaned up and she can—”

      “No. No shower, no change of clothes. Nothing to compromise the forensics any more than they’ve already been compromised. Why didn’t she call the police?”

      “She wanted out of her apartment.”

      “Then she should have driven to the sheriff’s office.” I heard Becky’s frustrated sigh. “Why didn’t she think?”

      “How am I supposed to know?” Cupping my hand over the mouthpiece, I whispered, “She’s totally freaked out. Stop lecturing me and get over here.”

      I’m not sure if I said good-bye to Becky or not before calling the cops. Only that a few seconds later a calm, monotone voice came on the line. “Nine-one-nine. What is your emergency?”

      I shot a quick glance over at Jane’s huddled form on my sofa. “I, um, well…I need to report a…a, um, bloody friend.”

      “Do you need an ambulance, Ms. Tanner?”

      “How’d you know my name?” I pushed a strand of my disheveled hair off my forehead. “Forget that. What I mean is, my friend was in some sort of…See, she had this date and it didn’t go well.”

      “Ma’am, what specifically is your emergency?”

      “Specifically? I think I need to report a murder.”

      “Who has been murdered, ma’am?”

      “Paolo.”

      “Is that a first or last name?”

      I rolled my eyes. What difference did it make? Was she going to send help or carve the freaking headstone? Jane was pretty useless, so I gave what limited information I had, including Jane’s address so someone could check on Paolo.

      “I’ve alerted the sheriff’s office. Please stay on the line with me until help arrives.”

      I did as she asked, though it felt weird holding the receiver to my ear when we weren’t talking to each other. Maybe 9-1-1 should invest in Muzak or something. Anyway, it seemed like days passed before I heard sirens and then the screech of tires. I hung up, opened my door, and counted no fewer than a dozen sheriff’s cars careening into the parking lot in front of my apartment. In a matter of seconds, several of the officers leapt from their cruisers and crouched behind their squad cars, guns trained in my direction. Then I was blinded when they turned their mounted spotlights on me.

      Through a megaphone or radio or whatever, a disembodied male voice boomed through the predawn quiet. “Lace your fingers and place your hands behind your head. Get on your knees. Slowly.”

      “But I’m—”

      “Now!”

      Squinting against the harsh light, I dutifully followed instructions. My pissed-off meter went into the red zone. The cement was rough, painfully digging into my bare knees. As if it wasn’t humiliating enough to be assuming a position I’d only seen on episodes of Cops, I heard my neighbors whispering as they began stepping out of their apartments to investigate.

      Jane came up behind me.

      “Hold your position, Ms. Tanner,” the male voice instructed. This time his tone was compassionate as he spoke

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