LITMIR.BIZ

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and like I wasn’t already mired in Suckville, a photographer’s camera flash strobed where the cops had busily set up neon-yellow crime scene tape to cordon off my parking lot.

      Getting the police to understand that I wasn’t an imminent threat to society was a lot like trying to bathe a cat. But eventually, I was allowed to put my arms down and get to my feet. Much to the disappointment of my neighbors. My complex is a pretty laid-back place, so the commotion was a really big, if personally mortifying, thing.

      Finally, two plainclothes detectives stepped forward, escorting Jane and me, with two uniformed officers trailing us inside my apartment. The female detective directed a motion with her head to the deputies. Leaving me helpless and annoyed as the officers dispersed, one went into my kitchen, while another strode toward my bedroom. “Where are they going?” I asked.

      Ignoring my question, the female detective instructed Jane and me to sit on the sofa. She was African-American, with skin the color of a caramel latte. She wore utilitarian navy blue slacks and a plain white cotton blouse. No jewelry, unless you counted the silver-toned grommets on her sensible shoes. Or the gold badge clipped at her waist. I didn’t.

      The male detective came over to me and caught me by the elbow. There wasn’t anything the least bit chivalrous about the gesture. Using my right arm like a rudder, he quickly got me to my feet and escorted me into the bedroom, pushing the door just shy of completely closed.

      The detective stood next to my dresser, stiff and devoid of expression. He reminded me of the guards outside Buckingham Palace. Not that I’ve ever been to see the queen, but it is on my list of things to do and places to go.

      Reading the gold nameplate above the badge dangling out of his right shirt pocket, I locked eyes with the detective. I didn’t even attempt to soften the contempt in my tone. “Detective Graves, Jane’s in shock or something. Maybe you should—”

      “EMS will check her out,” he said. He asked me for identification, then reached into his back pocket. He pulled out a small memo pad and took a nub of a pencil from inside the spiral binding. I grabbed my purse off the nightstand and pulled my license from my wallet.

      My thoughts were fractured, racing in every direction. Jane, Paolo, blood, and the inappropriate memory of finding the pink Chanel wallet at the outlet mall. So what if the clasp was broken? It wasn’t like I passed my wallet around, so my secret was safe. No one, not even my closest friends, knew that I’d been reduced to buying factory seconds. But I couldn’t think about that now. Jane’s predicament was far more pressing than my tenuous financial situation.

      He dispensed with the standard questions—name, age, etc.—all while comparing the answers to my driver’s license. “Please tell me your version of tonight’s events.”

      “Version?”

      “Yes, ma’am,” he answered, pencil poised. “Approximately what time did Miss Spencer arrive?”

      “Before I had a chance to make coffee,” I said. I wasn’t trying to be snotty, I just couldn’t help myself. The detective had coffee breath and it didn’t seem fair that he’d gotten his while I was expected to provide lucid answers without an ounce of caffeine in my system.

      His single, bushy unibrow pinched between his chocolate-colored eyes. He was also African-American, but unlike his partner’s, his complexion was very dark. He either worked out religiously or had a serious steroid problem. His neck wasn’t a neck so much as a thick stump. His biceps and oversized chest strained against the fabric of his blue oxford shirt. And his tie was at least five seasons out of date and knotted wrong. The thinner black-and-gray-striped strip hung pathetically about two inches below the front flap. In fact, now that I had an opportunity to look at him, I realized he’d worked out so much that his body no longer fit conventional clothing. The waistband on his slacks bunched beneath his cinched belt. Because of the bulk of his thighs and calves, the seams on his khaki slacks were stressed almost to their breaking point.

      While some women find muscle-bound men attractive, my brain goes in only one direction. If a guy’s lats make it impossible to lower his arms completely to his sides like a normal person, how does said guy aim to pee?

      “The time?” he prompted.

      “Five twenty.”

      “You noted the exact time?”

      “Cursed it, actually.” I glanced through the slit in the door, trying to catch a glimpse of Jane. I couldn’t hear her conversation with Detective Sensible Shoes, but every so often the muffled sound of Jane hiccupping wafted into my room. “She’s really distraught, Detective. I know she needs medical attention.”

      “She’ll get it,” he said. “Now, if we could get back to your statement?”

      Raking my fingers through my hair, I was about to give him the abbreviated version. Screw Becky’s advice. In fact, screw Becky, she should have been here by now.

      The radio clipped to his belt crackled, and then an almost unintelligible voice said, “One-eight-seven confirmed at 636 Heritage Way South.”

      Graves grabbed the radio, depressed a button, and asked for more details. “Hispanic, approximately five-ten. According to his wallet, the vic is Paolo Martinez. Palm Beach address. The ME hasn’t gotten here yet, but COD is definitely multiple stab wounds and…uh…mutilation.”

      “Mutilation?” Graves asked. For the first time real interest seemed to kick in.

      “Yeah,” the voice on the radio answered. Like Jane, he seemed to have a difficult time describing the injury. “There’s been an, well, um, a—”

      “For Chrissake,” I cut in, my hands slapping against my sides. “The killer cut Paolo’s penis off.”

      “Yeah,” Radio Voice agreed. “What she said.”

      “Signs of a struggle?”

      “Negative. We’ve been unable to locate the missing, uh, er—”

      I glared at Graves. Why was it so hard for men to say the word yet so easy for them to adjust it in public whenever the mood struck? Amazing. “Penis.”

      “Yeah. We haven’t found it.”

      “Keep looking,” Graves said.

      I thought about that assignment, repulsed as I imagined how it must feel to be the one assigned to find the penis.

      Graves asked me all sorts of pointless questions. Did I know Paolo?

      No.

      Was the deceased Jane’s boyfriend?

      Heck no.

      Would I characterize Jane as a violent person?

      Hell no.

      Graves seemed frustrated by me, my answers, or both. He left me under the watchful eyes of the uniformed officer as he slipped into the living room. Balancing on the edge of the bed, I leaned to the right, hoping I might be able to catch bits and pieces of the huddled conversation between the detectives.

      Silently, I tried to send Becky an urgent telepathic message to move her ass. Especially when I saw the vacant look in Jane’s eyes. Hearing a knock at my front door, relief washed over me, but it was short-lived. Instead of Becky, two paramedics lumbered in, carrying what looked like large red tackle boxes.

      I stood, only to have my progress blocked by Officer Useless. “Keep your seat, ma’am.”

      Kiss my seat, and don’t call me ma’am. “I don’t understand your problem,” I muttered.

      “Standard procedure,” he said, as if that explained the whole divide and conquer thing they had going on.

      “She’s a dear friend who’s suffered a terrible trauma. I’d simply like to offer some moral support.”

      “I

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