LITMIR.BIZ

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The packet’s open, right? Rubber’s missing.” The CMPD honcho dropped the packet into an evidence bag, sealed and marked it. “He probably took it with him. Or flushed it.”

      Parks shook his head. “She brought the condom, not him.”

      The investigator arched his eyebrows. “How do you figure?”

      “The last thing on his mind was protection. Look at this place, he made no attempt to clean up. I can see fingerprints on the champagne bottle from here.”

      “So?”

      “So,” Parks continued, “why would this disorganized inadequate flush a used condom but leave his fingerprints? My bet is, this place is swimming in biological and trace evidence.”

      While Parks repeated his theory to the investigator, Melanie examined the area around the bed, careful not to inadvertently disturb or destroy evidence. She had a hunch. If Joli had brought the condom and the killer hadn’t used it, she would bet it was still on or around the bed, just as the packet had been.

      Her hunch paid off, and Melanie held up the still-coiled condom. “This what you boys were looking for?” When the two men looked at her, she grinned. “The space between the mattress and the frame. You might check it out next time.”

      Parks smiled; the investigator looked irritated and snatched it from her. “He never even got around to fucking her. Sick bastard.”

      “He got around to it all right,” Parks countered, standing and yanking off his gloves. “He just didn’t do it with his penis. Check her body cavities. I wouldn’t doubt he left something behind. Hairbrush. Comb. Car keys. If you’re really lucky, they’ll be his.”

      Melanie stared at him, mouth dry, the horror of his words sinking in. For the last minutes she had been able to focus on the job, not the crime. She had been able to forget that the victim they were talking so dispassionately about had been, only hours before, a living, breathing human being; a person who’d had hopes, fears and dreams, just like she did.

      She couldn’t pretend anymore.

      Hand to her mouth, Melanie jumped to her feet and sprinted from the room. She made it as far as the first parked car, a white Ford Explorer. Hand on the vehicle’s left front panel for support, she doubled over and puked.

      Parks came up behind her. He held out a wad of toilet paper. “You okay?”

      “Fine.” She took the tissue and wiped her mouth, totally humiliated. “Thanks.”

      “Your first stiff?”

      She managed a yes, not meeting his eyes.

      “Tough luck, her getting whacked in Whistlestop. A couple blocks over and you would have avoided all this unpleasantness.”

      She looked at him then. “Are you always this awful?”

      “Pretty much.” A ghost of a smile touched his mouth, then disappeared. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, you know. Some people just aren’t cut out for this type of work.”

      “People like me, you mean? The kind of cop the Whistlestop force was made for?”

      “I didn’t say that.”

      “You didn’t have to.” She straightened, furious, sickness forgotten. “You don’t know anything about me. You don’t have a clue what’s right for me or what I can or cannot handle.”

      “You’re right, I don’t. And let’s keep it that way, shall we?”

      Without another word, he climbed into the Explorer, started it and drove away.

      3

      By three that afternoon, Melanie was running on nerves and caffeine. After throwing up, she had retrieved a Coke from the motel vending machine, rinsed her mouth with it, then gotten back to work. The CMPD forensic team had arrived, and she and Bobby had worked alongside them, logging in and bagging evidence. The medical examiner had come, followed by the body-removal service the county contracted to transport bodies to the morgue. She and Bobby had then reported to WPD headquarters to officially start their day.

      Melanie poured herself another cup of coffee, ignoring both her sour stomach and dull headache. She didn’t have time for queasiness or fatigue—the shit had only just begun hitting the fan. And no wonder. With this case there was plenty of it to go around: the FBI was involved, the CMPD, Charlotte’s most powerful citizen and of course, Whistlestop’s little band of blue. The victim had been young, beautiful and rich; her death gruesome and kinky.

      Front page, made to order.

      “May!” Chief Greer bellowed from the doorway to his office. “Taggerty! Get in here. Now!”

      Melanie looked at Bobby, who rolled his eyes. Something had definitely sent their boss into orbit. And Chief Gary Greer in orbit was a sight to behold. Six-foot-four, built like a bull and with skin the color of fine dark chocolate, he commanded both respect and fear. But despite his overwhelming physical presence—or perhaps because of it—he rarely lost his temper. When he did, everybody hopped to attention.

      In fact, Melanie had seen him this angry only once before: when he had discovered that one of the officers on night patrol had been letting hookers walk in exchange for blow jobs.

      Melanie grabbed her notepad and jumped to her feet. Bobby followed her. When they reached the man’s office, he ordered them to sit.

      “I just got off the phone with Chief Lyons. Bastard politely suggested we bow out of this investigation. For the good of all involved, turn the entire thing over to the CMPD.”

      “What!” Melanie jumped to her feet. “You didn’t agree—”

      “Hell no! I told him to kiss my hairy, black butt.” He laughed. “That put old Jack in his place.”

      Melanie smiled. Her chief had been a homicide investigator with the CMPD himself, and a highly decorated one at that. Four years ago he had been shot in the line of duty; the incident had nearly cost him his life. After he’d recovered, his wife gave him an ultimatum—the job or the marriage. Only forty-six and too young to be put out to pasture, he’d chosen the marriage and accepted this position. Although outwardly comfortable with his decision, Melanie suspected that he, like she, longed for real crimes to investigate.

      “They’re not going to push us out,” he continued, yanking at his tie to loosen it. “The murder occurred in our community, and I have citizens to account to. Like it or not, they’re stuck with us.”

      His mouth thinned. “This is a big one. All eyes are going to be on us. Pressure for a quick resolution is going to come from all quarters and it’s going to be intense. The press is going nuts already, and Andersen’s begun pulling in markers. Keep your heads and do your job. Don’t let the heat get to you.

      “The truth is,” he continued, “the CMPD’s more experienced. They have more manpower, better facilities, deeper pockets. Fine, we accept their help. But that’s as far as we bend. Any questions?”

      “Yeah,” Melanie said. “The FBI guy, Parks. What’s his story?”

      “Wondered how long it’d take you to ask.” Her chief smiled, his first of the afternoon. “A bit of an asshole, isn’t he?”

      Bobby laughed. “A bit? That guy was a walking, talking pucker.”

      “And no stranger to the bottle,” Melanie added.

      The chief frowned, looking from one to the other of them. “He’d been drinking?”

      “Drinking?” she repeated. “No, that word implies restraint. Moderation. Parks looked and smelled like he’d been on a year-long binge.”

      Her chief seemed to digest that information, his expression tight. “Connor Parks is a profiler. Until a year ago he was a bigwig at Quantico, what was then called the

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