the game turned unpleasant. Or maybe he couldn’t get it up and she began to belittle him or laugh. This guy’s the classic inadequate, her criticism would have sent him over the edge. He taped her mouth to shut her up, but then she began to struggle in earnest. That upset him more. She wasn’t acting the way she was supposed to, the way he had imagined it in his head. So he presses a pillow over her face to get her to shut up and behave.”
“If he didn’t plan it, how come the tape?” Melanie shook her head. “In my book, that’s coming prepared.”
“I didn’t say he hadn’t acted out this scene before. He no doubt has, dozens of times, and some of those times with hookers. Understand, this is like a play he’s written in his head, one he keeps adding to, fine-tuning. The beautiful girl. The rope. Her submission. The tape. And tonight, the murder. Ask around with the professional girls, somebody will turn up who knows this guy.”
Melanie gazed at him, half-awed, half-disbelieving. Though his analysis all made sense, it seemed to her that he would have to be psychic to know all he professed to. “Don’t you think what you’re doing is a little bit dangerous? Basically, you’re just guessing.”
“What do you think police work is? Educated guessing, following gut instincts. Luck. Besides, I’m a damn good guesser.” He glanced over his shoulder, holding up the foil packet. “Any of you come across a used rubber?”
No one had. One of the CMPD guys ambled over. He took the packet and held it up, squinting at the small print on the front. “Lambskin.” He shook his head, making a sound of disgust. “You’d think these people would have gotten the message by now. Only latex protects.”
Parks frowned. “I doubt he had sex with her. Not the kind of sex he’d need a condom for.”
“No? 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,
