Body Of Evidence. Debra Webb

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Body Of Evidence - Debra  Webb Colby Agency: Sexi-ER

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the stairs, disbelief swaddling her like a thick fog. Every creak of the century-old staircase echoed in her brain, seeming to ask how anyone—even William—climbed these very stairs to her room without her hearing. How had he climbed in bed next to her without her rousing?

      She’d been tired, for sure. She’d slept hard. Even had a bit of a sleep hangover. Still, when they were married and working different shifts, she never failed to wake up when he came home. In college, she’d always awakened when her roommates came in—no matter how quiet they had tried to be.

      As she approached the front door with its three-quarter glass panel, she realized she should have changed or grabbed a robe. Her lounge pants and tank covered her, but the fabric was thin. She suddenly felt exposed and so very cold.

      Two uniformed officers stood on her stoop. The flashing lights of an ambulance sat at the curb. Another couple of uniforms hustled up the steps to join the group. This was real. William was dead...in her home.

      Steadying herself, Marissa twisted the dead bolt to the unlock position and opened the door.

      “Ma’am.” The first man in uniform gave her a nod. “I’m Officer Jacob Tolliver. One of my fellow officers is going to stay out here on the stoop while another has a look around outside. My partner and I are coming inside to have a look around. Do you understand?”

      His question warned her that she apparently appeared as much in shock as she felt. She nodded. “Yes. He—he’s in the bedroom. Second door on the left upstairs.”

      “You’re certain there is no one else in the house?”

      “Just me and...my...him, and he’s dead.” She tried to remember her precise steps. “I didn’t check the third floor.”

      Officer Tolliver nodded, then he and his partner walked past her and headed for the stairs. Marissa blinked slowly as the paramedics from the ambulance came inside next. She leaned against the wall and slid down until her bottom hit the floor.

      William was dead.

      He’d said he was going to kill himself.

      The location of the bullet hole—and she was certain that was what it was—wasn’t consistent with a self-inflicted gunshot wound. She had seen her share. But, even if he had somehow managed to shoot himself in the back of the head, how did he get into her room? Into her bed?

      She had no idea how much time passed before one of the officers helped her up and escorted her to the sofa.

      “Dr. Frasier,” he said gently, “first, is there anyone we can call for you?”

      Marissa’s lips parted, the reply on the tip of her tongue, but then she closed her mouth. There was no one to call. Her brother, her only living relative, was in South America with a group of doctors who were donating the next two weeks to areas with little or no available medical care.

      William was dead...not that she had been able to call upon him for any sort of help in ages.

      Eva...the Colby Agency.

      “I should send a text to one of my colleagues and let her know what’s happened.” Dear God, she needed to call William’s family.

      “Why don’t you let us take care of that?”

      Marissa provided Eva’s number to another of the officers who appeared, and he assured her he would make the call. She wasn’t entirely certain why the officer preferred to make the call himself rather than have her do it. She supposed it had something to do with ensuring she didn’t share the details of William’s death, since there would be an investigation.

      Investigation. Murder. Someone had murdered William.

      Her lips trembled. This was a homicide investigation, and she was a person of interest. Her hand went to her mouth, and the urge to vomit was nearly overwhelming. Dear God.

      “Dr. Frasier, can you start from the beginning and tell me what happened?”

      Her mind still steeped in disbelief, she recounted all that had happened since she woke up. Twice he stopped her and urged her to take her time. The clearer the details, the better. She tried her very best to speak slowly and not leave anything out.

      More people came into her home. The latest two were fully clad in disposable garb—gloves, white coveralls, matching hair covers, masks and booties. Forensic techs, she realized. They were here to collect evidence of the crime that had taken place in her home.

      The shooting. The murder.

      How in the world had William been shot right next to her without her hearing it? Wouldn’t there have been a struggle?

      No sooner had she finished her story to the officer than another pair of official-looking men walked in. These two wore business suits.

      “Dr. Frasier,” Tolliver said as he stood, “this is Detective Nader and his partner, Detective Watts. They’ll be taking over from here.”

      The man named Nader took the chair that Tolliver vacated. Watts followed the officer up the stairs.

      Marissa’s throat felt dry. She wished for water or coffee. Anything.

      “Let’s start at the top, Dr. Frasier. I want to know everything you remember from the time you got home last night.”

      Marissa started at the beginning once more and told the detective the same story she’d told the officer. Nader asked her about her relationship with William. She flinched. Of course he would want to know those details. Most likely the officer simply hadn’t gotten that far in his interrogation.

      Because this was an interrogation. Not merely an interview. A man was dead.

      As briefly as possible, Marissa explained her relationship with William, culminating with the recent volatile history—his words to her last night outside the ER.

      Nader did a lot of scribbling.

      Marissa wrung her hands together, wished again that she had a jacket or sweater and a bottle of water or a cup of coffee.

      A female officer approached Nader and whispered something in his ear. The two of them glanced at Marissa.

      “Give me a minute,” Nader said.

      The officer stepped back to the front door and waited there.

      “You know a fellow named Lacon Traynor? Says he’s part of your legal and security team from the Colby Agency.”

      Relief rushed through Marissa. “Yes.” Though she didn’t know the name Lacon Traynor, she absolutely knew the Colby Agency. Eva likely knew the man.

      “Does the Colby Agency represent you?”

      Marissa wasn’t sure how to answer that question. They did, in a manner of speaking, she supposed. Though she hadn’t technically met with Victoria yet and hadn’t signed any documents.

      But William was dead—in her bed.

      She needed help.

      “Yes.”

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