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her head
then accepted the proffered mug and immediately took a swig. In a
quick motion, she held it back toward me at arm’s length. “Needs
sugar.”
    “It’s in there,” I told her as I turned and
headed back into the kitchen. “Just give it a good swirl.”
    “You didn’t stir it?” she called after
me.
    “No.”
    “Why not?”
    “You’re in a hurry, right? Besides, why dirty
up a spoon?”
    I heard her let out a heavy sigh. “How many
then?”
    “Three.”
    “This is a big cup. It needs at least five.
Maybe six or seven.”
    “You’re sweet enough already. You got
three.”
    “Hah hah” was her exaggerated reply.
    “So, do you have everything you need?” I
asked, coming back out of the kitchen with my own mug of the brew.
I had already donned my coat, and now I peered at her over the rim
of my cup as I took a drink.
    “Where are you going?” she asked after sizing me
up.
    “With you.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I ‘find it interesting’.”
    “Rowan…” she huffed. “I’ll be fine. I can do
this without you.”
    I reached down to pick up the larger of the
two camera cases she had sitting on the table then slung it over my
shoulder and headed for the door.
    “I know you will, and I never said you
couldn’t.” I stopped in the living room and turned back toward her.
“So… Are you driving or am I?”
    My wife rolled her eyes at me then muttered,
“Damned Pisces.”
    “Damned Taurus,” I replied with a grin.
    She simply sighed again and shook her head. A
moment later she took hold of the other equipment bag, hefted it
onto her own shoulder, then started forward and brushed past me
while saying, “Aye, we’ll take my Jeep. I think I’ve got some sugar
packets in the glove box.”
     
     
     
     

CHAPTER 4:

     
    “Heya, Felicity,” Ben called out, nodding
toward my wife as he put himself through the excessive gyrations
necessary to slip his bulk beneath a bright yellow strip of crime
scene tape. “Sorry I had ta’ call ya’ out like this.”
    “It’s no problem, then,” she returned.
    Once he’d unfolded his frame, he continued
walking toward us. “Jeez,” he continued. “We’ve never had anything
like this happen before. I had ta’ make five calls just ta’ get the
okay ta’ bring in a freelancer.”
    “That bad, huh?” she queried as he came to a
stop in front of us.
    “Yeah. We’re so fuckin’ short-staffed it’s a
wonder some asshole hasn’t stolen the entire city,” he grumbled.
“And now this. Shit, if this whole scene wasn’t such a cluster, I’d
just stick a camera in someone’s hands and have ‘em take snapshots.
I’m really sorry I had ta’ call ya’ out on this.”
    “Aye, Ben, it’s okay. Not a problem,”
Felicity repeated.
    He abandoned seriousness for a moment and
allowed his face to spread into a slight grin. “Damn, I love it
when ya’ do the accent.”
    “How many times do I have to tell you, Ben,”
my wife quipped. “I don’t have an accent. You do.”
    He chuckled and then leveled his gaze on me.
“So, what the hell are YOU doin’ here, white man?”
    “Nice to see you too,” I replied.
    Homicide Detective Benjamin Storm stood
six-foot-six, and a quick glance at him was enough to show he was
no stranger to the weight room. He was casually dressed as usual,
clad in a pair of faded denim jeans and a loose-fitting, charcoal
grey, fisherman’s sweater. His gold shield was hanging around his
neck on a thick cord, and his nine-millimeter Beretta was nestled
beneath his left arm in a worn, leather shoulder rig.
    Now that he was close enough for us to see
his face, it was obvious that he’d probably been dragged out of his
own slumber just as unceremoniously as had we. Still, even with his
rumpled appearance, he made an altogether imposing figure. Of
course, it probably didn’t help that at this particular moment the
three of us were standing here in the oblique shadows of a motel
parking lot watching our breath condense on