be a lie.
“Mongrel Mob. I overheard Scott say there's gang tattoos around the guy’s shoulders, and his leather jacket and patches puts him in the top rank.”
Excellent. One less prick I’d have to chase and lock up. My mind instantly jumped to considering who might’ve killed a Mongrel boss.
We made our way in silence to the basement garage, and signed out a police car. As we drove out of the gloom, bright sunshine stabbed my eyeballs. Trust me to forget my sunglasses today.
It wasn't far to the center of Kings Cross and crap, did it look nasty at that time of day. At night the neon nightclubs turned the drab, seedy buildings into jeweled music boxes, promising a life of happiness and excitement. In this light, it was nothing but dirty streets and garbage.
“Don't you think Kings Cross is like a hot woman in a bar?” I asked Wade as we ducked under the police tape at the bottom of an alley between an herbal high store and sex shop.
“What?” Wade's eyes went wide. “How do you figure?”
“You know. The hot woman. Perky boobs, luscious lips. Long flowing locks. With a taut stomach and ass—the perfect package.”
Wade continued to watch me with a weird look.
“Then you take home this hot little sheila only to find she's wearing spandex, which turns her from a size twelve to a size eight. She's wearing a wig, her lips are Botoxed, and the boobs—well they're just chicken fillet implants in her bra.”
Wade coughed a laugh. “Interesting analogy there, Bliss.” He slapped me on the back. “You speaking from personal experience?”
Hell yes I was. Hence my reluctance to fall for the pretty package; nine times out of ten, it was fake. But Ocean, she deliberately unprettied the package, and still interested me more than any other woman before. With or without the vanishing trick.
The forensics analyst was bent over a corpse. A black stain seeped in a large puddle beneath—the remains of a life. Whoever killed this man did a good job prolonging it. Death by blood loss could be a slow process.
Catherine Smith raised her head, hazel eyes sharp. She was a fantastic forensic analyst, but she was a mean-ass bitch.
“What's the cause of death?” I asked, squatting beside her. The reek of body fumes was only just beginning. I’d place his time of death somewhere around nine hours. I never let on I held a degree in forensics as well as law. Too many pieces of paper labeled me a perpetual student. And not all my accolades were gained by reputable institutions.
Glaring at me, Catherine muttered, “Cause of death was by an oyster knife, stabbed into his femoral artery.” She pointed to the nasty slash in his thigh, then to a plastic bagged knife.
My eyes travelled the corpse. I sucked in a breath and my throat latched closed. Holy hell!
Where there should have been a penis—there was a nasty fleshy stump. My own equipment shrunk in horror. Fuck, that would hurt!
Catherine saw my look and chuckled. “The eunuch procedure happened before the stab. I've been searching for prints, DNA, anything to show who might’ve done this, but all I detect is alcohol residue and baby wipes. Whoever did this sliced him and cleaned up thoroughly.”
A cold sensation settled on the back of my neck, even as hot disbelief filled my veins. Ocean was in this area the night she was arrested. Could she? No. . .
I needed to find out who the dick-less man was. “Identification of the vic?” My voice was cool, level. No evidence of the riot of confusion inside me. Could she have done this? And how did I feel about it if she did? Was that what all the emails implied? Missions being completed? ‘Missions’ being code for murder?
Catherine tossed me his wallet. “Bart Matthews.”
I didn't need a computer to know who this bastard was. His mug shot was center place on our wanted criminals board. He was linked to two murders and recently, the rape and murder of a sixteen-year-old boy.
Shivers caused the hair on my
“Mongrel Mob. I overheard Scott say there's gang tattoos around the guy’s shoulders, and his leather jacket and patches puts him in the top rank.”
Excellent. One less prick I’d have to chase and lock up. My mind instantly jumped to considering who might’ve killed a Mongrel boss.
We made our way in silence to the basement garage, and signed out a police car. As we drove out of the gloom, bright sunshine stabbed my eyeballs. Trust me to forget my sunglasses today.
It wasn't far to the center of Kings Cross and crap, did it look nasty at that time of day. At night the neon nightclubs turned the drab, seedy buildings into jeweled music boxes, promising a life of happiness and excitement. In this light, it was nothing but dirty streets and garbage.
“Don't you think Kings Cross is like a hot woman in a bar?” I asked Wade as we ducked under the police tape at the bottom of an alley between an herbal high store and sex shop.
“What?” Wade's eyes went wide. “How do you figure?”
“You know. The hot woman. Perky boobs, luscious lips. Long flowing locks. With a taut stomach and ass—the perfect package.”
Wade continued to watch me with a weird look.
“Then you take home this hot little sheila only to find she's wearing spandex, which turns her from a size twelve to a size eight. She's wearing a wig, her lips are Botoxed, and the boobs—well they're just chicken fillet implants in her bra.”
Wade coughed a laugh. “Interesting analogy there, Bliss.” He slapped me on the back. “You speaking from personal experience?”
Hell yes I was. Hence my reluctance to fall for the pretty package; nine times out of ten, it was fake. But Ocean, she deliberately unprettied the package, and still interested me more than any other woman before. With or without the vanishing trick.
The forensics analyst was bent over a corpse. A black stain seeped in a large puddle beneath—the remains of a life. Whoever killed this man did a good job prolonging it. Death by blood loss could be a slow process.
Catherine Smith raised her head, hazel eyes sharp. She was a fantastic forensic analyst, but she was a mean-ass bitch.
“What's the cause of death?” I asked, squatting beside her. The reek of body fumes was only just beginning. I’d place his time of death somewhere around nine hours. I never let on I held a degree in forensics as well as law. Too many pieces of paper labeled me a perpetual student. And not all my accolades were gained by reputable institutions.
Glaring at me, Catherine muttered, “Cause of death was by an oyster knife, stabbed into his femoral artery.” She pointed to the nasty slash in his thigh, then to a plastic bagged knife.
My eyes travelled the corpse. I sucked in a breath and my throat latched closed. Holy hell!
Where there should have been a penis—there was a nasty fleshy stump. My own equipment shrunk in horror. Fuck, that would hurt!
Catherine saw my look and chuckled. “The eunuch procedure happened before the stab. I've been searching for prints, DNA, anything to show who might’ve done this, but all I detect is alcohol residue and baby wipes. Whoever did this sliced him and cleaned up thoroughly.”
A cold sensation settled on the back of my neck, even as hot disbelief filled my veins. Ocean was in this area the night she was arrested. Could she? No. . .
I needed to find out who the dick-less man was. “Identification of the vic?” My voice was cool, level. No evidence of the riot of confusion inside me. Could she have done this? And how did I feel about it if she did? Was that what all the emails implied? Missions being completed? ‘Missions’ being code for murder?
Catherine tossed me his wallet. “Bart Matthews.”
I didn't need a computer to know who this bastard was. His mug shot was center place on our wanted criminals board. He was linked to two murders and recently, the rape and murder of a sixteen-year-old boy.
Shivers caused the hair on my
Similar Books
