Read Online Stay Tuned for Murder by Mary Kennedy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mary Kennedy
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clicking in his mind. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a tiny notebook.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t write that down,” I said, only half seriously. Rafe makes copious notes about his cases, and I didn’t want my snarky remark to be immortalized in a police report somewhere. “You know I didn’t mean it. I’m just not a big fan of Chantel and her mumbo jumbo.”
Officer Brown drove up just then in a black-and-white cruiser and slid into a parking place next to us. He jumped out, nodded to Rafe, and greeted me, looking uncomfortable in his scratchy serge uniform.
“Will you be doing a psychological profile on the perp, Dr. Maggie?” Opie asked me.
The perp?
I could see Rafe biting back a smile. Opie is a huge fan of detective shows— CSI Miami , Law & Order , and The Mentalist —and he sprinkles cop talk into every conversation. Opie is wildly impressed that I did forensic work back in Manhattan, and he has an idealized view of the field. And of me, for that matter. He says I remind him of Dr. Elizabeth Olivet, the classy police psychologist who used to be on Law & Order .
“Afraid not,” I told him. “I just found out about the murder a few minutes ago. As far as I know, no perp has been identified. In fact, I don’t think there are any suspects at the moment.” I tossed a questioning look at Rafe, who was keeping a poker face. “And I really don’t think the local police are too interested in anything I’d have to say,” I continued. “They believe that good old-fashioned detective work trumps forensic psychology any day.”
This is an old argument between Rafe and me. Rafe insists that forensic psychology is useless and refuses to believe it can reveal anything about personality and motive. I’ve helped solve two murders since moving to Cypress Grove. One victim was a New Age guru and the other a film star, but Rafe always acts as though he’s two steps ahead of me.
Apparently Rafe decided to ignore my jibe. “Let’s go inside. The heat’s killing me today.” The three of us crunched over the gravel to the glass double doors of WYME. Rafe was right. The temperature had ratcheted up a few notches. The noonday heat was scorching; it felt as if we were pushing against a solid wall of hot air, and it was hard to draw a breath.
Although I have to admit, it’s easy to be breathless around Rafe. He has movie-star good looks going for him and an undeniable bad-boy charm. His finely chiseled features, smoky eyes, and black hair, worn on the longish side, add to his “renegade” look. His hair has a tendency to curl up in the back in a very sexy way, just like Simon Baker’s on The Mentalist , and I found myself longing to reach out and touch it.
Today Rafe was wearing aviator sunglasses and channeling Horatio Caine, and there was a coiled readiness in his body. His eyes are watchful and his body language is always on high alert. I never can decide whether it’s part of being a cop or just his personality style.
The word on the street is that Rafe never gets too involved with anyone—he’s had a string of girlfriends, but he makes sure he can walk away at a moment’s notice. Rafe always has an exit strategy; he’s not the kind of guy who plays for keeps. I try to cool my jets when I’m around him, although sometimes it’s a losing battle. But there’s no sense in putting my heart on the chopping block and having Rafe do an Emeril Lagasse ( Bam! ) on it.
We’d barely entered the lobby when Big Jim Wilcox hurried over. “Look, it’s Maggie Walsh and she’s got the cops with her!” He was shouting, his big beefy face red with excitement. Big Jim is the fortysomething sports announcer at the station; he’s been a thorn in my side since I joined what Cyrus calls “the WYME family.” If we’re a family, we’re so dysfunctional, we should be headed for the Jerry Springer show.
To say that Big Jim is an idiot is giving him too much credit.
“So what really
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t write that down,” I said, only half seriously. Rafe makes copious notes about his cases, and I didn’t want my snarky remark to be immortalized in a police report somewhere. “You know I didn’t mean it. I’m just not a big fan of Chantel and her mumbo jumbo.”
Officer Brown drove up just then in a black-and-white cruiser and slid into a parking place next to us. He jumped out, nodded to Rafe, and greeted me, looking uncomfortable in his scratchy serge uniform.
“Will you be doing a psychological profile on the perp, Dr. Maggie?” Opie asked me.
The perp?
I could see Rafe biting back a smile. Opie is a huge fan of detective shows— CSI Miami , Law & Order , and The Mentalist —and he sprinkles cop talk into every conversation. Opie is wildly impressed that I did forensic work back in Manhattan, and he has an idealized view of the field. And of me, for that matter. He says I remind him of Dr. Elizabeth Olivet, the classy police psychologist who used to be on Law & Order .
“Afraid not,” I told him. “I just found out about the murder a few minutes ago. As far as I know, no perp has been identified. In fact, I don’t think there are any suspects at the moment.” I tossed a questioning look at Rafe, who was keeping a poker face. “And I really don’t think the local police are too interested in anything I’d have to say,” I continued. “They believe that good old-fashioned detective work trumps forensic psychology any day.”
This is an old argument between Rafe and me. Rafe insists that forensic psychology is useless and refuses to believe it can reveal anything about personality and motive. I’ve helped solve two murders since moving to Cypress Grove. One victim was a New Age guru and the other a film star, but Rafe always acts as though he’s two steps ahead of me.
Apparently Rafe decided to ignore my jibe. “Let’s go inside. The heat’s killing me today.” The three of us crunched over the gravel to the glass double doors of WYME. Rafe was right. The temperature had ratcheted up a few notches. The noonday heat was scorching; it felt as if we were pushing against a solid wall of hot air, and it was hard to draw a breath.
Although I have to admit, it’s easy to be breathless around Rafe. He has movie-star good looks going for him and an undeniable bad-boy charm. His finely chiseled features, smoky eyes, and black hair, worn on the longish side, add to his “renegade” look. His hair has a tendency to curl up in the back in a very sexy way, just like Simon Baker’s on The Mentalist , and I found myself longing to reach out and touch it.
Today Rafe was wearing aviator sunglasses and channeling Horatio Caine, and there was a coiled readiness in his body. His eyes are watchful and his body language is always on high alert. I never can decide whether it’s part of being a cop or just his personality style.
The word on the street is that Rafe never gets too involved with anyone—he’s had a string of girlfriends, but he makes sure he can walk away at a moment’s notice. Rafe always has an exit strategy; he’s not the kind of guy who plays for keeps. I try to cool my jets when I’m around him, although sometimes it’s a losing battle. But there’s no sense in putting my heart on the chopping block and having Rafe do an Emeril Lagasse ( Bam! ) on it.
We’d barely entered the lobby when Big Jim Wilcox hurried over. “Look, it’s Maggie Walsh and she’s got the cops with her!” He was shouting, his big beefy face red with excitement. Big Jim is the fortysomething sports announcer at the station; he’s been a thorn in my side since I joined what Cyrus calls “the WYME family.” If we’re a family, we’re so dysfunctional, we should be headed for the Jerry Springer show.
To say that Big Jim is an idiot is giving him too much credit.
“So what really
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