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Book: You Know Who I Am (The Drusilla Thorne Mysteries Book 2) by Diane Patterson
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Authors: Diane Patterson
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wanted away from him and his ragged cuticles and short-sleeved shirt that I knew had the armpit stains burned in, even if I couldn’t see them in the dark car.
“Why are you here?” I said.
“Maybe I followed you.” He grinned.
Maybe he’d planted something on my car. A GPS tracker was a couple of hundred dollars. A lot of money for a tightwad like Coffey. The boss must have been desperate to find Colin.
“Did you get a good morning’s sleep?” I asked.
He spat out the window. Lovely man. “You’re going to pay for that.”
I appeared to consider the idea. “No, don’t think so.”
Behar smiled at me, those ugly tobacco-stained teeth dark in his mouth, and he started his car. “Go see loverboy.”
I walked back to Colin’s, wondering why Behar was here. If he was supposed to bring Colin back, shouldn’t he be in Colin’s apartment, wrestling my husband into a gunny sack or something? Why was he outside Colin’s apartment, so calm?
Screw them. Screw them all, hard . I would go in to that stupid, tiny apartment, deal with Colin, and then leave him to his own problems. It couldn’t be much harder to get divorced than it had been to get married, could it? Hell, my mother had managed three divorces by the time I was fifteen.
At the stairs, I hesitated again. Move it, I told myself; let’s get this over with.
The thumps of my footfalls should have alerted Colin to my presence, prompted him to open the door. But the door remained closed.
I peeked in through the bars over the side window. No lights on, no one moving around.
“Colin?” I said.
After waiting a few seconds, I rapped my knuckles on the door. That apartment was so tiny he had to have heard it. But he didn’t show.
I had arrived late, but damn it, I’d told him I was coming. Colin should have been on pins and needles, ready to talk, ready to get me to help him out of whatever he’d been babbling about on the phone.
Colin did not come to the door.
When something smells wrong, do not be around. And if you need to stay and not run far, far away, at least make it seem as though you are not around. I reached in the pocket of my jacket and took out a pair of latex gloves.
After I had the gloves on, I tested the door handle. If I’d needed to, I could have jimmied open the door—hell, breathing hard probably would have done it. But the doorknob turned.
My breath caught and I stopped pushing the door. Alarms went off in my head. Of course, there were lots of possible reasons for the door being open and Colin not answering. Maybe he’d walked to the nearest Starbucks for a midnight cappuccino. Or perhaps he’d gone out for a pack of cigs for himself, taken a walk around the block, gone to do some food shopping while waiting for me.
I pushed the door open.
The smell of copper hit me first. On top of the copper lay a faint acrid odor, like the wind near a portable toilet. Urine.
Turning on the light showed me Colin on his side by the kitchenette, his back toward the door. The back of his head was a pulpy red mass, mixed with plaits of his golden hair. Red flecks decorated his white shirt; a large red stain soaked the carpet under his head. I walked in a wide circle around him until I could see his face, with his eyes wide open in surprise. He’d left a puddle of vomit on that dusty carpet. His jeans were wet, which explained the smell of urine.
Colin looked like a part, a gruesome part, of our Grand Guignol stage act, with much better visual effects and an awful, horrible smell. It seemed unreal. It had to be unreal. I had to be hallucinating. There was no way he could be dead.
I leaned down and touched the side of his throat, my gloves smooth against his skin. His body was warm, but nothing pulsed under my fingertips. It had been two hours since I talked to him. How in the hell could he be dead?
Oh my God. Colin was dead. Dead.
I’ve seen dead bodies before. Even ones whose heads have been cracked open. And the smell is
“Why are you here?” I said.
“Maybe I followed you.” He grinned.
Maybe he’d planted something on my car. A GPS tracker was a couple of hundred dollars. A lot of money for a tightwad like Coffey. The boss must have been desperate to find Colin.
“Did you get a good morning’s sleep?” I asked.
He spat out the window. Lovely man. “You’re going to pay for that.”
I appeared to consider the idea. “No, don’t think so.”
Behar smiled at me, those ugly tobacco-stained teeth dark in his mouth, and he started his car. “Go see loverboy.”
I walked back to Colin’s, wondering why Behar was here. If he was supposed to bring Colin back, shouldn’t he be in Colin’s apartment, wrestling my husband into a gunny sack or something? Why was he outside Colin’s apartment, so calm?
Screw them. Screw them all, hard . I would go in to that stupid, tiny apartment, deal with Colin, and then leave him to his own problems. It couldn’t be much harder to get divorced than it had been to get married, could it? Hell, my mother had managed three divorces by the time I was fifteen.
At the stairs, I hesitated again. Move it, I told myself; let’s get this over with.
The thumps of my footfalls should have alerted Colin to my presence, prompted him to open the door. But the door remained closed.
I peeked in through the bars over the side window. No lights on, no one moving around.
“Colin?” I said.
After waiting a few seconds, I rapped my knuckles on the door. That apartment was so tiny he had to have heard it. But he didn’t show.
I had arrived late, but damn it, I’d told him I was coming. Colin should have been on pins and needles, ready to talk, ready to get me to help him out of whatever he’d been babbling about on the phone.
Colin did not come to the door.
When something smells wrong, do not be around. And if you need to stay and not run far, far away, at least make it seem as though you are not around. I reached in the pocket of my jacket and took out a pair of latex gloves.
After I had the gloves on, I tested the door handle. If I’d needed to, I could have jimmied open the door—hell, breathing hard probably would have done it. But the doorknob turned.
My breath caught and I stopped pushing the door. Alarms went off in my head. Of course, there were lots of possible reasons for the door being open and Colin not answering. Maybe he’d walked to the nearest Starbucks for a midnight cappuccino. Or perhaps he’d gone out for a pack of cigs for himself, taken a walk around the block, gone to do some food shopping while waiting for me.
I pushed the door open.
The smell of copper hit me first. On top of the copper lay a faint acrid odor, like the wind near a portable toilet. Urine.
Turning on the light showed me Colin on his side by the kitchenette, his back toward the door. The back of his head was a pulpy red mass, mixed with plaits of his golden hair. Red flecks decorated his white shirt; a large red stain soaked the carpet under his head. I walked in a wide circle around him until I could see his face, with his eyes wide open in surprise. He’d left a puddle of vomit on that dusty carpet. His jeans were wet, which explained the smell of urine.
Colin looked like a part, a gruesome part, of our Grand Guignol stage act, with much better visual effects and an awful, horrible smell. It seemed unreal. It had to be unreal. I had to be hallucinating. There was no way he could be dead.
I leaned down and touched the side of his throat, my gloves smooth against his skin. His body was warm, but nothing pulsed under my fingertips. It had been two hours since I talked to him. How in the hell could he be dead?
Oh my God. Colin was dead. Dead.
I’ve seen dead bodies before. Even ones whose heads have been cracked open. And the smell is
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