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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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horrible and the sight is horrible and neither of those is the worst part. Someone who had been alive not too long ago was silent forever. Their soul, their spirit, whatever you call it, that animates the human body and gets it through the day is gone and there is no going back.
I wasn’t even aware I was crying until a tear dripped onto Colin’s sleeve.
Come on, Col, get up and wipe yourself off. Fun and games are over.
A glint from his hand got my attention: his hand was over my bracelet. He’d been holding it. Blood had smeared on the faint etching, highlighting the words there: IN C SE F EM G NCY LL and the phone number. That phone number. The number I couldn’t call ever again. Had Colin called it? More important, had anyone answered?
I thought about taking the bracelet. I even reached for it. But it was there, under his hand, and it was going to be obvious someone had disturbed the body taking it.
Near the other hand was his cell phone.
When I stood up, I did notice the bottle of gin that had been tossed aside, its glass smeared with blood and hair and flesh. Bombay gin. My brand. I was willing to bet folding money that was the bottle I’d left at Colin’s place in Vegas. Zeus in a sidecar, my fingerprints were on that bottle.
My bracelet. My fingerprints. I had to get out of here.
Colin, what did you do? Why would someone do this?
Behar had been sitting there in his car. Waiting for me? Waiting for me to come in here and see this? Waiting for me to get caught in here? He’d driven away as soon as I’d gone up the steps.
I ran out onto the top of the steps and promised myself I would find a pay phone and I would call 911, but until then I was getting the hell out of here. And maybe I wouldn’t use the first phone I found. I could put a little space between me and this.
As it turned out, I didn’t need to find a phone at all.
The first patrol car, lights and sirens blaring, rounded the corner.
Someone had called the cops. Behar, most likely. Or, if Behar hadn’t killed Colin, whoever did kill him. And Behar had to know who that was.
I stripped off the latex gloves, shoved them in my pocket, and pulled out my cell phone to call Stevie as I walked down the steps. No use waiting until the last second to get her working on this problem.
And there was no question that I had quite the problem staring me in the face.
She answered after one ring. “Is everything okay?”
“Find me a defense lawyer.”
She stuttered a number of noises, like she wanted to ask something but couldn’t find the words. Then she managed: “We have no money.”
“The money in the briefcase, Stevie. Use it.”
“We don’t know where it came from—”
“Stop arguing, and start dialing.”
The patrol car slowed to a stop in front of Colin’s apartment. The officer got out and shined a flashlight right at me.
“You’re at Colin’s?”
“I’m at Colin’s. Hurry it up.”
I popped my phone in my pocket and settled down to wait.
C HAPTER S IX
WAITING AROUND AT a crime scene is not only not glamorous, it’s distinctly awful. For one thing, there’s no comfortable seating.
The first uniformed cop out of the car bounded up the steps to Colin’s apartment while the second one, a red-haired guy named Ulriki, took my statement, which was as close to the truth as I would get: he was my estranged husband, we were getting together tonight to talk, I showed up, and he was dead. I did not volunteer the words “Penelope Gurevich,” “blackmail,” or “Vin Behar.” One thing at a time, and right now the necessary thing was shutting the hell up.
The presence of cops attracted the attention of neighbors. The street went from lifeless to full of people in about ten minutes.
I realized we were in LA when I overheard one woman asking the man next to her, “Where are the cameras?” and the man replied, “Nah, I think this is for real.”
The second pair of cops blocked off the scene with yellow police tape.
I wasn’t even aware I was crying until a tear dripped onto Colin’s sleeve.
Come on, Col, get up and wipe yourself off. Fun and games are over.
A glint from his hand got my attention: his hand was over my bracelet. He’d been holding it. Blood had smeared on the faint etching, highlighting the words there: IN C SE F EM G NCY LL and the phone number. That phone number. The number I couldn’t call ever again. Had Colin called it? More important, had anyone answered?
I thought about taking the bracelet. I even reached for it. But it was there, under his hand, and it was going to be obvious someone had disturbed the body taking it.
Near the other hand was his cell phone.
When I stood up, I did notice the bottle of gin that had been tossed aside, its glass smeared with blood and hair and flesh. Bombay gin. My brand. I was willing to bet folding money that was the bottle I’d left at Colin’s place in Vegas. Zeus in a sidecar, my fingerprints were on that bottle.
My bracelet. My fingerprints. I had to get out of here.
Colin, what did you do? Why would someone do this?
Behar had been sitting there in his car. Waiting for me? Waiting for me to come in here and see this? Waiting for me to get caught in here? He’d driven away as soon as I’d gone up the steps.
I ran out onto the top of the steps and promised myself I would find a pay phone and I would call 911, but until then I was getting the hell out of here. And maybe I wouldn’t use the first phone I found. I could put a little space between me and this.
As it turned out, I didn’t need to find a phone at all.
The first patrol car, lights and sirens blaring, rounded the corner.
Someone had called the cops. Behar, most likely. Or, if Behar hadn’t killed Colin, whoever did kill him. And Behar had to know who that was.
I stripped off the latex gloves, shoved them in my pocket, and pulled out my cell phone to call Stevie as I walked down the steps. No use waiting until the last second to get her working on this problem.
And there was no question that I had quite the problem staring me in the face.
She answered after one ring. “Is everything okay?”
“Find me a defense lawyer.”
She stuttered a number of noises, like she wanted to ask something but couldn’t find the words. Then she managed: “We have no money.”
“The money in the briefcase, Stevie. Use it.”
“We don’t know where it came from—”
“Stop arguing, and start dialing.”
The patrol car slowed to a stop in front of Colin’s apartment. The officer got out and shined a flashlight right at me.
“You’re at Colin’s?”
“I’m at Colin’s. Hurry it up.”
I popped my phone in my pocket and settled down to wait.
C HAPTER S IX
WAITING AROUND AT a crime scene is not only not glamorous, it’s distinctly awful. For one thing, there’s no comfortable seating.
The first uniformed cop out of the car bounded up the steps to Colin’s apartment while the second one, a red-haired guy named Ulriki, took my statement, which was as close to the truth as I would get: he was my estranged husband, we were getting together tonight to talk, I showed up, and he was dead. I did not volunteer the words “Penelope Gurevich,” “blackmail,” or “Vin Behar.” One thing at a time, and right now the necessary thing was shutting the hell up.
The presence of cops attracted the attention of neighbors. The street went from lifeless to full of people in about ten minutes.
I realized we were in LA when I overheard one woman asking the man next to her, “Where are the cameras?” and the man replied, “Nah, I think this is for real.”
The second pair of cops blocked off the scene with yellow police tape.
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