Most of her clients were gross. They were often fat and bald, and they sweated profusely with the kind of nervous perspiration that smelled so bad. They were usually businessmen with wives and kids. She rarely got cute ones. When she did, they always wanted her to do something she didn't want to do, and she usually ended up running.
"So what's wrong with you?" she asked. Should she get the hell out of there? "What kind of weird shit you into?"
"I'm antisocial."
She laughed. A real laugh. "That's why you called me?"
"I'm not going to go to a bar and pretend to be interested in a girl just so I can have sex. I have no interest in socializing. That's all. Too much work." He waved a hand. "Too much trouble. This way there is no pretense. Nobody gets hurt."
He was okay. Just wasted. Really wasted. Barely able to stand, wasted. "Did you see our price list?" she asked.
Some of her associates played fantasy games with the customers. Flora never pretended it was anything more than what it was. A business transaction. Payment for goods received.
"We take cash or credit. No checks. Pay is by the. hour. If we go as much as one minute over sixty, you pay for another full hour. Those are the rules."
"I might want you to stay all night."
"Night's almost over"
He glanced at a window, as if the news surprised him. "Until I have to leave for work, then."
She shrugged in signature prostitute lingo, then followed with the cliche, "As long as you're paying. And just so you'll know, that payment is for my visit. Sort of a consultation. The sex is free." All legal that way. Or kind of legal.
"Want something to drink?" he asked.
"How about a glass of water?"
With slow, deliberate movements, he filled a glass and handed it to her.
"I like your place," she told him.
Now it was his turn to laugh. "You're kidding, right?"
"It's creepy, and I like creepy things." She took a swallow of water and strolled around the room. "I'll bet a lot of people died in this building."
She put down the glass and pulled her white, gauzy top over her head, dropping it on the floor. "Bedroom this way?" she asked, heading down the short hall and peeking into the only other room in the apartment. It was dark, with a rectangle of light from the living room spilling on the floor. "You haven't lived here long, have you?"
"Three months."
"You need something on your walls." There was nothing but a bed with rumpled white sheets, and a dresser. "Posters or something."
He came up behind her. "What's this?" He touched a small, circular, raised area on her lower spine that was exposed by low-slung black pants.
"Amojo."
"Mojo?"
"It protects me from evil."
"Evil… is everywhere."
"That's why I need a mojo."
"A little scar… won't protect you."
"It might."
"You talk too much," he said.
"Oh, that's right." She turned in his arms. "You don't want any socialization."
She smiled at him. He smiled back.
He was so damn cute! He took her fucking breath away.
They stripped.
He had an athletic body.
Not a spare ounce of flesh.
Swimmer? Runner?
All sinewy muscles just below a smooth layer of skin.
She produced a condom.
He wasn't too drunk to put it on.
He cupped her waist with his hands. He tasted her breasts.
She dug her fingers into his damp arms, and lifted herself closer.
He smelled like beer and soap.
He was intense. Alive. Electric.
"Lie back on the bed," he said softly, gently, as if he cared about her.
She tumbled backward, and suddenly imagined that she wasn't a whore, and that they'd met somewhere else. At the office. No, jogging through Forsyth Park. They saw each other every day. They always smiled and said hello. One day he asked if she'd care to join him for sweet tea in a little nearby cafe\ A week later, dinner.
"I'll bet somebody died in this room," she whispered against his jaw. "Maybe in this very bed."
"You're weird."
"Thank you."
"I'm dying right now."
They fell in love.
After the jogging and the caf6 and the dinner, they fell in love.
She was a nurse.
No, an art student at SCAD. He was-
He slipped inside her.
She had a moment to marvel at the sensation. Because she was a young art student. Not a virgin, but not very knowledgeable when it came to men and sex.
"You're shaking," she said. His body was trembling.
"I haven't had sex in a long time."
"How long?"
"I don't know."
"A couple of weeks?" she guessed.
"Years. It's been years."
Years. "Oh, sweetie." His confession made her feel special, made her feel in some way… brand-new.
She wrapped her arms around him, sheltering him, lifting herself to meet his strokes. She was a young art student; he was her dark, mysterious lover.
Chapter 11
Gould was late.
Elise sat at her desk in Police Headquarters, reading a clipping about the first misdiagnosed death that had also ended up at the morgue. Name, Samuel Winslow. The subject had lived only a few hours after being found. In the article, the EMT said the body was lifeless and that he'd detected a strong odor, like decomposing flesh.
"Eyes were fixed," he said. "The skin on the arms was purple due to lack of blood circulation. I checked for a pulse in the carotid artery, but couldn't detect anything. The subject presented all the signs of death, and any medical professional in my position would have made the same presumptive diagnosis," the EMT said in his defense.
Her phone rang. It turned out to be Seth West, a coworker of Truman Harrison's-one of the last people on her interview list.
"Truman and I ate fast food the day he died-or the day we thought he died," Mr. West told her. "He had a hamburger, fries, and a soda."
"Any fish?" Elise asked. "Or seafood of any kind?"
"Nope."
After a few brief follow-up questions, Elise thanked him and disconnected.
No seafood. But that didn't mean he hadn't eaten any that day. He just hadn't eaten any in front of Seth West.
A sound in the hallway got her attention. David Gould came tumbling into the room, slamming the door behind him. Without looking left or right, he dived for his swivel chair and collapsed. "Oh, fuck." He spun around, crossed his arms on the desk, and dropped his head on them.
His hair was sticking up and bent. He reeked of alcohol.
He'd dressed himself, but not very well. His shirt-tail hung from below bis jacket, and Elise had noticed several buttons undone as he'd flown past.
Wow.
She'd wanted him to loosen up, but this wasn't what she'd had in mind.
"I spent last night at a softball game," she said, directing her words at the back of his head. "How did you spend your evening?"
"Something very similar," he mumbled, rolling his forehead back and forth against his arm.
"I'm sure."
"My head. My fucking head."
"You smell like you took a bath in beer."
He pulled open his jacket and took a whiff. "I don't smell anything."
"Take my word for it. You stink."
"All right, then."
She pulled a bottle of water from her bag, opened it, and placed it on the desk in front of him. "Why didn't you stay home? And now that you're here, why don't you go back?"
"I'll be okay." He straightened, eyed the bottle of water, then reached for it with a trembling hand.
Now that he was upright, she could see he hadn't shaved. And Gould was one of those guys who needed to shave twice a day.
"Go home," she cautioned. "Before somebody sees you."
He lifted the water to his mouth, quickly draining the entire bottle. "I said I'll be okay." He stood and buttoned his shirt, tucked in the tails. Then he tried to smooth down his hair. "There." He tugged at his jacket. "Fresh as a daisy."
"Only if a daisy smelled like Jack Daniel's and was in need of a shave."
"Are you making fun of me?"