“Mr. Beauford,” I say as soon as he takes a breath. “We’ve been following your wife for two weeks now and there’s no evidence of her stepping out on you. Please, sir, leave the investigating to the professionals or you’re likely to find yourself in jail for a short time.”
He agrees and tells me that he’ll call in a week for an update. Then I mercifully hang up.
“Some people are certifiably weird,” Bekah says, breaking through the silence.
I glance up, rubbing my temples. “Ya think?”
“Damn suspicious, too. And people wonder why we aren’t married. No one in this town seems to be able to keep it in their pants.”
“Do me a favor and come to family dinner next week and explain that to my nonna.” Damn woman won’t stop trying to marry me off, lest I become a zitella. I swear she thinks that, if I’m not married by my thirtieth birthday—in twenty months—no man will ever want me.
She already thinks the reason I’m single is because I carry a gun and, apparently, men prefer the quiet type.
I’m not sure what men she knows, because my mother isn’t the quiet type, and neither is Nonna, and they’ve both married.
Bekah wrinkles her face. “More dates?”
“Every week. One day, I’m going to find myself a date for family dinner and give the vecchia a heart attack.”
“Nah. She’d skip the heart attack and go straight into planning your wedding.”
I shudder at the thought. “Don’t you have work to do instead of scaring the shit out of me?”
She snorts. “All right. I get the message.” She stands and tugs her jeans up. “Stop for lunch at twelve?”
“It’s a date.”
After lunch, I collect my messages from Grecia and return all necessary calls. This means I set up two appointments, give a case update to the wife of a subject, and arrange to have my hair done.
Hey, no judging. PI’s need nice hair, too.
“Miss Noelle?”
“Come in.” I look toward my door, where Dean’s head is poking around it.
I spent the first month of his employment telling him to drop the “Miss” in front of my name, but twelve months later, he still insists on calling me it. It’s kind of sweet, really. He’s also really big and kind of scary since he’s ex-military, and I don’t want to piss him off, so I gave up arguing.
“What’s up?” I ask as he sits down.
“We have a problem,” he replies, his voice wavering.
I slowly close my laptop, eyeing him. There’s sweat beading on his upper lip, and his face is pretty pale. Add in the tremble of his hands and I’m worried. Nothing shakes Dean—except possibly spiders, but I’m still confirming that.
“Talk to me, Dean.”
“There’s a body in the Dumpster in the parking lot.”
I blink harshly several times. Did he just say a body? In the Dumpster? In the parking lot? “I’m sorry. What?”
“There’s a dead body in the Dumpster in the parking lot.”
“Like a bird or a deer or something?”
“No, miss. A human body.”
Well, snap.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “There wasn’t one there when I went for lunch.”
“Well, Miss Noelle, there is now.”
“Let’s go take a look.” Thankfully, I wore a loose blouse for work today, so I slip my Tiffany-blue Glock 26 into the waistband of my jeans. It’s a bit of a squeeze since they’re skinny jeans and not made for guns, but it slides in in a hurry.
Dean leads me down to the door to the parking lot. “It ain’t pretty.”
“Dead people usually aren’t, in my experience.” Unfortunately, I have plenty.
I see it as soon as I step out the door. The Dumpster is in the far corner of the parking lot to keep any smells away from the building, and a pale, white foot is peeking over the top. A shiver runs through me as I scan the immediate area for anyone, but there’s nothing other than the usual driving of cars and people strolling along the sidewalks.
“Miss Noelle—” Dean says softly as I approach the Dumpster.
“Oh, shit,” I whisper.
The rancid smell of burning flesh fills the air, and I pinch my nose so I’m not tempted to breathe through it and smell it any more than I have to. The naked body clearly belongs to a woman, but her face is mutilated. Long, gaping cuts crisscross their way across her shoulders and chests down to her breasts. And her breasts… I swallow back the bile crawling its way up my throat.
Her breasts have all but been cut off, and the only things I can see connecting them to her body are ragged bits of bodily tissue. Dark-red, dried blood flakes off her skin in broken patches, and black burn marks char her otherwise perfect, white skin.
Refusing to look any further, I step back and grab my phone. I dial the number for dispatch, and before Mariana can say a word, I ramble, “Mariana, it’s Noelle. I’ve got a ten thirty-three at the agency.”
“What it is, honey?”
“A dead body.”
“They’re on their way.”
I hang up and turn to Dean, my hand running through my long hair. “Make sure no one comes in or out of the agency. Tell Grecia to set up the answering machine. The police are going to need to talk to all of us, and this place is now a damn crime scene.”
“Got it.” He turns on his heel and stalks into the building.
A little more bile rises in my throat, so I step away from the Dumpster. I can feel my lunch swirling in my stomach, and it takes everything I have not to let it make a swift reappearance as I lean against a tree trunk.
It’s not the dead body thing. I saw plenty in Dallas. Hundreds, probably. Death doesn’t scare me or even faze me. It’s how she died—it was obviously brutal and slow. Not a way anyone, save the kind of person who did this horrible act, should die. I can’t begin to imagine what this poor woman went through.
Sirens blare through my thoughts, and I look up in time to see Brody and Trent making a beeline for me.
Trent’s hands curl around my shoulders. “You okay?”
I nod at my eldest brother. “Dean found her. I’m warnin’ you—it ain’t nice.”
He squeezes gently and releases me. Brody steps forward, and they both look into the Dumpster.
“Shit,” Brody mutters.
“Yep,” I say to myself. “Shit indeed.”
Cops swarm the parking lot, and a hint of yellow tells me that they’ve blocked off my office. Great. Looks like I’m working out of my living room and Skyping my employees for the next couple of days.
Having my workplace as a murder investigation: the last thing I need.
I stand back and watch as the cops do their thing. Glancing at the office, I can see everyone looking out the window of the kitchen to see what’s going on. They’ll all know by now, but they’re also all smart enough to follow Dean’s orders and let me deal with this.
“Ms. Bond,” drawls a familiar voice.
An unwelcome, familiar voice.
“Detective Nash.” I grit my teeth and turn around. “How are you?” I ask politely, my eyes rising to meet the imposing cop’s.
“Worse for this,” he responds, motioning to the Dumpster. “Do you have anywhere we can talk?”
“In my office.” I lead him inside the building, stopping at the kitchen.
Bekah opens her mouth, but I cut her off by raising my hand.
“Can all of you go to your offices? Someone will be in to talk to all of you soon.”
A chorus of yeses rings out, and I offer them a tentative smile before leading Detective Drake Nash into my office.
Man, I seriously dislike this guy. Mostly because he’s so damn attractive. It’s one of those things you can’t help but notice. He’s the guy who gets everyone’s attention when he walks through a grocery store.
It could be the tan skin or the ragged, dark hair that always seems to be shiny. Then again, it could also the glacier-blue eyes that seem to see right through you, or it could be that chiseled jaw. That said, I’m betting it’s the biceps.