Bloody Bones   ::   Гамильтон Лорел

I had a good view of the cop's gun as he leaned into the window. It was a Colt.45. Big gun, but he had the hands for it. I caught a whiff of his aftershave; Brut. He'd leaned too far into the window to look at Larry. If I'd had a gun hidden in my lap, I could have fed it to him. He was big, and I bet sheer size saw him through a lot, but it was careless. Guns don't care how big you are.

He nodded and pulled out of the car. "Go on up to the house. Sheriff's expecting you." He didn't sound particularly happy about that.

"You got a problem?" I asked.

He gave a smile, but it was sour. He shook his head. "It's our case. I don't think we need any help; that includes you."

"You got a name?" I asked.

"Coltrain. Deputy Zack Coltrain."

"Well, Deputy Coltrain, we'll see you up at the house."

"I guess you will, Miss Blake."

He thought I was a cop and deliberately didn't call me «officer» or "detective." I let it go. If I really had a professional title I'd have demanded it, but getting into an argument because he wouldn't call me «detective» when I wasn't one seemed counterproductive.

I drove up and parked between the police cars. I clipped my ID to my lapel. We walked up the pale curve of sidewalk, and no one stopped us. We stood outside the door in a silence that was almost eerie. I'd been to a lot of murder scenes. One thing they weren't was silent. There was no static crackle of police radios, no men milling around. Murder scenes were always thick with people: plainclothes detectives, uniforms, crime scene techs, people taking photographs, video, the ambulance waiting to take the body away. We stood on the freshly swept porch in the cool spring night with the only sounds the calls of frogs. The high-pitched, peeping sound played oddly with the swirling police lights.

"Are we waiting for something?" Larry asked.

"No," I said. I rang the glowing doorbell. The sound gave a rich bong deep within the house. A small dog barked furiously, somewhere deep in the house. The door opened. A woman stood framed in the light from the hall, placing most of her in shadow. The police lights strobed across her face, painting in neon Crayola flashes. She was about my height with dark hair that was either naturally curly or had a really good perm. But she'd done more with it than I did, and it framed her face neatly. Mine always looked sort of unruly. She was wearing a button-down shirt with long sleeves untucked over jeans. She looked about seventeen, but I wasn't fooled. I looked young for my age, too. Heck, so did Larry.