Love Is The Bond: A Rowan Gant Investigation (6 page)

“Personal services transaction?” He wrinkled
his forehead at me as he spoke. “When the hell did you get all
PC?”

“Like you said,” I returned. “Lack of
sleep.”

“Uh-huh. Well yeah, it’s a real possibility.
Word is Wentworth had a thing for hookers… He’s been popped with
‘em more’n once, and the department looked the other way. Buried
the whole thing so the press couldn’t jump on it.”

“Good to have friends in high places,”
Felicity jibed. “I’ll bet the woman didn’t get the same
treatment.”

Ben shot her a glance. “Got a soft spot for
whores, do ya’?”

“I’d really prefer you didn’t use that term,”
she returned coldly.

Ben paused for a moment, giving her a
surprised look. “Well… Okay… Yeah, ummmm… Listen…” he finally
stammered.

“So you think he might have been with a
woman, and she robbed him?” Felicity suggested.

“Or her pimp,” he offered as he shot her a
questioning glance. “Can I say pimp?”

She simply looked back at him without a
word.

“Well, yeah, like I said it kinda looks that
way.” He nodded then continued, “And that’s just a whole ‘nother
reason this is gonna be a clusterfuck when the media jumps on
it.”

“But you have doubts,” I offered.

“Shit, Rowan,” he spat. “I’ve always got
doubts, but yeah, somethin’ just ain’t right in there.”

“Not right how?” Felicity asked.

“It just doesn’t look like… Well, you’ll see
it when ya’ get in there. Maybe I’m just chasin’ my tail.”

“Detective Storm,” a uniformed officer called
to Ben from behind the barrier tape. “Circus just came to
town.”

We all looked up to see a pair of news vans
pulling into the parking lot. My friend shook his head again and
muttered, “Fuck me. Just fuuu-cck me.” Looking back to us he said,
“Let’s get you signed in and workin’ before they start makin’
movies. Last thing I need is for Bible Barb ta’ see yer smilin’
face on the mornin’ news.”

My friend held out his arm and quickly
ushered us toward the barrier tape and the waiting officer who was
manning the clipboard.

This was the first time I’d heard him mention
Barbara Albright’s name in several months. At one time, she’d been
a constant vexation to him, even banning him for better than a year
from serving on the Major Case Squad. Since the MCS was her
command, he’d had little recourse and had spent that time more or
less pushing paper around the city homicide division.

Her reasoning for his exile was primarily
based on the fact that he was my friend, and she absolutely
despised me. On the surface, the naked derision she displayed, even
publicly, would have seemed unusual. However, when you considered
all the facts, it instantly made sense. She was a fundamentalist
Christian with a badge, and I was an out-of-the-broom-closet Witch
who had been instrumental in solving more than one series of serial
homicides. Not exactly what you would call a perfect match.

I’d made no secret of the fact that I blamed
myself for Ben’s career derailment, even if he didn’t. And, while
to this day I still felt guilty over it, ever since Albright’s
promotion, things had gotten much better for him including being
re-assigned back to the Major Case Squad.

“I thought you said Albright hadn’t been
causing you any trouble since she made captain,” I commented as I
waited my turn to autograph the crime scene log.

“Bee-bee?” the uniformed officer chuckled,
overhearing me, then he muttered as he shook his head. “What a
piece of work.”

“Yeah,” Ben answered me. “Well, not much
anyway. She still gets her kicks in. But, you’re right. It’s been
manageable. She’s been fast trackin’, and lately she’s climbin’ the
ladder and bein’ a bureaucrat. Rubbin’ elbows just like she
wanted.”

“So,” I asked as I scribbled my signature on
the log and then handed the pen back to the officer. “What are you
worried about?”

Felicity had already slipped beneath the
crime scene tape and was photographing the exterior of the motel,
approaching the task by-the-book, working her way inward on the
actual scene.

My friend was holding the yellow barrier up
for me as he answered my query with his own biting rhetorical
question. “Like I said, she’s climbin’ the ladder, and there’s a
dead federal judge in that room over there. You’re not gonna get
much more high profile than this. Jeezus H. Christ, gimme a break.
You really think she’s not gonna make for damn sure she’s up to her
scrawny ass in it?”

The Chippewa Courts Inn was your typical
no-tell-motel. The building itself was an unremarkable, twenty-four
unit, one-story structure in the shape of a lopsided, block-style
letter “U”. At the truncated end, which was farthest from us at the
moment, was the office. Behind that there were four rooms. The two
longer expanses housed the remaining eighteen less-than-spacious
accommodations, ten in one section and eight in the other. Each had
a double window, exterior door, and a single parking space in front
of it.

Across the almost deserted expanse of the
parking lot, a timeworn marquee stood in front of the office, near
the street. Its mismatched backlit letters proclaimed “FREE IN-ROOM
ADULT MOVIES.” Beneath that bit of visceral marketing, a pinkish
neon pretzel struggled to announce “VACANCY,” occasionally blinking
into darkness, only to eventually issue a loud buzz and snap back
to something less than brilliance before flickering off yet
again.

Room seven, where we were now entering, was
itself your typical hourly-rate special—rectangular, not quite
clean, and poorly lit. The streaked windows next to the
weather-beaten door were covered inside by heavy drapes, which were
themselves a good decade out of style, if not more. In keeping with
a basic configuration, there was a dressing area and sink at the
back of the room. Over the basin sat a large mirror that was now
reflecting the flicker of lights from outside as they bounced in
through the open doorway. To the right of that area appeared to be
a smaller room, most likely the bathroom and shower.

Ben pointed to the smaller room as if he’d
been reading my mind. “Body’s back there in the john,” he offered,
thereby confirming the suspicion.

Wafting on the chilled atmosphere was the
usual unsavory blend of odors one encountered in such a room—stale
smoke, musty carpet, and old intimacy. However, in this case the
olfactory aura of bygone lovemaking was merely a subtle backdrop to
the unmistakable odor of recent, unbridled sex. In fact, the very
charge of extreme passion hanging in the air would have been enough
to provoke arousal were it not underscored by the less than
commonplace, but just as palpable, funk of death. As if that
weren’t enough, pulling the unlikely mélange together was a cloying
watermelon-like scent.

“TV assholes are here,” Ben called out to the
lone crime scene technician inhabiting the room. My friend swung
the door closed behind us then stabbed a finger toward the silvery
back wall as he instructed, “We better keep the door shut, or one
of the fuckers’ll be bright enough ta’ try pointin’ a camera into
that mirror.”

The dust-mask-wearing technician gave a nod
as he took a few steps toward us. “What about the plate on the
car?”

“Covered,” Ben replied. “Got a squad parked
behind it.”

From all indications, the tech had simply
been milling about and leaving the scene untouched, presumably
waiting for us to arrive and create the visual record that was the
next step in the chain of evidence. I was getting ready to ask
about the mask when he quickly turned away and pulled it down.
Slapping a handkerchief up to his face, he broke the near serenity
of the interior with a resounding sneeze.

“Jeezus, Murv,” Ben said. “You really that
sick?”

“What the hell gave ya’ that idea?” he
replied, a slight Southern drawl affecting his raw voice. Still,
even his obviously heavy congestion didn’t hide the sarcasm
tainting the words.

“Well why didn’t ya’ stay home then?” Ben
asked.

“Oh, maybe ‘cause you told ‘em ta’ get me
outta bed.”

He finished wiping his reddened nose then
pulled the mask back up to cover the lower half of his face.

“You shoulda said you were sick.”

“I did,” he returned through the disposable
cup-shaped shield. “But, then I got told, ‘Storm says don’t be such
a wuss’.”

“Yeah, well…”

“Yeah, well my ass. You’re gonna owe me for
this one.”

My friend nodded. “Yeah. Okay. Booze or
cigars?”

“The way I feel right now? Booze.”

“Bottle of Jack?”

“Screw that,” Murv huffed. “This is
worth
Maker’s Mark
. The big
bottle, not the little one.”

“Yeah, okay,” Ben agreed. “So, listen, this
is Felicity and…”

“Yeah, we’ve met. It’s been…” he interrupted
then abruptly ended his own sentence with a repeat of the earlier
sneeze. “Look, no offense,” he finally continued, gazing back at
all of us with bleary eyes as he repositioned the mask once again.
“But all I wanna do right now is go home. Can we just do this so I
can get a team in here to work the scene?”

“You got a team? I thought everyone was out
sick?”

“I’ve got three techs,” he replied. “And two
of them are as bad off as I am, so can we get moving on this?”

“Yeah.” Ben nodded.

“Can you smell that?” I asked, grabbing at
the opportunity to interject the question.

“I couldn’t smell shit if I was neck deep in
it,” Murv replied, shaking his head.

“Yeah. Ya’ talkin’ ‘bout the sickly
gag-a-maggot reek?” Ben asked.

“Yeah.”

He pointed to a nightstand next to the twin
bed. “There’s a tube’a crap over there. Some kinda novelty eat-me
gel or somethin’. Smells like a whor…” He caught himself
mid-sentence, casting a quick glance at Felicity. “…Reeks don’t
it?”

“That’s an understatement.”

“Is there anything in particular you want me
to concentrate on, then?” my wife asked.

“You get the outside already?” Murv
asked.

“The door and a few shots of the lot leading
up to the entrance. I didn’t see any markers, so I just shot
mid-range.”

“Yeah, nothin’ out there in the way of
evidence we could see,” he agreed. “Except the car. It’s the
victim’s, so we’ll want it covered in and out before we start
tearin’ it apart.”

“No problem. I still need some overalls of
the lot and sign too,” Felicity offered. “But I thought I might
wait for daybreak since it’s not far off.”

“Makes sense,” Murv told her with a nod.
“Then just play it by the book. I’ve got a few markers down in
here. Not much, but go ahead and shoot every angle just to be safe.
We’ll sort it out later.”

“Yeah,” Ben agreed. “Cover all the bases. Two
of everything.”

“Aye,” she returned. “No problem. Digital
okay?”

“Hi-res?” Murv asked.

“Six megapixel, raw.”

He nodded. “Go for it.”

“You got gloves for ‘em?” Ben asked.

“Yeah,” he replied, rummaging around in his
coat pockets for a second then extracting a wad of latex. Just as
he was handing them to us, he let loose with a third explosive
sneeze. This time, however, it exited well ahead of his reflexes,
containing itself within the mask.

“Crap,” he exclaimed then shoved the gloves
into Felicity’s hand as he headed out the door muttering, “If y’all
‘ll excuse me for a minute.”

“You couldn’t get someone else, Ben?”
Felicity admonished as she picked a pair of gloves from the wad
then handed the rest to me. “That man should be in bed.”

“Don’t let ‘im fool ya’, Felicity,” he
returned. “He runs the CSU. He would’ve insisted on being here
anyway. Besides, he’s the best there is.”

“Aye, well I still say he needs a tottie and
a good night’s rest.”

“I’ll tell ‘im you said that.”

She cast a quick glance between us then
handed me the camera bag she had been carrying slung over her
shoulder.

“All right,” she announced, moving on to the
business at hand. “We’ll work the main room clockwise, including
the dressing area, then we’ll do that bathroom separate. Row,
there’s a logbook in that bag. Just stay behind me and write down
whatever I tell you. Ben, I hate to tell you this, but you need to
be somewhere else. Because, right now, you’re in my way.”

* * * * *

A blinding flash of illumination burst forth,
painting the corner in its harsh glow, then dissipated almost as
quickly as it had presented itself. The steady whistle of the
thyristor on the flash unit started squealing through the otherwise
quiet room, rising in pitch until it was almost imperceptible.

The owner of the motel had arrived just after
we began working through the main room and per one of the uniformed
officers, was asking to speak to the person in charge. Ben staved
him off for a few minutes, but as soon as Murv had returned from
replacing his ruined dust mask, my friend had left to address the
situation. The flu-stricken crime scene tech walked the room with
us, only once interjecting a question about a particular angle, but
other than that he left Felicity alone to do her job. I assumed
that was a good sign.

“That was forty-eight, correct?” my wife
asked without turning.

“Yeah. Forty-eight,” I replied.

I watched over her shoulder as she peered at
the miniature LCD on the back of the camera.

“Evidence marker B,” she called out as she
kneeled down and put the viewfinder back to her eye. “Men’s wallet,
floor, mid-range. Fifty millimeter, strobe.” The flash popped
again, and she continued. “And, forty-nine. Marker B, wallet,
floor, close-up. Fifty millimeter, strobe.”

I backed out of her way as she stood, but I
continued scribbling the notes she had dictated.