A Hot Flash of Homicide: Flamingo Cove Book One

by Dawn Dugle

  That is not what happened.

  I'm not even sure that could have happened if we were sober, but two bottles of Champagne made it impossible to be smooth.

  When we got inside, he grabbed my shoulders and leaned in to kiss me. I leaned in at the same time, on the same trajectory, so we bonked heads.

  "Ow!" I rubbed my head.

  "I'm so sorry. Let me kiss it and make it better," he leaned in to kiss my forehead.

  I raised an eyebrow and thought, in the immortal words of Matthew McConaughey: Alright. Alright. Alright.

  I tried to regroup and grabbed the God Among Men's belt buckle, pulling him towards me. "Now, tell me again about Wysdom coming with age..."

  I was trying to pull the belt out of his pant loops in a sexy way.

  What is the "sexy way" to pull out a belt? I have no idea, because I didn't accomplish it. Instead of sliding out slowly, it whooshed out and smacked me in the face.

  "Ow!" I said again, putting my hand to my cheek and feeling something wet. Epic fail.

  Good times.

  Those were the highlights. It went downhill from there. Probably.

  ∞∞∞

  Chapter Five

  FRIDAY

  The next thing I knew, lasers were stabbing me in the eyes and I believe a sumo wrestler had picked my particular head to sit on, since it felt like it was about to explode. I was convinced brains and gray matter would ooze out of my ears from the pressure. I groaned and rolled over, throwing my arm across a hard, muscular chest.

  "Good morning, sunshine," The God Among Men said as he rubbed my arm.

  "Ungh," I grunted, opening one eye a tiny sliver.

  He looked completely perfect in the morning sunlight, as if he had been up for hours, went for a run, saved some orphans from a burning building and still had time to solve the student loan crisis.

  As I am not a morning person, I immediately closed my eyes, pulled a pillow over my head and tried to go back to sleep. Then, I remembered where I was and sat straight up in bed.

  When you're arresting someone and the suspect is armed, you want to make sure they put down their weapon and put their hands up. Then you tell them: "Don't make any sudden movements."

  This is also great advice the morning after you dive into the bottom of two bottles of Champagne. No sudden movements. I forgot about that part too late.

  "My head," I complained.

  "That would be the Champagne hangover. They're the worst," God Among Men handed me two aspirin and a big glass of water. "Take these."

  I swallowed the aspirin and doubted anything would ever make my headache go away. I didn't even get that drunk when I turned 21. Or when I celebrated my freedom after the divorce was finalized.

  I would die of this hangover. My death certificate would list the cause of death as Bitch shoulda' known better.

  "Did we, uh..." I ran my tongue over my fuzzy teeth. Gross.

  "Um. No," he replied.

  I lifted up the sheet and looked at myself. "Then why am I naked under here?"

  "You said something about sleeping naked when you've had too much to drink and insisted I do that too," he smiled as I quickly slammed the sheet back down.

  "That sounds about right," I grabbed the blanket off the end of the bed, wrapping it around myself.

  He grinned. "I don't know why you're so shy. I've already seen you naked."

  Why was he so chipper? I expected blue birds to land on his shoulders any minute now.

  "That was nighttime naked. This is full daylight naked. They're two different things," I scurried around looking for my clothes.

  "Listen, Wysdom. I know you didn't want to exchange names..."

  "Still don't."

  "I want to take you out on a real date and get to know you better. You're not only hilarious, but I have a feeling you're pretty damned smart too."

  "You want me to do stand-up comedy for you?" I asked as I pulled on my pants and top. I finally found my bra, but didn't want to stop and put it on, so I tucked it into my purse.

  "Yes. I mean no. I mean... you're beautiful, smart and funny - that's the whole package for a guy," he started.

  I looked up from where I was putting on my shoes. "You must still be drunk. Beautiful?"

  "There's something about your fiery red hair in that pixie haircut that makes me want to mess it up," he stood up, wearing only his birthday suit.

  I looked down at his extremely large... feet. Yeah, feet. That's what I was looking at. I flicked my eyes up to his face to see his amusement and that intense, come hither gaze that would make any sane woman drop her panties right where they stood.

  Which is exactly what I did next. I dropped my panties that I had just picked up off the floor.

  I was pretty sure by this point my face had flushed deep, deep red from embarrassment, clashing with my hair. But that was the least of my problems. I bent down and grabbed my underwear again, shoving them into my purse along with my non-matching bra.

  He walked toward me, and I took a step backwards. For every step he took, I walked backwards until I was out the front door.

  "This has been fun. Thank you for being the best birthday present ever. But I have to run, see ya!" I opened the door and flung myself outside, running down the street until I was out of sight of the house.

  Why do the walk of shame when you can run?

  ∞∞∞

  "Honey, I'm home," I said as I opened the door to my cottage.

  "'Bout damned time," a deep voice said from my kitchen.

  I nearly had a heart attack until I realized it was Bodie.

  Turns out the run of shame will not fix a Champagne hangover. And tracking down your car in a valet parking lot, when the valet stand isn't open, is slightly worse than banging your head against a wall. Government interrogators should look into that as a torture technique.

  "Why are you here?" I asked as I walked straight to my bathroom. One look in the mirror told me to walk away and never look back. Maybe burn the house down while I was at it. The God Among Men needed his eyes checked because I was a hot mess with a double side of crap. And I had a cut on my cheek from smacking myself in the face with his belt. Good times.

  Bodie shoved a cup toward me. "I brought you a latte. Thought you'd need it after the unexpected hot date you had last night."

  Alarmed, I reached for the cup. "What do you know about it?"

  "Well, when you texted me last night you said you'd gotten the best birthday presents ever - Champagne and a God Among Men."

  At the mention of the word Champagne, my stomach turned over and decided she'd had enough of this torture. I made it to the bathroom in time to toss all of the cookies. Twice.

  I fell back on the cold tile floor, leaning against the bathtub. Ah yes. Nothing like cold tile and porcelain to make you feel better after puking your guts out.

  Bodie appeared in the bathroom doorway with a glass of water. "Maybe we should start with this before the latte."

  I took a small sip and scrutinized my partner.

  He crossed his arms across his chest, leaning against the doorframe. "How was it?"

  "The Champagne?"

  "The God Among Men."

  "Fantastic kisser. Not much else happened though, we were both so drunk we passed out."

  "Well, I'm sorry your birthday ended with a dud, but you need to get up and get changed. We're on duty."

  "What?" I sat up, still too quickly for my hangover. When will I ever learn? I grabbed my head. "Owwww.... I thought we were off today."

  "We were, but a bunch of higher-ups were also hung over this morning and called in sick. That means those of us who are doing penance gotta' go to work. Now get dressed."

  ∞∞∞

  Chapter Six

  It took me twice as long to get showered and dressed because of the Hangover from Hell. I was sipping water and took two more aspirin, but the jackhammer behind my eyes wouldn't go away. To top it all off, it was a Chamber of Commerce Day - that kind of
beautiful blue sky that Florida was famous for, plus abundant sunshine. Lots and lots of stupid sunshine drilling laser beams into my eyes. Damn sunshine.

  Thankfully, Friday mornings in Flamingo Cove were usually pretty calm. We worked our beat, checking in on our neighbors. Around 11:30, we stopped at The Squad Room for a sandwich and a latte. Dix doesn't let everyone know about the fancy espresso maker in the back, I honestly think the only reason he has it is because of me. He was kind in unusual ways.

  Dix brought me a latte. "You look like shit."

  Didn't say he sugar coated the truth, though. He was wearing a t-shirt that said: Coffee is for Closers. I wasn't sure if I lived up to that or not, but said nothing when he sat down the cup.

  "She celebrated her birthday too hard last night with two friends," Bodie was enjoying this way too much.

  "Jack Daniels and Jim Beam?" My uncle quizzed Bodie, who shook his head.

  "Johnny Walker and Jose Cuervo?" Bodie shook his head again.

  "Guys, I'm right here. And can we please stop talking about booze?" I groaned and took a small bite of a grilled cheese sandwich. It tasted like heaven.

  "Champagne and a God Among Men," Bodie winked at Dix.

  Dix raised an eyebrow. "A God Among Men?"

  I shrugged and took another bite. "You told me to go have fun, so I did."

  "And what happened to your face?" Dix frowned.

  Thankfully, I was saved from having to answer when the radio squawked.

  "Frank Charley Five, what's your Twenty?" The dispatcher asked.

  "We're 10-40 at The Squad Room, eating lunch," Bodie replied.

  "Negative Frank Charley Five. You're needed at Flamingo Cove park for a 10-17 near the beach."

  "10-4 Dispatch. We're 10-51," Bodie acknowledged the change of plans and let them know we were en route.

  "This is bullshit," I refused to get up until I finished the sandwich. "It's probably just a vagrant sleeping it off."

  "Probably, but we're persona non grata, so we get the fun of making sure," Bodie grabbed my latte and laid some money down on the bar. "Sorry to eat and run Dix."

  Dix uncle waved us off. He was totally used to cops coming into his bar to grab a bite to eat, trying to scarf something down before the next call came in. That's why he had a five-minute lunch special every day.

  "Have fun at the beach!”

  ∞∞∞

  When we arrived at the park, two kids were talking with the park ranger near the entrance.

  "It's a dead body! I'm telling you!" One kid was pointing wildly.

  "I didn't see any maggots," the other kid was just as loud.

  The thought of maggots caused my stomach to turn over. Damn it. I had just eaten my first meal of the day but it was still too soon to tell if I would be able to hold onto it.

  "Where is this 'dead body?'" I asked the boys, who then pointed to a bench near the water.

  "Partner, you take their statements, and I'll go wake up Mr. Sleepyhead over there and tell him to keep it moving," I turned and walked over to the bench.

  When I got there, I could see the vagrant was covered in a plastic drop cloth. Since newspapers were becoming extinct, homeless people were getting more creative in their makeshift blankets. I moved closer and noticed the plastic looked brand new. There was also an arm hanging out to the side. Something caught the sunlight at the wrist of the arm, a silver charm bracelet. My stomach turned over again.

  I grabbed a pen out of my shirt pocket and slowly lifted the plastic, calling out to the person underneath: "Hello Ms. Sleepyhead. Wakey Wakey."

  I didn't expect an answer, because I already knew the woman was dead. The body was covered in bruises. Really ugly bruises that looked like footprints. I also saw the big puncture mark on the woman's neck. Someone had stabbed and beaten the woman to death, then dumped her in the park. My hangover suddenly disappeared as I reached for the radio mic on my shoulder.

  "This is Frank Charley Five. We have a 10-54 at Flamingo Cove Park. Send detectives and the medical examiner.”

  ∞∞∞

  Chapter Seven

  Crime scene tape blocked off the park, but it didn't stop the lookie-loos from crowding around, trying to get a glimpse of the body. It wasn't often we got a murder here, and that was big news in and of itself. But the even bigger news was the victim: Claire Rousseau.

  Rousseau was a world-renowned abstract artist who lived in a McMansion along the Coast District, not far from my cottage. Her paintings had put our city on the map and every year she hosted a retreat for hand-selected students from around the world.

  As her art grew in fame, so did our Downtown Arts District. People were moving here every day, buying up small cottages, tearing them down and putting a McMansion in its place, driving up the cost of real estate. I was lucky to have purchased my cottage before the real estate prices became too super-sized for my value menu budget.

  When word got out that Rousseau had been killed, we would be smack dab in the middle of a genuine national media circus.

  The local media was already on hand and preparing for a news conference that would be held by none other than my ex. All of the detectives were conferring with Kirk near the media center, leaving me nearly alone with the body.

  "This was overkill," the medical examiner said as she pulled a meat thermometer out of her case and jabbed it into the victim's liver. I winced.

  I pointed. "Those bruises look like footprints."

  "You're right."

  "What a terrible way to go."

  "She was probably dead within five seconds. The killer punctured her jugular vein. Then it looks like he kicked the shit out of her. He hated her."

  I looked at my friend, Dr. Faith Jackson. We met when she was new on the job and bonded over our unusual first names.

  "He?" My eyebrows shot up.

  "Someone with big feet. This looks like a size 11 to me. Plus, he had to be strong to stab her in the jugular. Now, you tell me - is this the murder scene?" Faith quizzed me.

  "No."

  "Tell me."

  "Stabbing someone in the jugular is a mess. There would have been blood pumping all over the place while she died. And I didn't see any big blood pools anywhere."

  "Good. What else?"

  "The plastic is strange. It's brand new but no blood stains on that either."

  "Excellent eye."

  "I'd think if he put the plastic down to kill her, there'd be blood on that. But there's no blood to speak of. That means the plastic was only there to hide the body for a little while. But he wanted her found," I was sure of it.

  "Explain."

  "He could have buried her or left her in the forest, but instead he placed her in a public park that opens every day at 8 a.m. He covered her with plastic to make it look like she was homeless, but someone who looked closer would know."

  "Did you notice anything else?" Faith asked.

  "This plastic, it's not a separate sheet. It was cut off a roll, like those rolls they have at home improvement stores. I would bet if we find the killer we can match the cut to the roll."

  "You'll be a detective in no time," Faith clapped, her latex gloves making it sound more like a golf clap than anything with real enthusiasm.

  "Dr. Jackson!" A sharp rebuke came from behind us, and Faith turned to see Kirk striding our way.

  She gave him the side-eye. "Yes, Lieutenant?"

  "I'm about to give the news conference, what can you tell me?"

  "Time of death is between midnight and 1 a.m. The victim was killed when someone stabbed her in the jugular. I'll know more about the murder weapon when I get back to the morgue," Faith replied. "But Wysdom has an interesting take on the killer."

  "Does she now?" My ex-husband turned toward me.

  "Yes, if you take a look at the plastic..."

  "Isn't your shift over? You should leave the real police work to the detectives," he sneered as he walked off.

  "God he's a dick," Faith crossed her arms and looked at
the retreating back of Lieutenant Chamberlain.

  "Tell me about it." I crossed my arms and stood next to my friend. "Just out of curiosity, why did you say he hated her."

  "The bruising. It was done post-mortem," Faith explained. "Why do you kick the shit out of someone that you've already killed?"

  "Pure hatred," I nodded.

  ∞∞∞

  Faith had been working with me, preparing me to become a detective for several years now. I should have made detective more than a decade ago, but my rookie mistake put a black mark on my record that is hard to shake.

  Detectives Fairchild and Silva had gotten written up, because it was their crime scene. And a note went into my personal file. It wasn't a write-up, but it might as well have been.

  Fairchild told me it was a rookie mistake of tunnel vision that they've all made. Silva wasn't so forgiving.

  Neither was I.

  I have nightmares about that crime scene. All I can think of are those two other victims. Would they be alive if I had listened to that voice in the back of my head? If I had been more thorough?

  It took longer than it should have for me to make sergeant, but getting to detective or lieutenant was going to be an uphill battle when you were labeled as having a "problem with authority". That's fancy talk for "punched her boss in the face and rolls her eyes behind his back."

  Now, Fairchild and Silva are Captains, along with Kate "The Snake". The opinions of The Big Three were the ones that mattered when you were up for a promotion. No one got to detective without the say-so from them. While Fairchild has long since forgiven me. Silva and Sweeney have longer memories.