by Lotta Smith
About a month ago, I was a medical student in North Carolina. I was in my third year—busy studying for exams, memorizing all the medical and surgical knowledge, and doing clinical rotations—until I got kicked out of medical school.
Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t a bad student.
So I didn’t hold high hopes of graduating at the top of my class, or someday becoming a Nobel laureate. Then again, my academic performance wasn’t that bad. I was usually at around the top 50-60 percent of the class. At a place where the majority of your classmates have an IQ of 180 and up, even being a mediocre student took lots and lots of hard work.
Anyway, the odds of my finishing medical school and becoming a doctor or getting some cushy job with some pharma/biotech/insurance company were pretty high. Back then, I used to picture myself in the future driving a nice car and vacationing in beautiful resorts.
Generally speaking, doctors are highly regarded in today’s society. Sometimes, people talked about the top-notch physicians in comparison with God. On the other hand, I was held in comparison with the Grim Reaper and the Angel of Death. And as a result, I got kicked out of medical school, saying good-bye to my life plan as a doctor.
Oh, did I mention getting kicked out of medical school didn’t offset my larger-than-life student loan?
So, there I stood, with no degree under my belt and a huge debt up to my eyeballs. To rub salt in the wound, Justin, my now ex-fiancé, had called off our engagement. We went to the same med school. He was two years my senior and was already in his first year of residency training. Obviously, he had assessed the pros and cons of staying with me and concluded that staying with a woman called the Grim Reaper wasn’t likely to boost his value as a surgeon.
As I stood in front of the East German-style building, I felt so depressed, I almost started sobbing.
Look at the bright side, Mandy… I tried to convince myself.
At least I was going to have a job, and their offer wasn’t bad. I would be able to make monthly payments on my student loan and make a decent living. Maybe I could even move out of my parents’ townhouse in a year or so.
Actually, I wasn’t eager to take this job when I received the offer, but Mom and Dad insisted I should. They were not very keen on spending the rest of their lives paying off my student loan.
“Miss, you’ve been standing here for a long time.” Frowning, the guy in a guard’s uniform gave me an accusing glare.
“Um… I’m sorry. I got a little bit distracted. I’m supposed to start working here today,” I said, but based on his deep frown, I was positive he didn’t believe me.
“Oh, I’m running late. I’ve got to go….” I attempted to walk away, but he grabbed my arm.
“What is the purpose of—?” the guard started interrogating me, but he didn’t get to finish his sentence.
“Good morning, Stanley,” a male voice boomed from behind us. It was a deep, smooth baritone—clear, calm, and confident. Without turning back to see him, I found myself picturing a tall guy with a certain level of sexiness. He continued, “For your information, you don’t want to mess with her. Guess what? So far, she’s killed three men just by touching them. In addition, it’s her first day working as my assistant. If you convince her to leave without even starting the job, Hernandez will be so pissed.”
I had a remote knowledge that the head of the FBI’s New York Office was named Hernandez.
“Mr. Rowling!” The guard’s response sounded more like a surprise than an acknowledgement.
When he straightened himself, he was no longer grabbing my arm, too busy saluting Mr. Rowling.
“I am awfully sorry for my rude behavior. I didn’t know she was your new assistant.”
Then, turning to me, he apologized profusely. “I’m awfully sorry, ma’am.”
If eyes could speak, his were saying, ‘Why didn’t you mention you worked for him?’
“Okay, so we’re all cool,” said Mr. Rowling.
I turned back to thank and greet him, but words failed me.
He was tall, athletic, and had broad shoulders. He had flawless fair skin and dark hair styled in a conservatively messy ‘do. His mesmerizing green eyes looked almost blue, and his cheekbones were prominent. His nose and jaw were sculpted to perfection.
In a nutshell, he was drop-dead gorgeous.
But that wasn’t the only reason I was at a loss for words.
“You are the—” Clenching my teeth and fists, I searched for words.
Though I didn’t remember his name, I did recognize him, in an ‘I am so going to kill him if I ever lay my eyes on him again’ way.
“Yeah, I’m Rick Rowling.” He flashed his perfect set of pearly whites. Obviously, he didn’t read my mind. “Hi, Mandy. Nice meeting you again.” He extended his right hand toward me.
I took a deep breath. I had no fucking idea why this guy was so familiar with me to call me by the nickname I’d used since kindergarten. Before today, we had met only once for just a couple of hours, and during that short period of time, he killed my future as a doctor.
I took his hand, half wishing he’d drop dead on the spot.
After all, he was the one who convinced the Chapel Hill Police Department and my medical school that I’m the Grim Reaper.
PI Assistant Extraordinaire Mysteries:
Book 1: Ghostly Murder: http://amzn.to/204aWJ4
A murder in a locked room…
A faceless ghost…
Throw in a cross-dressing detective-savant plus his assistant extraordinaire in this new mystery series!
A high profile murder calls for a high profile detective.
When the famous Sushi Czar is found dead in a room that’s locked from the inside, the evidence just doesn’t add up. Of course a killer ghost (supernatural killer) is no match for the deductive skills of Michael Archangel. The fabulous cross-dressing former FBI agent can rock a set of sky high stilettos and assemble clues like puzzle pieces, but can he actually prove a ghost committed murder?
Only his assistant knows for sure. Former housewife and London socialite Kelly Kinki (it’s Kinki ending with an I not a Y) may someday be the Watson to Archangel’s Holmes, but for now, she’s following orders, coveting his fashion sense and learning from the master PI that there’s something truly fishy about this case.
CHAPTER 1
There’s a first time for everything.
I was walking in the forest all by myself. It was a sunny day in late March, but in the shadows of tall trees, it was dark, cold, and creepy. Also, having a group of crows—a.k.a. a murder of crows—squawking over my head did nothing to calm my nerves.
Don’t get me wrong. I was not an adventurer wannabe or a plant hunter wandering about some exotic forest in the middle of nowhere with a totally unpronounceable name, such as Tweebuffelsmeteenskootmorsdoodgeskietfontein in Africa. On the contrary, I was one of those so-called city workers. My job title was the personal assistant to a certain private investigator based in McLean, Virginia.
I was in Arlington, the ‘good’ suburb of Washington DC. Though there was a metro station in walking distance, this part of the town was very quiet, giving it the feel of a godforsaken land. I wasn’t exaggerating. Maybe the fact that a man’s dead body was found nearby had something to do with my perception. In addition, considering he was stabbed to death, this neighborhood might not be such a good area. Oh, did I mention there was some wacko serial rapist still running loose in the neighborhood? As a woman with no expertise in martial arts, I had a gazillion reasons to be spooked.
Walking in the forest wasn’t something I was doing by choice. Michael Archangel, my eccentric employer with a diva personality, made me do so. My mission was to look for either pantyhose, a ski mask, or big granny panties. Any of those items were supposed to help my employer with his most recent case, but I couldn’t figure out why or how. Anyway, I had never dreamed about going treasure-hunting for potentially used undergarments in the urban forest at the age of twenty-nine.
When I was a kid, I wanted to be an alchemist or a doctor. But the reality wasn’t rosy enough to realize either of my childhood dreams. First of all, there was no alchemist school. In addition, my test score wasn’t good enough for premed programs. So my mom and fifth—or was it sixth?—faux-dad sent me to a finishing school in Switzerland where I mastered the art of eating an orange using a knife and a fork. After that, I became a housewife in London, obtained a bachelor’s degree in art, and then I got a divorce. People in Europe, especially rich people in London, still called me ‘the bitch who used to be married to that swindler’ a.k.a. the man who had committed the largest investment scam in the history of Great Britain.
Here’s my point: Education is so overrated.
My name is Kelly Kinki. Yes, it’s my real name as written on my birth certificate. No, my surname is not a joke. And no, I’m not into kinky sex. Kinky or otherwise, it had been a while since I had sex.
As I thought about sex, I realized how much I hated walking through the creepy woods. I could think of much better things to do—such as tackling crossword puzzles or building a robot vacuum cleaner from scratch—but sometimes, you had to do what you had to do.
All of the sudden, one of the crows let out an especially menacing squawk as something started chirping and vibrating at the same time, startling me.
“Holy crap!”
A second later, I realized it was coming from my purse and reached for my phone.
“Hello? What can I do for you, Mr. Archangel?” I said to the person on the other end, who happened to be the one responsible for my current situation.
There was no response.
“Hello? Mr. Archangel?”
Still nothing.
From the other end, I could hear muffled voices. I recalled a bunch of retired gentlemen, who resided in the neighborhood, gathering at the crime scene. When I left there, they were busy gossiping. In my mind’s eyes, I could almost see and hear them cracking jokes and laughing their as—I mean, laughing their pants off. A moment later, I finally got a whispered response from Archangel.
“Password.”
“What? Password? What are you talking about?” I said, puzzled.
“You need to provide the password of Michael Archangel Investigations.”
“Excuse me? I’ve got your name on my caller ID. And it’s my voice. You can recognize me from my voice, can’t you?”
“No. You sound different,” he said. “Actually, you sound pretty much annoyed.”
“Come on, so I’m pretty much annoyed right now, but still, it’s me. Besides that, you’re the one who’s calling my phone, so you should know—” I was tempted to go on with my rant, but I realized it was easier to just tell the password.
“All right! I’ll tell the password.” Then I stopped short. What was the password? I knitted my eyebrows. It was something about artists. Oh yeah—Matisse, Bonnard, and Rothko—that was it.
“Matisse, Bonnard,” I said my part and waited for him to say “Rothko” but—
“Okay, let’s get to the point.”
“Hey!” I protested. “You’re supposed to finish the password before getting to the point. I said ‘Matisse, Bonnard’ and you’re supposed to say ‘Rothko.’ Without your finishing, the password isn’t complete!”
“What are you babbling, Kelly? It’s me, Michael Archangel. You should be able to recognize me from my voice. Otherwise, you must be affected with an early-onset of Alzheimer’s.”
All right, he had a point. The password was pretty much worthless since I knew I was talking to Archangel. His voice was deep, husky, and somewhat seductive, per usual. In addition, I knew no one else as fuc—I mean, freaking annoying as him.
“So, what’s up, Mr. Archangel? Any progress?”
“Yeah. The cops found the item I was looking for. I knew it was somewhere in the ground. Anyway, you can come back to the tennis court.”
“What? So you sent me to this creepy forest fully knowing I wouldn’t be the one to find the granny panties?”
“Actually, the discovered item turned out to be a ghost mask.”
“That’s not the point. You sent me, of all people, to go into this deep, spooky, and potentially dangerous forest for a wild goose chase of a ghost mask you didn’t even bother to mention in the first place. On top of it all, I’m talking about these woods located near the site where a twenty-four-year-old female office worker was nearly raped last night for Pete’s sake!” I spat.
I knew about her because, this morning, local news was all about this serial rapist in Arlington. In the past month, at least five women had been brutally raped. I was more than concerned about my own safety.
“Good thing you’re much older than twenty-four years old,” was Archangel’s reply.
“Excuse me? That’s not the point.” I continued. “This rapist has not yet been ID’d, much less arrested. Has it ever come to your mind that the rapist is still hiding in the darkness of these woods, determined to assault another young, innocent, and defenseless woman, such as your assistant? Imagine it. I might become his next prey. Aren’t you worried about me?”
Without responding to my bullets of questions, he said, “Come back to the tennis court pronto. If you don’t come back before I finish wrapping up the case, I’ll leave without you.”
And the line went dead.
Words like manners and protocol must be missing from my employer’s dictionary.
Man, I really, really hated this job.
Book 2: Immortal Eyes: http://amzn.to/1T4DKC3
Serial murder with a sick ritual...
The most unusual way to use Eggs Benedict...
The mismatched duo's race against time...
Former London socialite Kelly Kinki doesn’t always see eye to eye with her sexy-as-hell boss Michael Archangel, but she’ll follow the brilliant, cross-dressing detective anywhere to help solve their latest case.
Kelly was happy to lay her rep as the Dragon Lady to rest when she moved across the pond, but to catch an eyeball snatching serial killer she’ll have to put her skills at fire breathing to the test once again.
A gruesome autopsy, a visit with her ex, and a shocking encounter with a killer compete for craziest day on the job, but nothing can hold a candle to a glimpse of her boss in the buff.
Can Kelly and Archangel solve the case? The ayes have it. PI’s that is.
Chapter 1
There’s a first time for everything.
I was at a medical examiner’s office in rural Virginia. It was my first visit to this place and, actually, it also happened to be my very first trip to a morgue. I was there to attend the autopsy of a woman who allegedly had fallen victim to a brutal murder. So far, I’d seen more than my share of corpses in the past four months; however, I usually saw them at crime scenes and not morgues.
I didn’t know much about the statistics of murders, but I had seen lots of homicide victims since starting this job. In the beginning, I kept track of the body count, but I stopped counting after hitting ten on the third day of my current employment. Later, I learned it was just a temporary thing—one of those crazy, busy times—the “on-season” of killing. Anyway, who knew murders had on-seasons? And I’m not talking about Walmart jobs during the holiday season or the wedding industry in June.
My name is Kelly Kinki. Yes, it’s my real name as written on my birth certificate. No, I’m not into kinky sex, and no, I’m not making this surname thing up. I’m twenty-nine years old, half Italian-English American and half Japanese. Currently, I’m divorced with no intention or anticipation of a new romantic relationship, much less marriage.
Been there, done that. No thank you very much.
Right then, my mind was completely centered on my career. And guess what, thinking about myself as a super-cool, classy, and oh-so-savvy sleuth—the assistant extraordinaire, to be precise—totally made me happy. The hard bench chair I sat on was no Cassina, and with the faded grayish-green color scheme, sad taste in décor—
or lack thereof—and chilly yet stale air, the morgue’s waiting room was depressing at the best of times. But I was optimistic. In fact, I was feeling kind of flamboyant because I really, really liked the idea of visiting the morgue in line of my job. First of all, I loved the CSI TV series, and the prospect of seeing a live autopsy was totally thrilling. Besides that, it was not like the morgues were open to the public so that anybody could take a sightseeing tour and attend an autopsy, right? Having access to this facility was a real privilege.
In my mind, I was picturing myself as a female version of Dr. John Watson, only less geeky. Maybe by taking a part in the autopsy, I might come up with something that could lead to a breakthrough—just like super-assistants of brilliant detectives in fictions do all the time. Maybe I could even kick some ass like a badass assistant, too. In my opinion, it was often the assistant extraordinaire who should get the credit for disentangling the mystery before his/her boss did.
Something warm and fuzzy started to bubble up in my stomach. It wasn’t the aftereffect of a lunch burrito. I had to use a great amount of self-restraint to keep myself from singing, “For the first time in forever, I’ll be watching an autopsy!” like a certain Princess of Arendelle.
I didn’t realize I was smiling until I heard, “Why don’t you stop grinning like an idiot?” in a deep, husky voice, which belonged to Michael Archangel, the private investigator I worked for, who was sitting next to me on the same bench.
How I managed to forget his presence, I didn’t know. If nothing else, the delicate yet distinct scent of Higher Energy by Dior, his fragrance de jour, should have alerted me to his presence.
No thanks to his voice, I was snapped back to the reality that it was him who had access to the morgue, not me. I hadn’t clarified with the morgue, but considering I had no authority or qualification, they wouldn’t have granted me permission to attend the autopsy if I went there all by myself. I also realized a real badass woman wouldn’t imagine singing like a Disney Princess while sitting in the morgue’s waiting room. The truth was, I wasn’t very sure if I wanted to attend the autopsy at all.
