Once I was pretty sure I remembered the mechanics of breathing again, I tried to force some logical thought into my brain.
Here’s the thing: I’m ashamed to admit this is not the first dead body that I’ve found. Through no fault of my own, I seem to be some kind of dead person magnet. In fact, that’s how I originally met my husband, the homicide detective. I’d like to think it’s just bad luck on my part, but the truth is my dead-body-finding luck is beyond bad. It’s downright disastrous.
I gingerly reached into the stall and put one finger to the side of Bitch Chick’s neck to feel for a pulse. Her skin was still warm but had a distinctly rubbery feel that gave me a serious case of the heebie-jeebies. Not surprisingly, no blood pulsed there.
I pulled my hand back and instinctively wiped it on the seat of my pants to get rid of the dead person cooties. Yep, she was definitely gone. I mentally debated between calling the cops and grabbing the attention of one of the burly security guys Crush had roaming the floor. Considering calling the cops probably entailed lots of hanging out in the bathroom with a dead woman while on hold with 911, I went with option two.
I shut the stall door, said a silent prayer that no one else stumbled in here in the next two minutes, and backed out of the restroom.
The strobe lights and lasers from the dance floor immediately assaulted my eyes as I scanned the crowd for one of the guys in a black t-shirts with “security” printed on the back. I finally found one near a grouping of tables to the right and shoved my way through the crowds toward him.
“Dead girl,” I panted as I reached his side, realizing I was out of breath.
The security guy squinted down at me. He was at least a foot taller than I was, at least a hundred pounds heavier (which was saying something, given my current condition), and his skin was two shades darker. He had intimidating bad-ass written all over him.
“What are you talking about, girl?” he asked.
I paused, took in a deep breath, willed my heart to slow down a couple of hundred beats per minute. “In the women’s restroom. There’s a dead body.”
“You high?” he asked, his eyes narrowing further as he checked my pupils.
I shook my head so hard blonde hair whipped my cheeks. “No. I swear. Go look. She’s really dead,” I managed in a choppy breath.
He stared at me for another beat, still not convinced I was for real. Then finally said, “Show me.”
While going back in there was the last thing I wanted to do, I was left with little choice. So I did, leading him toward the restroom. There was still a crush of girls primping at the mirrors, though thankfully Pumps and Loafers had finished their business, leaving one stall empty. I pointed with a noticeably shaky hand at the other one.
“In there,” I said, hating how high and squeaky my voice was.
Security Guy knocked on the stall door. But, just as it had for me, it swung open before anyone could respond. Not that anyone in there
Security Guy was silent for a moment, his face unreadable as he stared into the stall. Then he finally said, “Oh yeah. She’s definitely dead.”
Forty minutes later I had finally relieved myself (in the men’s room), the strobe lights were off, the lasers gone, the DJ’s station silent, and the crowd assembled in hushed groups of three and four as uniformed officers questioned potential witnesses. Including yours truly. Dana, Marco, the silent Gunnar and I were all slumped in a booth near the back, awaiting round two of questions as officers huddled near the door to the ladies’ room, whispering, pointing, calling in higher ranking detectives to do the dirty work.
One of whom I unfortunately recognized immediately.
“Uh oh,” Dana said her eyes honing in on him as she voiced my thoughts exactly. “Isn’t that…”
“Yep.” I gulped down a ball of dread.
“You know what?” Marco said, spotting him too. “I think I’m just gonna go use the little boys’ room…” he trailed off, sliding out of the booth, Dana and Gunnar a quick step behind him.
Traitors. Though, as I watched the reason for their quick getaway spot me, scowl, then make purposeful strides toward my booth, I kinda didn’t blame them. I’d flee if I could, too.
He was tall and built like a boxer – all tight muscle and tough attitude. A faint scar ran through his left eyebrow, a black panther tattoo snaked down his left bicep, and his eyes were a deep, dark brown, so intense they were almost black as they bore down on me.
I cleared my throat and did a little one finger wave his direction. “Hi, honey.”
My husband did not wave back. No smile, no hint of amusement whatsoever. In his defense, I guess finding your wife at your crime scene wasn’t every detective’s dream. But, in
I cleared my throat again and shifted nervously in my seat.
Ramirez crossed his arms over his chest. He looked from me to the yellow tape being stretched across the ladies’ room door. Back to me. Then he slowly shook his head.
“Lucy, you got some ‘splainin’ to do.
I gulped. No kidding.
“Look, it wasn’t my fault,” I protested. “I just had to pee.”
“You always have to pee. You don’t
“I’d like you to remember that statement in the future.”
He shot me a dark look. “Just tell me what happened, Springer.”
Ouch. Last name. He was serious. I shifted again, then spilled it in the best so-not-my-fault way I could, telling him how I’d encountered Skinny Bitch Chick in the ladies’ room.
When I was done he gave me a long, hard stare. “What on earth possessed you to take our unborn baby to a club in the first place?” he finally said.
I blinked at him. “Excuse me, last time I checked this was still
“Carrying
“Well for another four months she goes where I go, and if I want to go to a club, I’m going. Besides, it’s a club not a shooting range. What danger could she possibly be in?”
“Besides his mother getting in an altercation with a woman just before she’s murdered?”
I bit my lip. “Oh. You heard about that, huh?”
He nodded. “Oh yeah. I heard. Apparently witnesses said you threatened to kill her? To suffocate her to death?”
“She called me fat!” I protested.
Ramirez closed his eyes. He did a silent two count, and I could see him employing a couple of those deep Lamaze breaths I’d been learning.
“Let’s get back to the body,” he finally said, opening his eyes again. “You said you found her in the restroom, correct?”
I nodded. “She was in a stall.”
“Who else was in the restroom at the time?” he asked.
I scrunched my nose up, trying to remember specifics. “There were some girls in front of the mirror, but they were just hanging out there. And there was a couple getting busy in the stall next door.”
The corner of Ramirez’s lip quirked up. “’Getting busy’?”
I felt myself blush. “Doing… you know. Anyway, no, I didn’t see anyone fleeing the scene with a knife in hand.” I paused. “Or a gun?” I asked, realizing I wasn’t exactly sure how Bitch Chick had met her demise. Admittedly, I hadn’t done a thorough examination of the body in the stall.
Ramirez shook his head. “No evidence of a gunshot so far.”
“How did she die then?” I asked.
Ramirez looked past me to the crime scene. “We’ll have to wait for the M.E.’s report to be sure. But it looks like exsanguination.”
“She bled to death?” I clarified.
