Skullduggery {sapphic thriller}

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Three police cruisers lined the front of the museum blocking off the marble steps. Even more guarded the back street and alley near the stone wall of the courtyard. A million questions raced through my mind, none of which Desirae had answers for. I parked the truck as close as we could get and then motioned for her to go on ahead while I dug through the glovebox, using whatever I could find to freshen up.

The neighborhood was quiet, desolate, almost like they were holding their breath at the sight of the cop cars and forensics vans. I hurried along the heaved sidewalk to catch up. Yellow crime tape stretched across the open wrought iron gate along the back of the courtyard. Before Desirae could get close, a cop stopped her with his hand on his hip, fingers grazing the butt of his gun.

"Museum and gardens are closed."

"It's okay, Ferrante," a familiar guy's voice rang out. "She's with us." That douchebag Greg appeared around the courtyard's green hedge and lifted the tape. His clean-shaven babyface hardened to a scowl when he saw me. "Well, she is. Not her."

"Have you gotten an ID yet?" Desirae asked.

"No, that's why I called you here. To sketch up something quick for us to put out." His eyes shifted between us. "This goes beyond the scope of what we need her for."

"Des, it's okay."

"If it's another tableau vivant of Artemisia's paintings, Kirby may recognize who it is before I can even put pencil to paper."

The scowl didn't leave his face, but he reluctantly nodded us both through.

After ducking under the tape, Desirae tugged me off to the side. "Are you going to be okay seeing this?"

Which I took to mean, 'Please don't throw up in front of these people. Especially Greg.'

"Yeah, I'm good," I assured her, all while my stomach was in knots. At the same time, some kind of sinister curiosity stirred within me. I smoothed out the fabric of my dress to try and hide my nerves and any seeping intrigue as a crime scene worker hurried past, bumping my elbow with a glare. I mumbled out an apology, but she didn't stop to turn around. "I think I'm a bit overdressed for the occasion though."

With a hint of a smile, Desirae's eyes slid down over me. "Yeah, this spring's Saint Laurent doesn't exactly blend in with all the khakis and polos running around here." Her whisper slipped across my bare shoulder as she leaned in to touch my arm. "But you look good."

Her compliment barely had a chance to sink in before another worker hurried past us. My eyes reluctantly left hers, settling on the museum. "I hate to admit it, but Cora would know Artie's work better. I'm sure she's around."

"She's too close to Rafael."

"And I'm not?"

"Unless you're fucking him too?"

My face scrunched at the thought. "Gross."

"Not your type?"

"I mean, he's beautiful. Looks just like Artie. But he's like a brother to me. And I'm not really into dudes. Usually." I wasn't sure if she was actually asking about me or if she was searching for something deeper, like some flaw within Rafael. I wouldn't give it to her. "I prefer gorgeous, funny, physically strong, but emotionally unavailable women who will sell me out and sign my death certificate with a smile on their face."

And the smile on hers quickly faded. As she glanced towards the portico, her hand went to the chain of her necklace, but she stopped herself before her fingers found the wedding band. "Weird. I seem to have a thing for beautiful, awkwardly charming, opportunistic women—"