Chapter 27
The forensics van's lights flashed in the deepening dusk, the sky all purple and crimson smoke trails. A cool breeze rustled the hedges as the technicians gathered samples, the yellow crime scene tape lending an almost festive feeling to the area. Stan stood by watching impassively as the techs went about their task, scraping and sorting and clipping and shooting photos. Black stood next to him, with Meagan hanging off his arm like she was afraid she'd blow away, her face drawn from the events of the last few days but still undeniably beautiful by any measure.
"I don't understand any of this," she whispered for the twentieth time in the past hour and a half, after Black had knocked on the door and advised her that the police were on their way. "What does it mean?"
"It means that your husband might have been shot by someone other than the police," Black said softly. Stan's eyes shifted sideways toward them, lending a reptilian quality to his somber expression, like one of the humanoid robot warriors that Hunter had spent four sequels battling as they attempted to conquer the earth.
God, those movies stank, Black thought. No wonder the guy's career tanked. Who greenlit that kind of garbage and sank a hundred million into it? Some committee of clueless yes-men who'd never read a script in their life?
He realized that his mind was wandering and returned to the present.
"It's too early to draw any conclusions, ma'am. All we know is that there's some unexplained evidence here that may or may not have anything to do with your husband's death. Any speculation, especially by amateurs" - Stan glared at Black - "is premature."
"That's true," Black said, trying to backpedal. Meagan's sweet fragrance drifted from her blouse, which looked about ready to pop a button as it struggled to contain her full breasts, which he couldn't help but notice she'd been rubbing against him like she was hoping a genie would pop out of his hat.
"Can I have a word with you?" Stan asked, his gaze icy.
"Absolutely. Meagan, would you excuse me?"
"Sure," she said in a heart-melting, little girl lost voice.
Stan and Black walked together to the front gate, where two squad cars waited with the forensics van and Stan's unmarked sedan. Stan stopped and looked up at the trees across the street as though they contained the answer to a riddle he'd been worrying at with no progress.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he hissed through clenched teeth.
"Nothing. The woman asked a question. I gave her my best guess."
Stan shook his head. "It looks like she wants you to give her more than that."
"You picked up on that, did you?"
"She's on you like a stripper on a pole."
"You have a way with words. Like Stephen King or something."
Stan rubbed his face with a resigned hand. "Black. Cut me a break here, would you? Don't get her all riled up."
"Look, Stan, she's not stupid. She wants to know why the cops are back at her house. She deserves more than the runaround."
"And you're just the man to give it to her, huh?"
"It's not like that. She's distraught."
"Why is it that whenever I get a distraught widow she's either a crack fiend or eighty-nine?"
"Can't she be both?"
They watched as a black Bentley coupe drove by, its windows tinted dark, a vanity plate proclaiming "Frowsy" as its owner.
"I just don't need the specter of a lawsuit hanging over my head, Black. You should know that people will sue over anything."
"Dog eat dog world, ain't it?"
"Sure 'nuff," Stan agreed.
"So what's your take?"
"I think if, and that's obviously a huge if, there was a shooter hiding in the bushes, we might have gotten lucky and a ricochet hit him. That's what I think."
"Or the gardener got careless with the trimmer."
"Nah. The distraught hottie gave us their number. I talked to the supervisor. Nobody gashed themselves here," Stan said.
"She is hot, isn't she?"
"No offense, my friend, but she's way out of your league. She'd eat you alive. High maintenance doesn't start to cover that."
"I know. I just wish she'd stop rubbing on me. I'm starting to chafe."
"You're not just a boy toy."
"I have feelings. I think things, and shit."
"But she was all over you like that when Hunter was alive too, right?"
"Yup. I mean, not in front of him, but when he wasn't there, she just about tore my pants off."
"I'm reconsidering the PI thing, you know. You need a partner?"
"When she was married, there was no way. But now..."
"Don't tell me you're even thinking about it."
"I'm not. What do you take me for?" Black insisted, the lie obvious in his voice.
"You look snappy today. You in a tango show or something?"
"Why does everyone F with me over my clothes?"
"Jealousy."
"That's what I thought."
"Dude. Just do me a favor. Cut the crime chat with the babe, all right? Ix-nay on the ead-day usband-hay."
"You got it. I wasn't thinking clearly. Her breasts cast some kind of a spell."
"Maybe she has mini-syringes in them and she drugged you."
"She tried that with a margarita the last time I was here."
"Second to last," Stan corrected. "Last time her husband played piñata on the front steps."
"Oh. That."
"So how was it?"
"What?"
"The margarita?"
"Kind of like her. Sweet, but high octane. Packed a wallop."
"I'm definitely reconsidering the PI thing."
"It's not all sex-starved temptresses and boozing and solving crimes."
"I'm okay with the no solving crimes part. Listen. Seriously. Can you keep your pie hole shut about something if I tell you?"
"Of course. My lips are sealed. What's up?"
"When you called me? I was just reading over the forensics report on our buddy Freddie."
"Mister Paparazzi. The punching bag."
"That's him. Turns out Hunter didn't kill him."
Black suddenly craved a cigarette more than he would have thought possible. "Come again?"
"He was poisoned. Somebody gave him a hot shot in the hospital."
"You're kidding."
"Right. I'm working on my comedy act. Which is why I want to know where you get your suits."
"But why?"
"Why would I want to dress like you?"
"No, why would someone knock Freddie off in the hospital?"
"My hunch is, because they could. Probably the same perp who's been whacking the photogs. It fits. Opportunistic."
"I'll say." Black cleared his throat. "You think this is related?"
"What do I know? I liked Hunter for the killings."
"But what's the motive? Why kill them both?"
"That, my friend, is the question of the day. Assuming that the same wing nut knocked them both off. We're still a long way from that."
They turned and meandered back to where Meagan was waiting. The evening was now almost upon them as the technicians continued their work, basking in the high-voltage glare of the portable work lights.
Black took Meagan's hands in his and faced her. "Meagan, I've got to get going. Detective Colt here is the best. He'll take good care of you."
Worry flickered across her face. "Do you have to?"
"I'm afraid so. I have another case I'm working." Black didn't want to tell her the real reason he thought it was a good idea to leave.
"Okay, then...thanks...I guess. For all of this..."
"No problem. The police can handle it from here."
She seemed about to say something, and then reconsidered and instead, nodded.
He could feel both her and Stan's eyes following him as he made his way back to the Cadillac, his head spinning at the ramifications of what he'd discovered.
Hunter had been murdered.
As had Freddie.
And none of it made the slightest sense.