Very rarely was the victim a guy whose face was splashed all over the cover of TIME magazine.
I swore under my breath, already wondering whose karma I pissed on to catch such a high-profile case. I could look forward to everybody in DC with any connection to this case to be up my ass 24/7 until this one closed. Fuck.
The room was very quiet except for the sounds of technical crews doing their part to catch a killer. The air was rank with the odor of death and sex, the vibe in the atmosphere all wrong. Each scene felt off and finding out what caused it was usually the first step to solving the case.
For a dead guy he didn't look too bad. I'd definitely seen worse. His pale body, eyes wide open and covered in the haze of death, was sprawled in the middle of a mess of sheets. Legs splayed wide, his flaccid cock lying against his thigh. He was in shape, a healthy male in his mid-thirties who took care of himself. The bullet hole in his chest and the dark spread of blood under his body were out of place in the upscale surroundings of the hotel room. This was not a by-the-hour joint, catering to the rich and self-important who flocked to DC to broker deals, make money, or fuck somebody over. I wondered which vice lead to the bullet in the chest of the up-and-coming junior Senator from some square state in the middle of the country. I could predict some unhappy Bible-toting constituents who probably weren't going to be okay with why and how this went down.
"What's the estimated time of death?" I asked the M.E. kneeling on the opposite side of the three-billion thread count sheets. I didn't know this one, just one of the new faces in that office that appeared on a semi-regular basis. She was small, with dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, her eyes tired and I wondered how long she'd stick around. The Office of the Medical Examiner was busy and it wasn't the place for everyone.
Just like the Homicide Division wasn't for every cop. No, you had to be my particular brand of crazy asshole to endure year after year of people killing each other and still love the job. And I fucking loved the job.
The M.E. answered without even looking at me, too engrossed in labeling vials and bags and shoving them in her evidence case to give a shit about making eye contact. I was okay with it. It wasn't her job to cater to the living. "Twelve hours or so. Give or take a couple of hours."
"So, midnight or one in the morning,” I muttered as I leaned down to get a better look at the body sprawled on the disheveled sheets. I didn't bother to ask what was the cause of death. The bullet hole in middle of his chest was a good indicator of how the Senator had bought it unless the tox screen came back with a surprise. "Must have used a silencer or something for people not to hear. Nobody reported a goddam thing much less a gunshot in the middle of the night."
"And the perp was allowed into the room," Peter, my partner, gestured towards the crime scene techs messing with the front door. "They say there's no evidence of forced entry."
I eased up off the floor, careful not to lean on the bed when my knees and achy joints protested the movement. At thirty-eight I wasn't old and I kept my body in great shape but partying at a bar last night until the wee hours and spending some quality time on my knees servicing the cock of a beautiful boy wasn't conducive to being at the top-of-my-game today. As usual, nothing got past Peter.
"You need help there?" His smirk quickly morphed into a full grin when I flipped him off. A big guy with an imposing frame, his bulk usually made criminals and cops think twice about tangling with him but his smile stripped him of all that edge. It was boyish, bright white teeth against the ebony of his skin and it completely ruined his tough-guy game. "You're getting too old to be running the streets at all hours."
"I was in bed early enough." I didn't elaborate that I hadn't done any actual sleeping in the bed of the man I'd picked up at a club. I didn't need to. We'd been partners long enough for him to jump to all the correct conclusions. I pointed at the body. "So was he from the looks of it."
Several used condoms were in the trash can, their wrappers scattered on the bedside table along with lube and a large, flesh-colored dildo. That fucker had to be nine inches long and breathtakingly wide and I mentally saluted the senator and his mystery sex partner. He hadn't been conducting constituent town halls in this two-thousand a night junior suite last night. Not unless he had new and personal ways of obtaining votes.
The M.E. perked up, sliding a used condom into an evidence bag. "He had sex. Lots of it according to our preliminary examination of the sheets." She paused as she wrote on a bag with a black Sharpie. "We'll determine if the semen in the rubbers is his but there's also evidence of anal penetration." She pointed her chin at the sex toy lying next to the telephone. "We'll test the dildo to see if that is what was used on him or his partner or both. Any DNA we can find we'll cross-check and get you the results."
I whistled but not in judgment. I couldn't begrudge any guy indulging in a little ass play if that's what he liked. Hell, I enjoyed sex with men and women although I'd confined my activities to the male variety since my divorce. A cheating wife had soured my appetite for female companionship or any whiff of commitment for a while. "I wonder what Mrs. Senator Marsden thinks about him meeting up for a little fun on the side."
"Maybe she was here with him," Peter said, lifting the edge of the coverlet. His eyes scanned the area, looking for anything that might be a clue to what had gone down here. He looked up at me and winked. "You know. Keeping the spark alive. A little role play to spice things up. Meet in the bar and pretend to be strangers before heading up to the room . . ."
I raised an eyebrow at him. "You speaking from experience? You and Katie . . . " I let my question hang in the air between us. They were good together, my partner at work and his partner at home. Solid and still hot for each other even after three kids. They were also the best of friends and it was an amazing thing to watch. I didn't even try to curb my jealousy.
"Fuck off," he chuckled as he reached for something on the floor just under where he was searching. He produced another used condom wrapper and passed it off to the M.E. and her never-ending supply of evidence bags. "Everybody knows that hotel sex is hot."
I grunted my agreement, my gaze scouring the scene before me looking for . . . I wasn't quite sure. Not yet. A clue was here and I just needed to figure out what it was. No killer was so good that they didn't leave something behind. The real test was whether the cop was good enough to find the mistake.
"Where is Mrs. Marsden now?" I looked at the uniform cop hovering on the edge of the scene.
He held a cell phone to his ear but placed a beefy paw over the mouthpiece to answer me. "We called all her available numbers but she's not answering. The housekeeper and her personal assistant haven't seen her since last night. We have a couple of officers at the residence and the senator's office now."
I looked at Peter and he raised an eyebrow at me. Eight years of partnership and we didn't need words to make the point: Mrs. Marsden was either victim number two or suspect number one.
She wouldn't be the first wife to off her cheating husband in the hotel room where he was sticking his dick in places it shouldn't be.
I walked around the bed, letting my gaze wander over the upscale furniture in the room. Everything about it screamed "you can't afford this" and I found myself tiptoeing around like a bull who'd just discovered his big ass in a china shop. There were the leavings of a late-night dinner on the table. Used and dirty plates, an empty bottle of wine and two glasses, one broken and scattered across the carpet.
A dark suit coat tossed over the back of a chair by the window caught my attention. I walked over, picking it up to look it over. Designer label. Senatorial navy blue. Probably cost more than I made in a month. On the low table next to the chair was a clear evidence bag, in it I could see a cell phone, keys, a pack of gum and a business card. I peered over, reading the name on the white and slightly crumpled piece of paper.
"Dr. Carla Androghetti. Doctor of Psychiatry." I looked at Peter. "What's the card of a head shrinker doing in the Senator's pock
et?"
"Not a clue," Peter shrugged, tugging off his latex gloves with a loud snap. "But it's as good a place to start as any."
"I'm driving," I said as we both headed to the door. "Driver picks the radio station and I'm not listening to your shit taste in music today."
Fifteen
CARLA
"Ryker, please tell me that's the last appointment for the day."
I looked up as my office administrator sauntered into my office. Just under six feet tall, muscular and wiry, his pale skin was covered in tattoos, some of them peeking over the collar and beyond the cuffs of his suit jacket. Starkly handsome, he would be devastating if he only smiled more often. But he didn't and I'd long ago stopped expecting him to. Doing hard time would knock all the smiles out of you.
"Last one Dr. Androghetti," he replied, placing a stack of paperwork in the middle pocket of my briefcase. We'd been together long enough that the knew I would tackle it all at home after a hot shower or soak and a glass of wine. Like a couple of old married people, we even bickered like one so I couldn't resist reminding him about our agreement.
"If that was the last patient of the day, then you agreed to call me Carla." I shoved away from the desk and leaned back in the leather chair. I gave him a glare but it was half-hearted because today had been a bitch of a day. Helping people was my passion but it was exhausting. "That was the deal once we crossed the boss/employer thing and morphed into friends."
"If I had any clue that the consequence of holding your hair back as you puked in the toilet during that ugly bout of stomach flu would be becoming your BFF, I would have let you drown." His words were harsh but the lift of his lip told me that he wouldn't have actually let me die in a bowl of artificially blue water. "It's time for you to get the hell out of here because I have somewhere to be and if I leave you here, you'll work until midnight again."
"Where are you going?" I ignored his crack about my workaholic tendencies, there was no use in denying that the this tiger had stripes. But Ryker had let slip that he had plans for the evening and inquiring minds wanted to know. "Do you have a date?"
"I'm going to Landslide." He shrugged at the mention of our favorite club and my excitement dimmed. We went there all the time and it was a great place to hook-up but not for much of anything else. And for Ryker . . . I wanted him to have something besides blowjobs in the back room and one-night stands back at some strangers apartment. He read my mind because he dismissed with a slash of his hand. "Don't give me that look. I'm good."
"Will Sebastian be there?"
He shrugged but I didn't miss the tension that settled between his shoulder blades at my mention of the man he wanted but could not have. "I can't afford him so it doesn't matter."
I opened my mouth to start our usual argument, but the appearance of a stranger in the doorway pulled me up short. Tall and leanly built, he reminded me of a mountain with the sharp angles of his face too harsh to make him handsome. Striking. Sexy. Someone you would remember. His gaze swept over me, controlled but interested. Yes, he wanted something from me but his quick inhale of breath told me that it wasn't a professional appointment.
I stood to greet him just as a larger African-American man filled what was left of my open doorway. Ryker stepped in front of me, placing his body in between us and I wasn't going to object.
The first man was. . .dangerous. Something told me to be careful around him.
"Dr. Androghetti?" He stepped forward, pulling an ID case out of the pocket of his suit jacket. The badge was shiny. It looked real. Ryker took two steps forward and took it from him, scanning it before returning it to him and giving me a nod of confirmation.
"How can I help you?" I rant through my patients in my head. None of them seemed in a place to involve the police.
"I'm Detective Cross and this is Detective Simms. We need to ask you a few questions." He slipped his ID case back into his pocket and my gaze was drawn to his hands. Large with long fingers, scrapes and bruises across the knuckles. Recently inflicted. A man who didn't mind getting his hands dirty.
"Of course. Whatever you need." I took two paces backward, settling when I could lean against the edge of my desk. Ryker moved to the side, standing against the wall of my office. Still close but not a wall between us. Detective Simms moved into his orbit, his eyes trained on my watchdog as he pulled out a notebook and pen while Cross crossed into my personal space.
I caught my breath, working hard to slow down the rapid beat of my heart. To ignore the tightening of my nipples. I couldn't control my reaction to him. I should have been wary, cautious but I wanted to get closer. To inhale him, to touch him. It was crazy but that explained everything and nothing about sexual attraction. Hormones kicked in and you lost a little bit of your mind.
"What kind of counseling do you do here, Doctor?" He asked, his eyes trained on my face and completely ignoring the huge diploma displayed on the wall just over my right shoulder.
"I specialize in relationship counseling, veteran counseling, grief counseling, and post-addiction counseling. I help people get through and over some of the hard stuff."
"I see," he said, moving past me to examine my credentials. "Couples? Kids? Adults?"
"Yes." I glanced at Ryker but he was watching the other guy, laser-focused.
"How long has Senator Nathan Marsden been your patient?" Cross asked, his tone even but there was a subtle change. Something dark coated the edges.
I turned to face him and he was looking at me. His face was a void, only his dark eyes betraying his suspicion and controlled violence. Now I knew what made him dangerous, he was a man who chose to keep himself under control because to do otherwise would put him on the other side of that badge. And his control kept him off my couch or the couch of someone like me.
"Nathan was never my patient, Detective," I said, stepping around the desk to stand in front of him. He was tall, over six feet, but with my heels I could almost look him in the eye. "Are you going to tell me what this is about."
Cross exchanged a look with his partner. It spoke of years together and lots of trust. And something very wrong.
"Senator Marsden is dead. We found him this morning."
I reached behind me, my hand searching for the edge of the desk and the support I needed since my legs no longer worked. Ice cold flashed up my spine and over my skin and bile rose in my throat, my stomach rolling. I felt Ryker beside me, his hand on my shoulder.
Nathan. Dead.
"Was it an accident?" I asked, licking my lips as I sought an answer in Cross' face. I knew it already. "If it was an accident you wouldn't be here."
"No. It wasn't an accident," he replied, his expression belligerent. "He was murdered. So, I don't really have any patience with doctor/patient confidentiality, Dr. Androghetti. I need to know why the Senator had your card in his pocket."
"I told you. He was not a patient." I shook my head, sliding a glance towards Ryker. He stared back, his gaze offering no solution other than the truth. "He was. . .Nathan was a sexual partner."
"You were having an affair with him?"
"No." I looked towards Ryker again. This part was always tricky. Rarely did people understand and I didn't feel like I had to justify myself to anyone. But this was Nathan. Dead. "No. I had sex with both Nathan and Davina. It's what I do."
"For money?" Detective Simms asked, his voice booming across the office. I turned to face him and his judgment. "Are you a sex worker?"
Ryker stepped towards, everything about his demeanor tight and outraged on my behalf. "Hey."
"No. Not a sex worker. We . . . the Marsdens and myself . . .we belong to a club. Club D. It's all very consensual and free-of-charge."
The partners exchanged another one of those looks and I knew what was coming next.
"Where were you last night?" Cross asked, moving closer to me. He didn't reach for his handcuffs but the twitch in his fingers betrayed his trained inclination. My confession had just pushed me to the top of the people-of-in
terest list. "Between the time of ten o'clock and three in the morning."
"I was at home. Alone." I stood, bringing myself to my full height as I answered the unspoken question in the room. "For the record, I didn't kill Nathan."
Sixteen
A DC After Dark Novel
by Robin Covington
Seventeen
AIDEN
Senator Nathan Marsden was dead and as naked as the day he was born.
I crouched down beside the king-sized bed, pulling on a pair of latex gloves as I took in the all-too-familiar scene before me. Not that I'm used to seeing dead national-level politicians every day. Contrary to the constant parade of thriller movies with dead senators and judges littering the streets, it doesn't happen that often in Washington DC. Street people, junkies, gang bangers, sad domestic cases . . . that's the usual victim I'm called to see in their worst moment and then charged to catch whatever shit bag did them in.
Very rarely was the victim a guy whose face was splashed all over the cover of TIME magazine.
I swore under my breath, already wondering whose karma I pissed on to catch such a high-profile case. I could look forward to everybody in DC with any connection to this case to be up my ass 24/7 until this one closed. Fuck.
The room was very quiet except for the sounds of technical crews doing their part to catch a killer. The air was rank with the odor of death and sex, the vibe in the atmosphere all wrong. Each scene felt off and finding out what caused it was usually the first step to solving the case.
For a dead guy he didn't look too bad. I'd definitely seen worse. His pale body, eyes wide open and covered in the haze of death, was sprawled in the middle of a mess of sheets. Legs splayed wide, his flaccid cock lying against his thigh. He was in shape, a healthy male in his mid-thirties who took care of himself. The bullet hole in his chest and the dark spread of blood under his body were out of place in the upscale surroundings of the hotel room. This was not a by-the-hour joint, catering to the rich and self-important who flocked to DC to broker deals, make money, or fuck somebody over. I wondered which vice lead to the bullet in the chest of the up-and-coming junior Senator from some square state in the middle of the country. I could predict some unhappy Bible-toting constituents who probably weren't going to be okay with why and how this went down.
THIRD (DC After Dark Book 1) Page 5