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-interest 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."
Seven
A DC After Dark Novel
by Robin Covington
Eight
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.
"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.