The Detective
ONE
I’VE NEVER BEEN a one-night-stand kind of guy, but the blonde currently drooling on the pillow beside me might not believe it. God, what’s her name? Lauren? Sharon?
In truth, if the blistering pain in my skull was any indication of how much Crown I’d put away, I was lucky to be lying next to her and not the geriatric bartender who called me ‘Sweet Cheeks’ all night. At least the blonde—slobber and all—was hot.
Judging from the foreign, personal furnishings of the room, we’d decided on her place after the bar, rather than my hotel room. There was a lot of pink surrounding me, and stuffed animals. Both good signs that a man didn’t live with her. Not that I cared about her relationship status beyond not having to get in a fist fight before coffee. That would suck.
My cell phone was laying on the carpet between my olive drab ball cap and a flowery high heel shoe. The notification light was blinking blue, indicating a missed call—or seven, as I discovered when I picked up the phone. Gripping the phone with my teeth, I quietly tugged on my dark green tactical pants. Sleeping beauty snorted.
Creeping like a soldier through a minefield, I tiptoed out of the bedroom and prayed the chick didn’t have a roommate—or parents—that I would have to deal with. It was a one bedroom apartment, thank God. And aside from us, it was empty. Or so I thought.
As I slipped silently through the apartment on a quest for the kitchen, I looked at my phone. It was almost ten in the morning. I flipped through the icons on the screen till I found my voicemail. I clicked play and pressed the phone to my ear. At the end of the hall was a living room and a dining room. What the hell? Where’s the damn kitchen?
I stopped and leaned against the back of the tan sofa.
The first message was from my boss. “Nate. I need your report on the Kensington case. Call me.”
Delete.
“Hey Noot-Noot, it’s Mom. It’s about six o’clock on Friday night. Call me when you have a sec, ok? Hope you’re having a nice trip to the mountains. Love you. It’s Mom. Did I say that? OK, bye.”
Delete.
I looked around the room. There was no way I was calling my mother till I got back to the hotel.
The next message was from the lieutenant again. “Found the report. Call me back.”
Delete.
“Hey. It’s Mom again. I’m about to go to bed. I guess I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I hope everything’s OK. Love you, Noot.”
I sighed. Delete.
“Hey Nate, it’s you. The chick’s name is Shannon.”
I laughed. Out loud. Gotta love drunk me watching out for sober me.
Delete.
“Nathan, it is now eight in the morning, and I still haven’t heard from you. I’m starting to worry. Call me.”
Delete.
Another message. “Oh, I forgot. It’s Mom.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m twenty-nine years old,” I grumbled.
The final message was from an unknown North Carolina number. “Good morning, Detective McNamara. This is Sheriff Davis calling about the information you were looking for. I’ve got everything ready for you at my office if you want to come by and pick it up. I’ll be here till around eleven.”
I looked at the clock again. “Crap.”
At the far end of the room was another door that had somehow been camouflaged by my hangover. I rubbed my tired eyes and headed for it. It was a sliding door that easily slipped into the wall, and the light was on in the kitchen. Before my eyes could adjust, an explosion of chaos detonated at my feet.
I stumbled back a few steps as the sound of twenty furious pink toenails, clacking and scraping across the tile floor, ricocheted around the apartment. I covered my ears as a deafening series of yaps ripped through my already-pounding brain. The little yellow dog—Satan in a rhinestone collar—nipped at my ankles as it barked me into the corner.
“Shut up!” I yelled, suppressing the urge to kick the angry ball of fur in self-defense.
The dog bared its teeth at me and growled, daring me to move. When I did, I swear to God, the thing screamed at me before barking again.
Shannon—Thanks, Drunk Me—raced into the room, clutching the bed sheet around her. Her hair was wild, like it had been through an AquaNet typhoon, and black mascara was smeared across the side of her pillow-lined face. “Baby Dog!” she scolded, running to save me from the twelve pound terrorist.
I pointed at the animal. “That dog has rabies!”
She scooped the pooch up into her arms, carefully clinging to the sheet. “She doesn’t have rabies.” She rubbed her nose against the dog’s snout. “You don’t have rabies, do you, Baby Dog?” She cooed like it was a baby and not a demon.
I’VE NEVER BEEN a one-night-stand kind of guy, but the blonde currently drooling on the pillow beside me might not believe it. God, what’s her name? Lauren? Sharon?
In truth, if the blistering pain in my skull was any indication of how much Crown I’d put away, I was lucky to be lying next to her and not the geriatric bartender who called me ‘Sweet Cheeks’ all night. At least the blonde—slobber and all—was hot.
Judging from the foreign, personal furnishings of the room, we’d decided on her place after the bar, rather than my hotel room. There was a lot of pink surrounding me, and stuffed animals. Both good signs that a man didn’t live with her. Not that I cared about her relationship status beyond not having to get in a fist fight before coffee. That would suck.
My cell phone was laying on the carpet between my olive drab ball cap and a flowery high heel shoe. The notification light was blinking blue, indicating a missed call—or seven, as I discovered when I picked up the phone. Gripping the phone with my teeth, I quietly tugged on my dark green tactical pants. Sleeping beauty snorted.
Creeping like a soldier through a minefield, I tiptoed out of the bedroom and prayed the chick didn’t have a roommate—or parents—that I would have to deal with. It was a one bedroom apartment, thank God. And aside from us, it was empty. Or so I thought.
As I slipped silently through the apartment on a quest for the kitchen, I looked at my phone. It was almost ten in the morning. I flipped through the icons on the screen till I found my voicemail. I clicked play and pressed the phone to my ear. At the end of the hall was a living room and a dining room. What the hell? Where’s the damn kitchen?
I stopped and leaned against the back of the tan sofa.
The first message was from my boss. “Nate. I need your report on the Kensington case. Call me.”
Delete.
“Hey Noot-Noot, it’s Mom. It’s about six o’clock on Friday night. Call me when you have a sec, ok? Hope you’re having a nice trip to the mountains. Love you. It’s Mom. Did I say that? OK, bye.”
Delete.
I looked around the room. There was no way I was calling my mother till I got back to the hotel.
The next message was from the lieutenant again. “Found the report. Call me back.”
Delete.
“Hey. It’s Mom again. I’m about to go to bed. I guess I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I hope everything’s OK. Love you, Noot.”
I sighed. Delete.
“Hey Nate, it’s you. The chick’s name is Shannon.”
I laughed. Out loud. Gotta love drunk me watching out for sober me.
Delete.
“Nathan, it is now eight in the morning, and I still haven’t heard from you. I’m starting to worry. Call me.”
Delete.
Another message. “Oh, I forgot. It’s Mom.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m twenty-nine years old,” I grumbled.
The final message was from an unknown North Carolina number. “Good morning, Detective McNamara. This is Sheriff Davis calling about the information you were looking for. I’ve got everything ready for you at my office if you want to come by and pick it up. I’ll be here till around eleven.”
I looked at the clock again. “Crap.”
At the far end of the room was another door that had somehow been camouflaged by my hangover. I rubbed my tired eyes and headed for it. It was a sliding door that easily slipped into the wall, and the light was on in the kitchen. Before my eyes could adjust, an explosion of chaos detonated at my feet.
I stumbled back a few steps as the sound of twenty furious pink toenails, clacking and scraping across the tile floor, ricocheted around the apartment. I covered my ears as a deafening series of yaps ripped through my already-pounding brain. The little yellow dog—Satan in a rhinestone collar—nipped at my ankles as it barked me into the corner.
“Shut up!” I yelled, suppressing the urge to kick the angry ball of fur in self-defense.
The dog bared its teeth at me and growled, daring me to move. When I did, I swear to God, the thing screamed at me before barking again.
Shannon—Thanks, Drunk Me—raced into the room, clutching the bed sheet around her. Her hair was wild, like it had been through an AquaNet typhoon, and black mascara was smeared across the side of her pillow-lined face. “Baby Dog!” she scolded, running to save me from the twelve pound terrorist.
I pointed at the animal. “That dog has rabies!”
She scooped the pooch up into her arms, carefully clinging to the sheet. “She doesn’t have rabies.” She rubbed her nose against the dog’s snout. “You don’t have rabies, do you, Baby Dog?” She cooed like it was a baby and not a demon.