Page 23 of Lethal Seduction

Back at police headquarters, I flip through photograph after photograph, each one a little grittier than the last. The crime scene from Who’s Your Caddy has been fully processed by the crime scene unit, and these are some of the official photos they took.

There's something to be said about viewing crime scene pictures on the standard paper used for evidence and those that have been digitized into the computer. Paper is great, but when you can’t zoom in, it makes it difficult. I can’t believe how many times I’ve tried to use my fingers to enlarge them. Lucky for me, no one else saw me doing it or they’d probably question if I should still have my gun.

"Do you have these uploaded into our database yet?" I ask my partner, Joe Brighten. "I see a fleck of something in the grass, but I can’t make it out."

"Getting old, partner," he says. "Should I be putting in for a replacement with the chief?"

"Don’t start, Joe. You’re only six months younger than I am and not nearly as handsome."

Joe laughs and slides an electronic pad over to me. "The photos are all uploaded to the system. I’ve already gone through them with a fine-tooth comb, and I’m telling you there isn’t anything else to see."

Frustrated, I swipe through the images one by one until I come to the one I’ve been questioning. There it is at the upper right-hand corner of the image, a yellow dot of some kind. Zooming in, I still need to squint a bit to make it out clearly. Thankfully, the more I enlarge the image, the easier it is to make out.

The yellow blob comes into perfect view, revealing itself as the plastic tip of a sword. It’s the kind used to stab through olives and fruit when making alcoholic drinks. Less common on a golf course and more readily available at the bar.

"See," I say. "Right there." Pointing to the ribbed hilt of the plastic sword, the rest of the piece extended past the frame. "Was there one of those little plastic swords used to hold fruit in the drinks logged into the evidence locker?"

"Let me check the inventory," Joe says, typing commands into the computer. A few minutes pass as he scrolls through pages of data before he turns back to me. "Yes, it’s been labeled unknown yellow plastic piece."

"Have we checked with the bar at the club? To see if they carry that same line and color of plastic for their cocktails?"

Joe shakes his head. "I doubt it because of the way it’s labeled. Whoever collected the data had no real idea what it was, and it’s too early for them to have processed everything. You know how they start globally and work their way down to the incidental unknown or unidentified pieces."

"True," I say. "I have a strong feeling about this one."

"That’s definitely something we can pursue on our end." Joe grabs his keys. "Want to go down there now? Rustle some feathers?"

I smile and nod. "Better than sitting around finger popping our assholes."

We both laugh and walk out the door. Once we make our way through the precinct, we exit into the parking structure where Joe’s police-issued, unmarked car is waiting. We both hop in, and I sit back as Joe reverses out of the parking spot, puts the car in drive, and squeals the tires as he enters traffic.

The streets of Los Angeles are packed, as they usually are during the day. Bumper to bumper, we inch forward at a snail’s pace. I reach for the radio to break the monotony, but Joe stops me.

"I have to ask you something and I don’t want you to get all weird like you normally do," he says, turning to look me in the face.

Oh geez, here it comes. He wants to ask me a question about being gay. Or tell me he doesn’t think I act gay or something equally as stupid. As much as I love my partner, he wasn’t raised in Los Angeles and even admitted he hadn’t known any people who were openly gay until we became partners at work. At the time, I didn’t believe him, but since getting to know him better, he really is clueless. Clearly, he was raised under a rock, but I don’t always feel like being the one to educate him.

"What can I do for you?" I ask with a sigh.

"See," he says. "You’re already making it weird. I don’t know why whenever I ask you about your personal life you get so awkward. We’re partners. We’re supposed to be close. As close as brothers."

I lay my head back against the rest and close my eyes for a moment. "You know what? You’re absolutely right." I look at my watch. "At this rate, it should take us another twenty minutes or so to get to the club, so ask away. What would you like to know?"

"We’ve been partners now for like five years and I have not heard you once talk about going on a date."

"That’s not true," I say. "I’ve told you about a couple of my dates. Like that one a few years back from the dating app you suggested. Remember?"

He laughs. "A few years back? You count that as being open about your dating life? Are you telling me you haven’t been dating anyone steadily in the five years we’ve been friends?"

"Not exactly," I say. "I’ve been out on dates. Sometimes, they even turn into second dates." I shrug. "Joe, you have it easy. You’re straight and married. You’re not in the dating scene like me. I hate the bar scene. I’ve tried pretty much every single app I’ve heard of, but nothing ever comes of it."

Joe doesn’t say anything at first as he turns left to get on the freeway. "You’re a good-looking guy with a hell of a great job. You’re smart, talented. What more do people want?"

I shrug.

"Maybe it’s not so much about the people you’re attracting on these dating websites, and more about what you’re looking for?"

"What do you mean?" I’ve honestly never heard my partner get deeper than a philosophical rant about the condiment ratio on Mister Bucky’s Cheeseburgers.

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