Page 4 of Sinful Fantasy

“Probably don’t need to describe your personal life in those terms at all,” I counter. “If you have needs, go talk to Tim about them.”

Her cheeks flame hot, but she looks to Archer and shakes her head. “I’m over that crush. She’s just talking shit.”

“Uh-huh.” He rocks back on his heels and grins. “I’m not judging you, Aubs. Women tend to flock to the Malones. It’s our natural charm.”

“Oh geez.” I roll my eyes skyward and turn toward our murder bag, sitting open on the moist, pebbled ground. “Goodbye, Detectives. Go solve a homicide.” I toss our supplies in the bag as the transport van creeps closer. “Work hard.” A sly smile inches across my lips as I glance up and find both cops watching me. “Maybe you’ll be promoted back to your old position.”

“Har-har,” Fletch mutters. “Real funny, Mayet.” Crouching as though to help me pack up my bag, he meets my eyes while Archer goes to help Aubree.

To distract her.

“Watch your jabs,Vigilante. We were demoted because of you. I bet I’d get a shiny new shield if I handed you over to my captain.”

His words are a threat, direct and unkind. But his intention isn’t. He’s teasing. Iknowhe is, because, in Fletch’s world, loyalty to me and Archer is far more important than loyalty to the badge.

“You wouldn’t,” I quip, playful when I haven’t been since he found out about my extracurricular activities. “You love me too much.And,if you hand me over, you’d have to get to know a new chief M.E. That’s a lot of work.”

He throws a few last things into my bag, and laughs as he pushes up to stand. “Lucky for you.” Bending, he grabs me under my good arm and pulls me up until I’m steady on my feet. “You and Arch coming over for dinner tonight? Moo would like to see you.”

“Absolutely. I miss her like crazy.”

Mia ‘Moo-Moo’ Fletcher is the cutest four-year-old on this planet, and she just so happens to call me Aunty Minka.

“We’ll be by,” I tell him, “unless this case keeps us out. And if it does—”

“If it does, I’ll be with Arch anyway.” Releasing me, he turns to Aubs just as the van comes to a stop ten feet away. “We’ll help you load up our vic, then Arch and I are heading out to find us an identity for the poor dude who lost a few limbs this week.”

“Tough break,” Aubree clicks her tongue. “My week was way better.”

Humored, Fletch opens the van’s back doors as the engine cuts and the driver slides out of their side. “I’ve been dealing with my ex-wife’s bullshit, I haven’t been laid inmonths, and my best frienddidn’tbuy me a sub for lunch today. Andstill,” he adds, winking when Aubree meets his eyes, “my week was way better than this guy’s.”

ARCHER

Fletch and I start our investigation with a canvass of the area surrounding the river that cuts straight through the middle of Copeland City. We speak with each member of the homeless population we pass, and cross-check our notes for a ten-mile stretch, in search of anything that overlaps.

Unfortunately, the Copeland River is a popular place to kill folks and dump their bodies.

Fortunately, that means we’ve established somewhat of a relationship with the residents who call the area home.

For as long as we maintain a police presence nearby, fostering a safer sleeping situation in an already dangerous set of circumstances, they’re usually happy to give us information. Especially if we promise a hot meal too.

“So far…” Frustrated, Fletch rubs a hand over his face so the bristle of his stubbled jaw plays audibly along his palm. “One witness says they saw a black cargo van dump the body. Another says white.”

Walking along the street we parked on, where the delicious scents of a bodega hover in the air, and the hum of near-constant traffic keeps us company, I come to a stop beside our own car, and lean back so my feet remain on the sidewalk but my ass rests on the side of the hood. “Of ten witnesses we’ve found, two say white van, three say black, three more say they saw nothing, one isn’t talking, and one says he saw our John Doejumpoff the bridge.”

“Which we know for damn sure didn’t happen,” Fletch grumbles. “Can’t jump while already dead and tied to a chair.”

“So the best we got is a van. Could be white,” I sigh. “Could be black.”

“Could be a fucking hoverboard, for all they know.” Lowering his hand and clapping it on his thigh, Fletch snatches the car keys from his pocket and circles the vehicle before opening his door. “Get in.”

“Where are we going?” I push away from the hood and open my door to slide in, then I meet his stare. “Hoverboard store, to see who bought one recently?”

“Ha-ha.” Sticking the key into the ignition and turning over the engine, he checks his blind spot before pulling away from the curb and turning at the first corner. “We need our war room set up. I can’t see this till it’s all tacked up.” Irritated, he runs a hand across his face again. “What have we got so far, Arch? A dude, forty to fifty years old. Kinda chubby. No prints, no ID, and no chance of living.”

“Torture implies organized and experienced,” I admit. “Like Mayet said. No prints or ID means either the vic didn’t want to be identified, or the killers didn’t want him to be.”

“We should ask the doctors how long it takes for skin to heal up after prints have been burned off.”

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