Her name was Kat Wyoming, and by the time I’d met her, she was already dead.

Kat was one of those rare beauties that somehow managed to look more alluring in a pair of faded jeans and a t-shirt than your average Hollywood starlet looks in a five thousand dollar designer gown. The fact that she seemed wholly unaware of just how gorgeous she was only served to make her that much more attractive.

I was four years out of a failed marriage and three years into a self induced whiskey coma when I got the call.

"Bad news, dude." It was a voice I had hoped never to hear again. Especially saying those words. If he had been standing next to me, I would have shot him. Or at least slugged him in the jaw. Hard. Unfortunately, it was a call I got every day.

"Vincent. What the hell do you want?" This was me being patient.

"You're late, dude. The Sarge wants you out there ASAP. We have a live one. No, wait, she's dead. We have a dead one."

How Vincent ever made it on the force was a mystery to me. How I ever stayed on was also a mystery. Perhaps we balanced each other out. Perhaps one day I would be sent down for throttling him.

"Make excuses. Traffic. Plumbing. Whatever. Address?" I scrambled to commit the address to memory while I chased down a pen that worked, finally finding a burnt match and a shut-off notice for the gas. "OK, got it. That's close. I'll be there in 10."

I would be, too. Once I was on the job, I was on the job. But I wasn't on the job until Vincent called. Damn him.

bumpbumpbump

bump, dammit

And another bump in the hopes that someone wants to play.

BUMP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Round Robin:

Pathetic.

Vincent and I made our way to the city morgue. I didn't like the place. It was too new—all shiny, freshly mopped, and well-lit. It smelled like a hospital. A new hospital. If a place is supposed to hold dead people it sure as shit should feel like it holds dead people. The brightly colored memos posted on the hallway walls made this place looked like it was rented out for community services and kids' birthday parties. Cripes. Kill me now—but take my body to some poorly-mortared, rat-infested damp dungeon.

In Room 24a, Kat Wyoming's corpse was being kept at 2°C while awaiting positive identification. I didn't know her name yet, but I recognized the man standing next to the table that held her. Barry was a twisted little freak, and I liked him, liked how he was a type of stain that blemished the place. Underneath his white lab coat Barry would wear the thinnest, tightest shirts imaginable. His man boobs pressed through them defiant and proud.

"What did she die of, Barry?" I asked.

Barry pushed his glasses back up and tight to his face and almost smiled. "Oh, I suspects exactly what we thinks she died of, Roker." He picked up a small circular saw. "I'm going to cut her belly open in a second to make sure. I'd just assume get started. Doesn't look like anyone's coming to ID her, and they won't be looking under the blanket no how."

Pathetic.

That's what I was. Pathetic.

Divorced for four years, I still obsessed over it. My friends had sided with my ex, and all my co-workers were assholes. No wonder I was pathetic. Dead people are the only ones I can deal with anymore.

My ex used to tell me I didn't care about anyone. She was probably right, especially toward the end. I don't even like dogs. But, when Vincent calls, I know it's time to start caring about someone. No matter that the person is dead.

And no matter what I do, that person will still be dead when I'm done with them.

Sometimes I get to serve some justice on someone's ass, and sometimes I don't. Either way, the person is still dead. Pathetic.

No, I'm no superhero. I just have a job to do. And a dead person to care about. The trouble this time was that I was going to have to be a superhero to lay out any justice for this poor teenage girl who will never grow up to make some man's life miserable. This time I would find myself in some kind of stunted adolescent world of comic books and space opera conventions. These crackheads make pathetic look like a Hallmark card.

Did I mention I don't like superheroes either?

I was a lot of things, but one thing I was not was someone who watched autopsies. Vincent was already turning dark green at the thought of it, so I grabbed his elbow and yanked him away before he hurled on the nice clean corpse. We were into the hall before the sound of the saw splitting breastbone got Vincent.

Vincent had had bacon and eggs for breakfast. And whole wheat toast. In a place like this the worker bees come out of the woodwork and the mess was cleaned up before we emerged from the bathroom refreshed and with our game faces securely planted in place.

It would be awhile before Barry finished his job. He was thorough. And really enjoyed his work. So, back to the scene of the crime. I was sure it was a crime. Any time a girl that beautiful ended up dead, it was a crime.

The room where our girl died was devoid of any of the touches that make a house a home. No books. No souvenirs of a night on the town. Just a bed, a chair, a lamp and a closet with three changes of clothes. This was not a place for living. This was a launching off point. The clothes is where my interest went. Nice. Tailored. Clothes for working in. If you worked someplace where your clothes was your persona. And her persona was professional, competent, sexy. Someone that would be noticed if she went missing.

But, this was not where she lived, unless she lived the life of a monk. Vincent was looking out the window with that slack look on his face that I wanted to beat off with the butt of my gun.

"Go make yourself useful", I said instead. "Go talk to the super and see what you can find out. Those guys always know more than they say the first time you talk to them. Bribe him with doughnuts, if you have to."

Vincent nodded and amiably bounced out of the room. Without his vacuous presence the energy in the room clarified. There was more here, I could feel it.

When I finally was alone, I started talking aloud—to myself. It was one of my defining characteristics, I guess. I was practicing. It's just something that I did to improve my interpersonal skills (with my boss, with the families of victims, and so on). Most people fear public speaking. More afraid of it than dying. Dying is number 3 on their list. I forgot what number 2 was, probably because my memory is for shit.

My voice echoed in the nearly empty room. It was very nearly like there was someone else there. Carrying on a conversation. The echoes faded before I could quite hear what they were trying to tell me.

I was definitely cracking up. So, tell me something I don't know.

The light through the grimy window was just bright enough to reflect off a scrap of paper wedged under the chair to keep it from wobbling. Could have been there forever, but I doubted it. Most previous residents of this room would not care that the chair tilted. Most would never have guests. Most would have only used the bed to earn their living.

I moved the chair, picked up the paper and carefully unfolded it. Jackpot.

I laughed out loud and the sudden sound startled me. Too perfect. I even had an idea I knew who "Tony T" was. I had no doubt that he didn't do it, as he was currently cooling his heels upstate, but that wasn't to say that he didn't have it done. More likely, he was just a chump in a long line of chumps that Kat had strung along. Beautiful women seemed to be able to do that. And Kat was beautiful.

Now I had a first name. And that was a start. Tony could provide the rest - if he was the right Tony. I replaced the crime scene tape and resealed the door. VIncent was just coming up the stairs in time for me to turn him around and head back down.

"The super had her name as Estee Lauder. He did have a cell phone number for her. I'm getting a trace on that."

Wow. Vincent actually took some initiative. I was impressed.

"I also put the squad to work calling all the Lauders in town to see if any of them are missing."

I took it all back and reached for my gun.

I was a second too late. The man at the bottom of the stairs fired first. He got off two rounds with a large revolver before I fired back. My shot missed wildly, but it was enough for him to be convinced I wasn't going to be an easy target. He fled quickly and jumped into a blue sedan that was waiting outside. It sped away . I knew I had no chance of pursuit. They could be half way to Montana before I got to my car.

Vincent was on the floor in the hallway, shaking like a leaf. When I approached him he looked up meekly and said "Blood."

I reached down to pick him up and started to say "You aren't hit."

Then I realized he was talking about my blood.

As the room spun counter clockwise, I asked myself which case triggered the gunmen. I'd made a lot of enemies. Nobody likes to go to jail, and these nobodies had the ambition to prove it. I steadied myself because fainting in the stairwell I was shot in didn't seem to me to be a smart thing to do.

"Let's keep this going. Veronica can patch me up while helping us sift through the information on the streets for leads on the Kat case."

"Right on," said Vincent, looking just as pale as before. As the color came back into his face, he chuckled, "I need you around so I can piss you off by telling you how much your exwife really turns me on, so don't go pushing yourself too hard."

His responsive fist in my gut told me swinging at his face had been exactly what he wanted. But I did have to admit, the pain of the bullet was gone. "As long as we both agree who the asshole is," I said and stumbled to the car.

I had no idea Vincent had it in him. That crack about the wife (ex) really surprised me. Perhaps there was hope for him. I would put off killing him until after we solved this case.

Fortunately I always keep a big towel in the car for just this sort of thing. It is also handy as a pillow, ice bag or even to dry off after one of those LA downpours. It worked really well as a pressure bandage. With the towel wadded up under my shirt and held in place by my left arm, I drove us one handed back to the precinct house. No way was Vincent touching my car. Ever. I would drive with my feet before that happened.

At the house I smacked the note down for Vincent to read. And started making calls. While Veronica got out the peroxide and gauze. Damn, she was good. Too good to be answering the phone and making coffee. But that incident with the gangbangers made her poison on the streets. Unlikely that she would ever be able to work undercover again - anywhere on the west coast. But she stayed. No idea why. I was glad, though, if only for the doctoring and damn fine coffee.

I yelped when she put the bandage on. I was lucky. A through and through just above my belt, so all I ruined was a shirt. And I would have a nice little memento in the left love handle.

Well, well, well. Upstate had some news about Tony T. Out on bail while awaiting a new trial. How interesting and convenient is that. Now I had been sure he was involved, but Tony was careful. He would not have had her hit while there was any chance it could be connected to him. And he sure as hell would not have hit her himself. He didn't get his hands dirty. Ever. But, it made me think he might know who did. And why. And might have incentive to cooperate with finding them. I would have to play him, though. Officially, he was number one suspect.

"Vincent." I kept a straight face. "Go get Tony Tygher and bring him in for questioning. He will probably be at his restaurant at this time of day." With any luck Vincent would get taken out in the shootout. I could only hope that this batch of Tony's bodyguards were as good shots as the last.

I pulled myself together trying to think of the next lead that made more sense than grasping at the straws my brain seemed to be made of. I found myself on the receiving end of an attention riveting kiss staring down to see Veronica's face and cleavage while she took advantage of the moment to remind me of a few details that might be relevant to the case.

"Hold on, buster. You got me thinking you've forgotten about the other families doing business around here. Suppose you get all tangled up in Tony T and that's exactly what Tony's enemies want." She smiled in a way that eased the residual pain away, "Besides, I know Vincent's been busting your balls on your ex, but she told me a few things that got my interest. You know? Stay alive."

It's always amused me what feelings can give you wings. I could only hope that it didn't cost me that edge, and that the next bullet wouldn't strike something a little more significant. There was no reason to give Veronica too much of my cobwebbed thought process if it cut that train ride shorter for the distraction. So what was Tony's competition doing these days?

I could think of three mobsters offhand. I could just call them and ask....

Wait. Call.

The Super had a cell number for Kat.

Did she have a cell phone on her?

A quick check of the records confirmed: no.

Could this be the clue that narrows the suspects?

I sure as hell hope so, or it's gonna be a long long day...

My suspicions read like the RSS feed of a prolific blogger, short snappy headlines leading nowhere directly. I needed to relax and get some perspective or I'd be a witch hunter burning unnecessary villains at the stake and probably shortening my own life for it. Despite the overwhelming paranoia pulsing through my body that my case was sneaking away from me while I looked the other way, I went to my apartment and grabbed a beer as I logged into my favorite online forum.

I scrolled through a few comic book surveys of the typical kind. Superhero X versus Superhero Y, who would win? Well it depends on which writer you used to define which hero and what sort of advance notice they got. I viewed some original artwork with no shame as topless busty females loaded slowly. There were fiction writers circles with plots that described lives not unlike mine, written half random and ultimately making more cohesive sense than my life did. I checked my PMs futily since I could see from the get go that I had no new messages. Muffins hadn't logged in for three days. I had been hoping to get to know more about her.

She had spoken of being hassled online by some of the male folk, but that's gonna happen on the internet. I just wanted a cup of coffee with a person I could meet without Kevlar on. How silly, after this love handle piercing, I think I would wear Kevlar anyway. But like most of my life, this particular thread may have just died with no warning. I'd wait for a few more weeks before declaring the subject dead though.

I admired some anonymous forum user's bountiful bosom, shut down the computer and moved to my la-Z-boy. I eased myself in the seat until I heard a subtle click, freezing me in my position and bringing a cold sweat to my brow. Somebody really didn't like me, and now I had to play the disarm the bomb game. Or maybe my mind was just playing tricks on me. That occurred to me as well, though the thought did little to comfort me.

My hand went clammy on the genuine naugahyde of my favorite chair. First, check for the obvious. The remote was where it belonged, in its little holster on the arm of the chair. Phone was in its cradle recharging. I could think of nothing else in the room that could make that kind of click.

Could I reach the phone without shifting my weight? I carefully, and painfully - as it made my bandage tug - slipped off my show and brought my foot up high enough so I could reach my sock. (Damn. Another hole in the toe. Stupid discount socks.) I worked the sock off with one hand while bracing with the other so I wouldn't move. With toes finally free I slowly stretched my foot to grab the phone by the stubby little antenna. Prehensile toes run in my family, thank god, and I grabbed it on the first try. The trick was to keep it grabbed until I could get it within hand's reach. I managed to get the phone just as a foot spasm made my leg straighten out. That was too close.

I decided to call the bomb squad directly, rather that 911 or headquarters.

Heather answered. Sweet.

"Don't hang up. This is an emergency."

"Everything is an emergency with you, smart guy!"

"Really an emergency. I'm sitting on a bomb."

Her voice went professional in a half heartbeat. "Where are you?"

"Home."

"Don't move." She hung up and almost instantly I could hear sirens. Lots of sirens.

Shit. The door was locked. Heather gave back her key. More explaining to the landlord. Third door this year. Damn.