James Conway - In Cold Blonde

team.

“She was blowing him,” Ryan said, the picture now crystal clear.

“Wow,” Syd said. “This chick has got some serious cohones of her own.”

“Any chance of DNA on the penis?” Ryan asked.

Liz shook her head. “Just his. I found traces of an antiseptic on the skin. Looks like she wiped it down before cutting it off.”

“She must’ve really hated this dude,” Syd said. “I mean, talk about premeditated. She picks him up in a bar, seduces him in his car, gives him head before killing him, takes out a scalpel, gloves and antiseptic and goes to work. And then taunts us with a 2 carved into his chest.”

Ryan shook his head. “Something’s not making sense. If she hated him enough to rearrange his body parts, wouldn’t he have recognized her? Known her?”

“You thinking Colin’s girlfriend, Abigail?” Syd asked.

“An obvious place to start, but maybe too obvious.”

Liz said, “She could just be a freak who hates men. Then the 2 would make more sense. She’s decided to rid the world of men, one cock at a time and she’s keeping count.”

Ryan considered. “Makes more sense than someone killing all her old boyfriends, but at this point, anything’s possible. I just hope we find victim number one before there is a victim number three.” Ryan started for the door, Syd on his tail.

“Hey, Ryan,” Liz called after him. “One more thing.”

Ryan turned. “Anything, Liz.”

“Can I borrow a million bucks?”

“Oh, shit, you heard.”

“Everyone’s heard, Ryan. Congratulations, baby. But be careful, you’re about to have a whole bunch of new best friends.”

The L.A. County Morgue is on Mission Road near downtown L.A., about a fifteen- minute drive from Ryan and Syd’s Hollywood office. They were still in Ryan’s Mustang; they hadn’t had a chance to go the station and switch to their LAPD issued Crown Vic. But they were headed there now.

“You ever hate a guy enough to want to cut his dick off?” Ryan asked.

“Yes,” Syd said before she could stop herself. Syd’s stepfather wasn’t the only one to have abused her. There were scores of men.

But Syd wasn’t ready to tell Ryan about that part of her life, yet.

If ever.

“Whose dick would you have cut off? Have you mentioned him?”

“No,” Syd said, then she fashioned a lie. “He was just some creep from high school; he pretended to like me just to win a bet with some friends. Broke my heart.”

“Asshole.”

“Do me a favor, Ryan. Don’t ever break my heart.”

Ryan answered without thinking about it. “I won’t, I promise.”

Four words. I won’t, I promise. Ryan said them because it’s the kind of thing you say when you’re really just telling someone what they want to hear.

Syd heard an oath.

They would both remember those four words for a long time.

“Something’s up,” Ryan said as they pulled up to the Hollywood Station. News vans clogged the street and a pack of cameras and reporters blocked the sidewalk.

“Maybe the mayor’s inside,” Syd said, then noticed the hungry look in the reporter’s eyes. “Or the governor.” They parked in the lot, climbed out of the car. Ryan carried Colin Wood’s laptop, Syd had Wood’s check and appointment books. They headed for the back door.

“That’s him,” one of the reporters called, pointing. “Hey, Ryan!” she started jogging toward Ryan and the others followed, also calling out to him.

“This can’t be good,” Ryan muttered as they were surrounded. Ryan knew most of the reporters; he’d given many interviews over the years.

The pretty blonde from CBS asked, “How’s it feel to be the richest cop in L.A.?”

The redhead from ABC, “The richest cop in the world!”

NBC’s brunette, a former beauty pageant winner who Ryan dated briefly asked, “We heard you won fifty million dollars.”

FOX’s ponytail, “I heard a hundred million.”

Syd watched the chaos, amused as Ryan held up his hands. “Hold on, everyone. Quiet, please!”

Reluctantly, they all shut up. Ryan’s eyes flicked from one reporter to another, from one camera to another, all staring at him, expectantly. He milked the moment then said, “No comment,” and plowed through the cameras.

“What about the murder, this morning?” NBC’s brunette asked. “What can you tell us?”

Ryan turned back to the pack. “Nothing yet, we’re still awaiting notification of next of kin.”

“The bartender said he was an actor.”

“In this town, isn’t everyone?”

“One last question,” ABC’s redhead called out. “Are you married?”

“Only to my work,” Ryan said. Then he swiped his ID card in the reader, threw open the back door and disappeared inside, Syd in his wake. He slammed the door behind them. “Fuck, how’d they find out about the lottery?”

“Good news travels fast.”

Ryan wasn’t so sure it was good news.

“Think about it,” Syd said as they headed for the Homicide bullpen. “A few hours ago a handful of cops at the crime scene heard you won the lottery. So one cop tips someone in the media, whose assistant texts her friend at another station and in a cyber second everyone knows.”

“Cop wins money. BFD. Aren’t there more important stories to cover?”

“You don’t get it, do you? Everybody dreams of hitting the jackpot. Everybody. And whenever someone hits the Lotto for twenty or thirty or forty-six million dollars, the winners are paraded on the TODAY show, profiled in US Weekly , and trotted out in front of an eager public. It’s wish fulfillment, Ryan. People want to share your joy.”

Ryan wasn’t feeling too joyful. He was conflicted. Not only about whether he should take the money, but also whether he should he tell Syd the truth.

Syd, meanwhile, had worries of her own. “I’m not sure I liked the way they were looking at you.”

“Who?”

“Those female reporters. Usually we’re just information sources; they look at us for a story. But those prom queens with microphones were eyeing you for dinner. You just got a lot better looking, Ryan.”

“I do feel taller.”

Syd cupped her hand over his crotch. “And this definitely feels bigger.”

Ryan laughed as Syd dropped her hand and they turned into the bullpen. It was 10:00 a.m., rush hour in a homicide bureau, because even though most of the detectives spent the day on the streets conducting investigations, they started and ended each day in the bullpen. And almost every one of the sixteen desks was occupied. A hum of busy conversation filled the air, punctuated by an occasional burst of laughter. But as Ryan and Syd crossed to their desks, the conversation slowly died and then the room was quiet, all eyes on Detective Ryan Magee.

“What?” he asked.

Suddenly everyone started clapping and cheering. Ryan was popular, but now he was forty-seven million times more popular. These men and women were Ryan’s friends, and they were genuinely happy for him. And that just made Ryan feel even worse. He realized that if he said, the ticket isn’t mine, give the money to someone else, he’d be letting them down.

“Okay, okay, thank you,” he said, holding his hands up. “But tell me you don’t just love me for my money.”

That got a laugh, and after a spattering of “congratulations,” everyone got back to work.

Syd checked her email. “We got a preliminary report from VICAP on the amputated penis.” Her voice trailed off as she read. “Jeez, Louise, there are a lot of freaks out there who like to slice and dice. Ryan, there are like, fifty cases going back over twenty-five years.”