Anne Frasier - Play Dead

The building was haunted. That's what people said.

Flora believed it, because she believed in ghosts and if any place was haunted, it would be Mary of the Angels.

"Maybe he's new in town," she said into her cell phone. "Maybe nobody told him about it."

"Don't go, Flora," Enrique begged. "Come home."

She smiled. It was sweet of Enrique to worry about her.

"I'm going to check it out. If anything seems weird, I'll leave."

"Keep your phone handy."

She told him good-bye, and tucked the phone back in her purse, leaving it open for easy access.

David was the customer's name. She'd written it in her schedule book under the date.

She found his apartment number taped to the intercom system. Nearby, the heavy scent of tangled wisteria begged her to stay outside.

She pushed the button and the door buzzed. She entered and took the stairs to the correct floor.

She didn't have to knock. He was waiting for her, door ajar.

Dressed in faded jeans. Barefoot. Shirt unbuttoned, tails untucked. His hair was sticking up in every direction, as if he'd been raking his hands through it again and again.

"Don't let the cat out," he said thickly, stepping back as she entered.

She closed the door behind her, listening for any sound beyond the living room and kitchen. "Anyone else here?"

The place smelled like a litter box. But at least the guy had a cat. A guy with a cat was harmless, right?

He frowned, as if he didn't get the question or its purpose. He shook his head.

"I like to ask," she explained, dropping her purse on the counter. "If there's more than one person, I don't stay. You know what I mean?"

"That you're a one-guy woman?"

"That's right. One at a time." More than one could get ugly. More than one could get dangerous.

"You're in luck," he said. "Because I'm a one-woman man."

He was making a joke.

"You're cute," she said suspiciously.

Most of her clients were gross. They were often fat and bald, and they sweated profusely with the kind of nervous perspiration that smelled so bad. They were usually businessmen with wives and kids. She rarely got cute ones. When she did, they always wanted her to do something she didn't want to do, and she usually ended up running.

"So what's wrong with you?" she asked. Should she get the hell out of there? "What kind of weird shit you into?"

"I'm antisocial."

She laughed. A real laugh. "That's why you called me?"

"I'm not going to go to a bar and pretend to be interested in a girl just so I can have sex. I have no interest in socializing. That's all. Too much work." He waved a hand. "Too much trouble. This way there is no pretense. Nobody gets hurt."

He was okay. Just wasted. Really wasted. Barely able to stand, wasted. "Did you see our price list?" she asked.

Some of her associates played fantasy games with the customers. Flora never pretended it was anything more than what it was. A business transaction. Payment for goods received.

"We take cash or credit. No checks. Pay is by the. hour. If we go as much as one minute over sixty, you pay for another full hour. Those are the rules."

"I might want you to stay all night."

"Night's almost over"

He glanced at a window, as if the news surprised him. "Until I have to leave for work, then."

She shrugged in signature prostitute lingo, then followed with the cliche, "As long as you're paying. And just so you'll know, that payment is for my visit. Sort of a consultation. The sex is free." All legal that way. Or kind of legal.

"Want something to drink?" he asked.

"How about a glass of water?"

With slow, deliberate movements, he filled a glass and handed it to her.

"I like your place," she told him.

Now it was his turn to laugh. "You're kidding, right?"

"It's creepy, and I like creepy things." She took a swallow of water and strolled around the room. "I'll bet a lot of people died in this building."

She put down the glass and pulled her white, gauzy top over her head, dropping it on the floor. "Bedroom this way?" she asked, heading down the short hall and peeking into the only other room in the apartment. It was dark, with a rectangle of light from the living room spilling on the floor. "You haven't lived here long, have you?"

"Three months."

"You need something on your walls." There was nothing but a bed with rumpled white sheets, and a dresser. "Posters or something."

He came up behind her. "What's this?" He touched a small, circular, raised area on her lower spine that was exposed by low-slung black pants.

"Amojo."

"Mojo?"

"It protects me from evil."

"Evil… is everywhere."

"That's why I need a mojo."

"A little scar… won't protect you."

"It might."

"You talk too much," he said.

"Oh, that's right." She turned in his arms. "You don't want any socialization."

She smiled at him. He smiled back.

He was so damn cute! He took her fucking breath away.

They stripped.

He had an athletic body.

Not a spare ounce of flesh.

Swimmer? Runner?

All sinewy muscles just below a smooth layer of skin.

She produced a condom.

He wasn't too drunk to put it on.

He cupped her waist with his hands. He tasted her breasts.

She dug her fingers into his damp arms, and lifted herself closer.

He smelled like beer and soap.

He was intense. Alive. Electric.

"Lie back on the bed," he said softly, gently, as if he cared about her.

She tumbled backward, and suddenly imagined that she wasn't a whore, and that they'd met somewhere else. At the office. No, jogging through Forsyth Park. They saw each other every day. They always smiled and said hello. One day he asked if she'd care to join him for sweet tea in a little nearby cafe\ A week later, dinner.

"I'll bet somebody died in this room," she whispered against his jaw. "Maybe in this very bed."

"You're weird."

"Thank you."

"I'm dying right now."

They fell in love.

After the jogging and the caf6 and the dinner, they fell in love.

She was a nurse.

No, an art student at SCAD. He was-

He slipped inside her.

She had a moment to marvel at the sensation. Because she was a young art student. Not a virgin, but not very knowledgeable when it came to men and sex.

"You're shaking," she said. His body was trembling.

"I haven't had sex in a long time."

"How long?"

"I don't know."

"A couple of weeks?" she guessed.

"Years. It's been years."

Years. "Oh, sweetie." His confession made her feel special, made her feel in some way… brand-new.

She wrapped her arms around him, sheltering him, lifting herself to meet his strokes. She was a young art student; he was her dark, mysterious lover.

Gould was late.

Elise sat at her desk in Police Headquarters, reading a clipping about the first misdiagnosed death that had also ended up at the morgue. Name, Samuel Winslow. The subject had lived only a few hours after being found. In the article, the EMT said the body was lifeless and that he'd detected a strong odor, like decomposing flesh.

"Eyes were fixed," he said. "The skin on the arms was purple due to lack of blood circulation. I checked for a pulse in the carotid artery, but couldn't detect anything. The subject presented all the signs of death, and any medical professional in my position would have made the same presumptive diagnosis," the EMT said in his defense.

Her phone rang. It turned out to be Seth West, a coworker of Truman Harrison's-one of the last people on her interview list.

"Truman and I ate fast food the day he died-or the day we thought he died," Mr. West told her. "He had a hamburger, fries, and a soda."

"Any fish?" Elise asked. "Or seafood of any kind?"