Anne Frasier - Play Dead

He took down the information, then appraised them both while chewing on the end of his pen. He finally narrowed his focus exclusively to David. "You're the Yankee, aren't you?"

"If I remember my history correctly," David said,

"there haven't been any Yankees in this country for well over a century."

"Yep," the agent said, giving Elise a look that was supposed to convey that they were on the same team. "He's the guy I've been hearing about."

"And what are people saying?" David asked.

"Let's go," Elise told her partner, before he said something he shouldn't and ended up with a complaint lodged against him. Spaulding obviously represented the small minority of investigators who'd gone into the business for status, and he saw David as a male invading his territory.

David refused to look in her direction. "I'll bet they've been saying I'm rude. That's it, isn't it?"

He didn't sound mad, only entertained. But he was mad. Elise could tell.

"That's right," the agent admitted.

"And that I'm not a team player."

"You said it, not me."

"And that I don't care about the cases I'm working on." David's voice was rising, his anger becoming more obvious, even to someone who didn't know him well. "And that I'm unstable. Was unstable on the list?"

"Get away from me," Spaulding told him. He looked at Elise. "Get your partner away from me."

"David." She hoped she wasn't going to have to haul him out of there by the shirt collar. "Come on."

He nodded. Without giving the agent another glance, they turned and walked toward the crime scene.

Elise thought they were home free when David spun around. "Hey, buddy!" he shouted. "The fucking Civil War is over! It's over!"

Major Hoffman would be delighted when that complaint crossed her desk, Elise thought as they turned and continued on their way.

"Sorry," David said. "But I've had it with that bullshit."

It appeared that the body hadn't yet been moved. Nude. Face up. Bloated and discolored. Caked with sand.

Photos were being taken. Agents were diagramming the position.

The GBI had good crime scene investigators. She and David weren't there to process the scene, only to observe and offer suggestions and assistance where it might be warranted.

A young woman with a blond ponytail was dressed in khaki shorts and a white T-shirt that said coroner across the back in black letters.

The victim had long dark hair. The face was grotesquely swollen and disfigured, the body mangled, most likely from the pounding of the surf. It would be hard to determine cause of death.

Everyone was engrossed in discussing elements of the situation, from tide flow to how long the body had been in the water.

"Ready for the other side," the coroner announced, a Polaroid camera in her hand. The body was rolled to its stomach.

Cameras clicked.

"What's that?" Someone pointed.

Elise and David leaned closer.

On the corpse's lower spine, half hidden by sand, was the Black Tupelo design.

Elise looked at David. He was staring at the body.

She pulled out her phone and put in a call to headquarters. "Hi, Eli. I need to know if anyone has been reported missing in the last few days. I'm particularly interested in any females."

She waited while he accessed the information.

It turned out there was one. She thanked him and slowly hung up.

David was still staring at the body, at the logo on the spine.

"Let's get out of here," she told him.

He didn't respond.

"David." She grabbed his arm.

He lifted his head, a dazed expression on his ashen face. Birds circled and cried overhead.

"We have to go," she told him firmly.

Her words finally sank in. He nodded numbly and stumbled toward her. Side by side, they trudged through the sand toward the car.

"It's Flora, isn't it?" he finally asked.

"Strata Luna reported her missing last night," Elise told him. "We didn't hear about it because not enough time has passed to make it an official missing-persons case."

"I knew it. I mean, I had a feeling right from the first. When I saw the dark hair I just had a feeling."

"Prostitutes live an untraditional lifestyle," Elise said, looking for words of reassurance. "They go missing all the time, only to turn up wondering what the fuss was all about."

"They should be able to ID the body fairly quickly," he said robotically.

She nodded. "Then we'll know."

"I was with her night before last." He glanced up to gauge Elise's reaction.

She must have appeared dismayed, because he repeated what he'd just said, this time with a twisted, self-defeated smile.

"I thought you were going to quit seeing her," Elise said. "I thought you had quit seeing her."

"She was waiting for me when I got home. It was just something that happened."

He looked in the direction of the crime scene. Toward a mangled corpse that may have been Flora. He closed his eyes and tipped back his head, as if trying to erase the image from his memory. "My life is so fucked," he whispered. "I don't know… Sometimes it feels like I'm a magnet for bad things." He straightened and looked at her, as if she might have an answer. "Who's the 'Peanuts' kid? The one with the cloud of dirt around him?"

"Pig Pen?"

"Yeah. I'm that kid. But instead of dirt, it's bad stuff. Following me around."

She should have been formulating possibilities, mentally gathering a list of people to interview. She could have at least been trying to make him feel better, but the only thing she could think about was the curse Strata Luna had put on him.

She'd always surmised that curses only worked if the recipient believed. Kind of like a placebo. Now she wasn't sure, because David was right. His life was fucked.

Starsky, of the Starsky and Hutch team, rapped on the open office door. "Got a positive ID on the Tybee Island body," he said, clinging to the doorframe.

David swiveled around in the chair so his back was to the detective.

"Flora Martinez," Starsky announced.

Something big and solid dropped in the pit of David's stomach. Even though he'd known it was going to be her, subconsciously he'd been holding out hope that it wasn't. "Thanks for the information," David said, staring at the fish screen saver in front of him.

Jesus. Flora.

Was her murder his fault? Was it somehow connected to the TTX case? Or was it the result of her dangerous lifestyle, completely unrelated to him or the investigation?

"That's not all," Starsky added. "The GBI's been looking into things, and it seems they want you brought downstairs for questioning."

David wasn't surprised. What was a surprise was how quickly they'd connected a few random dots.

He got to his feet, rolled down his sleeves, and slipped into his jacket. When he stepped into the hall, he saw that Hutch had been lurking a few feet away, practically rubbing his palms together.

The Yankee was going down.

It was a long way from his third-floor office to the interrogation room.

A regular gauntlet.

Curious workers filled doorways. People stood in clusters around drinking fountains and rest rooms. Familiar and unfamiliar faces jumped in and out of focus. In front of him, the hall was silent. But then, behind his back as he passed, whispers began.

David's personal history seemed to have taken on a life of its own, becoming an entity that filled the brick building. Everyone was talking about David Gould, discussing and debating the issue.

"I don't understand why they sent him here in the first place after being under psychiatric care."

"That doesn 't mean anything," another voice argued. "Half the force should be seeing a therapist."

Ha-ha-ha.

"Did you hear about his kid? "