Dating Can Be Deadly

Clay put his briefcase down and his eyes leveled with mine. “Tabitha, if you’re having a discussion with the police, don’t you think it would be helpful to have an attorney present?”

“I don’t need a lawyer. This is nothing.”

The detective merely shrugged. “I wouldn’t exactly call murder nothing.”

“Murder?” Clay and I chorused.

Clay’s voice was hard and clipped. “My office. Now.”

Clay Sanderson’s office had a large rectangular desk in golden oak and I’d often visualized him tossing files to the floor and taking me next to his inbox. There was also a large window that had a stunning view of Elliot Bay. A row of pigeons sat glaring at me from the ledge like feathered jurors. In the corner of the office there was a small round glass table circled by four chairs where Clay headed and parked his rather fine ass. The detective, who definitely did not have a fine ass, followed and sat across from Clay, and I took the chair between the two.

“What’s this about? From the beginning,” Clay barked.

“Well, after we finished work at the movie theater,” I began.

“I want to hear it from him,” Clay snapped.

I rolled my eyes.

“And don’t roll your eyes,” he added.

Sheesh!

“Well, sir—” Detective Jackson leaned back in his chair and pulled a small notebook from his pocket “—shortly after midnight Miss Emery called in a situation and—”

“I did not call it in, Lara did,” I corrected and received an icy glare from Clay.

“Fine. I just won’t say anything,” I sulked.

“That would be best,” Clay said, sounding too professional for my liking. It was getting so that I was having a hard time maintaining visuals of sex in his office.

“What situation was called in?” Clay asked.

“There’s an old boarded-up building at the corner of 156th Avenue and Eighth Street,” Jackson began.

“Across from the Movie Megaplex,” Clay added.

“That’s right. Last night Miss Emery and—” he glanced down at his notes then up again “—her friend, Lara Caruth, had a sudden desire to go Dumpster diving and—”

“We did not Dumpster dive!” I shouted.

The detective smothered a chuckle and cleared his throat. “Apparently the ladies felt a sudden calling—” he sneered “—to investigate the Dumpster behind the building. Then they called in the fact that there appeared to be blood inside said Dumpster.”

“Blood?” Clay questioned. “I thought you said this was about murder. Was there a body found?”

“No, sir, there was not. That is what brings me here to discuss the matter with Miss Emery.” The detective swiveled his chair to focus granite black eyes on mine. “Somebody spray-painted a pentagram on the Dumpster and the crime lab confirmed today that it was human blood found. There was enough blood to suggest that whoever lost it, did not walk away.”

“That poor woman,” I murmured.

Detective Jackson quickly stated, “I never mentioned that the blood was from a woman.”

It was Clay’s turn for an eye roll. “I’d say she had a fifty-fifty chance of getting that one right.”

Jackson lowered his voice. “All right then, perhaps you’d like to clarify what you and your friend were doing in the rear parking lot of an abandoned building after midnight, peering into a Dumpster?”

“You don’t have to answer that,” Clay stated firmly.

“It’s no big deal.” I shrugged. “Lara’s bus stops right in front of the building.”

“That still doesn’t explain what you were doing behind the building.”

I offered the detective a pissed-off glare. “I didn’t want to go behind the building. I had a real bad feeling about it, but Lara insisted because…” Again I shrugged. “Well, just because she was curious and thought it might be like the mutilated cat and—”

“Cat?” both men chimed in unison. Uh-oh.

“Um.” I pinched the bridge of my nose with my fingers. “Yesterday after work I had my purse snatched and the guy ran through a cemetery. I had a bad feeling at the cemetery.”

“Most people have bad feelings in a cemetery.” Jackson snorted.

“This bad feeling led me to a mutilated cat lying inside a pentagram.”

Clay sucked in air through his perfect white teeth.

Detective Jackson’s gaze narrowed. “And it didn’t occur to you to mention this little tidbit of information to the officers on the scene last night?” He flipped open his notebook and demanded details. I offered him what few there were.

“I’ve been twenty years on the force, Miss Emery, and I’ve learned not to believe in coincidences.” Jackson snapped his notebook shut and buried it inside his coat. “Now would be a good time for you to tell me anything else you may be withholding.”

Clay stood abruptly. “This interview is over. Miss Emery has been more than cooperative.”

Detective Jackson left but not before uttering, “I’ll be back,” like an Arnold Schwartzenegger wanna-be.

After the detective left I realized I’d better hit the road, too, if I was going to make it to the Movie Megaplex by six.

“I appreciate that you stayed on my account, Mr. Sanderson but—” I began.

“Call me Clay and tell me about this bad feeling stuff you were mentioning.”

“There’s not much to tell. I’m not some weirdo psychic carrying a crystal ball. I just get a feeling for things sometimes, that’s all.” I shuddered and didn’t mention that this time bad dreams and foggy apparitions of a woman in a pool of blood were also included.

“Do you want to tell me about this so-called premonition?”

I shook my head. “Nothing really to tell, it was just a bad feeling I had.”

He smiled. “My grandmother used to claim to have second sight.”

“Did she make predictions?”

Chuckling, he said, “Well, her second sight was usually assisted by her love for vodka.”