Black

Chapter 27

Chapter 27

The forensics van's lights flashed in the deepening dusk, the sky all purple and crimson smoke trails. A cool breeze rustled the hedges as the technicians gathered samples, the yellow crime scene tape lending an almost festive feeling to the area. Stan stood by watching impassively as the techs went about their task, scraping and sorting and clipping and shooting photos. Black stood next to him, with Meagan hanging off his arm like she was afraid she'd blow away, her face drawn from the events of the last few days but still undeniably beautiful by any measure.

"I don't understand any of this," she whispered for the twentieth time in the past hour and a half, after Black had knocked on the door and advised her that the police were on their way. "What does it mean?"

"It means that your husband might have been shot by someone other than the police," Black said softly. Stan's eyes shifted sideways toward them, lending a reptilian quality to his somber expression, like one of the humanoid robot warriors that Hunter had spent four sequels battling as they attempted to conquer the earth.

God, those movies stank, Black thought. No wonder the guy's career tanked. Who greenlit that kind of garbage and sank a hundred million into it? Some committee of clueless yes-men who'd never read a script in their life?

He realized that his mind was wandering and returned to the present.

"It's too early to draw any conclusions, ma'am. All we know is that there's some unexplained evidence here that may or may not have anything to do with your husband's death. Any speculation, especially by amateurs" - Stan glared at Black - "is premature."

"That's true," Black said, trying to backpedal. Meagan's sweet fragrance drifted from her blouse, which looked about ready to pop a button as it struggled to contain her full breasts, which he couldn't help but notice she'd been rubbing against him like she was hoping a genie would pop out of his hat.

"Can I have a word with you?" Stan asked, his gaze icy.

"Absolutely. Meagan, would you excuse me?"

"Sure," she said in a heart-melting, little girl lost voice.

Stan and Black walked together to the front gate, where two squad cars waited with the forensics van and Stan's unmarked sedan. Stan stopped and looked up at the trees across the street as though they contained the answer to a riddle he'd been worrying at with no progress.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he hissed through clenched teeth.

"Nothing. The woman asked a question. I gave her my best guess."

Stan shook his head. "It looks like she wants you to give her more than that."

"You picked up on that, did you?"

"She's on you like a stripper on a pole."

"You have a way with words. Like Stephen King or something."

Stan rubbed his face with a resigned hand. "Black. Cut me a break here, would you? Don't get her all riled up."

"Look, Stan, she's not stupid. She wants to know why the cops are back at her house. She deserves more than the runaround."

"And you're just the man to give it to her, huh?"

"It's not like that. She's distraught."

"Why is it that whenever I get a distraught widow she's either a crack fiend or eighty-nine?"

"Can't she be both?"

They watched as a black Bentley coupe drove by, its windows tinted dark, a vanity plate proclaiming "Frowsy" as its owner.