The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [227]
With renewed urgency, he pressed closer to her, undid some buttons.
“Don’t push so hard,” she whispered, squirming. “The ground is bumpy.”
“Sorry.” They wriggled on the thick myrtle, searching for a more comfortable spot.
“Now there’s a branch digging into my back.”
Suddenly she stopped.
“What?”
“I heard a rustle.”
“It’s just the wind.” Paul shifted some more and they embraced again. His fingers felt thick and awkward as he unzipped her pants, unbuttoned the rest of her shirt. Her breasts swung free and at the sight he felt himself grow even harder. He put his hand on her bare midriff, sliding it downward. Her much more expert hand reached him first. As she took him in her cool gentle grasp, he gasped and thrust forward.
“Ouch. Wait. There’s still a branch underneath me.” She sat up, breathing hard, her blond hair falling over her shoulders. Paul sat up, too, frustration mingling with desire. He could see the flattened area where they had been lying. The myrtle was crushed and beneath he could see the outline of the light-colored branch. He stuck his hand through the myrtle and grabbed it, yanking at it angrily, struggling to wrest it free. Goddamn branch.
But something was very wrong: it felt strange, cold, rubbery, and as it came up out of the myrtle he saw it wasn’t a branch at all, but an arm. Leaves slid away exposing the rest of the body, languorously, unwillingly. As his fingers went slack the arm fell away again, flopping back into the greenery.
The girl screamed first, scrambling backward, standing, tripping, standing up again and running, jeans unzipped and shirt flapping around her. Paul was on his feet but all he seemed able to hear was her crashing through the undergrowth. It had all happened so fast it seemed like some sort of dream. He could feel the lust dying away within him, horror flooding in to take its place. He turned to run. Then he paused and glanced wildly back, driven by some impulse to see if it were actually real. The fingers were partly curled, white skin smeared with mud. And in the dimness beyond, under the thick undergrowth, lay the rest of it.
TWO
DR. BILL DOWSON LOUNGED AGAINST THE SINK, EXAMINING his precisely trimmed fingernails without interest. One more, then lunch. Thank God. A cup of coffee and a BLT at the corner deli would hit the spot. He wasn’t sure why he wanted a BLT, exactly: maybe it was the lividity of the last stiff that started him thinking about bacon. Anyway, that Dominican behind the deli counter had elevated the sandwich into an art form. Dowson could practically taste the crisp lettuce, the tang of tomato against the mayonnaise…
The nurse brought in the clipboard and he glanced up. She had short black hair and a trim body. He glanced at the clipboard without picking it up and smiled at her.
“What have we here?” he asked.
“Homicide.”
He gave an exaggerated sigh, rolled his eyes. “What is that, the fourth today? It must be hunting season. Gunshot?”
“No. Some kind of multiple stabbing. They found it in Central Park, in the Ramble.”
He nodded. “The dumping ground, eh? Figures.” Great. Another piece-of-shit killing. He glanced at his watch. “Bring it in, please.”
He watched the nurse walk out. Nice, very nice. She returned a moment later with a gurney, covered by a green sheet.
He made no move toward the body. “So, how about that dinner tonight?”
The nurse smiled. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, Doctor.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve told you before. I don’t date doctors. Especially ones I work with.”
He nodded, pushed down his glasses, and grinned.