The Laughing Corpse - Laurell K. Hamilton [8]
“Good.” He hung up.
“Good-bye to you, too, Dolph.” I said it to empty air just to feel superior. I went back into the little room to change.
I had been offered a million dollars today, just to kill someone and raise a zombie. Then off to the bridal shop for a final fitting. Now a murder scene. Messy, Dolph had said. It was turning out to be a very busy afternoon.
3
MESSY, DOLPH HAD called it. A master of understatement. Blood was everywhere, splattered over the white walls like someone had taken a can of paint and thrown it. There was an off-white couch with brown and gold patterned flowers on it. Most of the couch was hidden under a sheet. The sheet was crimson. A bright square of afternoon sunlight came through the clean, sparkling windows. The sunlight made the blood cherry-red, shiny.
Fresh blood is really brighter than you see it on television and the movies. In large quantities. Real blood is screaming fire-engine red, in large quantities, but darker red shows up on the screen better. So much for realism.
Only fresh blood is red, true red. This blood was old and should have faded, but some trick of the summer sunshine kept it shiny and new.
I swallowed very hard and took a deep breath.
“You look a little green, Blake,” a voice said almost at my elbow.
I jumped, and Zerbrowski laughed. “Did I scare ya?”
“No,” I lied.
Detective Zerbrowski was about five-seven, curly black hair going grey, dark-rimmed glasses framed brown eyes. His brown suit was rumpled; his yellow and maroon tie had a smudge on it, probably from lunch. He was grinning at me. He was always grinning at me.
“I gotcha, Blake, admit it. Is our fierce vampire slayer gonna upchuck on the victims?”
“Putting on a little weight there, aren’t you, Zerbrowski?”
“Ooh, I’m hurt,” he said. He clutched hands to his chest, swaying a little. “Don’t tell me you don’t want my body, the way I want yours.”
“Lay off, Zerbrowski. Where’s Dolph?”
“In the master bedroom.” Zerbrowski gazed up at the vaulted ceiling with its skylight. “Wish Katie and I could afford something like this.”
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s nice.” I glanced at the sheet-covered couch. The sheet clung to whatever was underneath, like a napkin thrown over spilled juice. There was something wrong with the way it looked. Then it hit me, there weren’t enough bumps to make a whole human body. Whatever was under there was missing some parts.
The room sort of swam. I looked away, swallowing convulsively. It had been months since I had actually gotten sick at a murder scene. At least the air-conditioning was on. That was good. Heat always makes the smell worse.
“Hey, Blake, do you really need to step outside?” Zerbrowski took my arm as if to lead me towards the door.
“Thanks, but I’m fine.” I looked him straight in his baby-browns and lied. He knew I was lying. I wasn’t all right, but I’d make it.
He released my arm, stepped back, and gave me a mock salute. “I love a tough broad.”
I smiled before I could stop it. “Go away, Zerbrowski.”
“End of the hall, last door on the left. You’ll find Dolph there.” He walked away into the crowd of men. There are always more people than you need at a murder scene, not the gawkers outside but uniforms, plainclothes, technicians, the guy with the video camera. A murder scene was like a bee swarm, full of frenzied movement and damn crowded.
I threaded my way through the crowd. My plastic-coated ID badge was clipped to the collar of my navy-blue jacket. It was so the police would know I was on their side and hadn’t just snuck in. It also made carrying a gun into a crowd of policemen safer.
I squeezed past a crowd that was gathered like a traffic jam beside a door in the middle of the hall. Voices came, disjointed, “Jesus, look at the blood . . . Have they found the body yet? . . . You mean what’s left of it? . . . No.”
I pushed between two uniforms. One said, “Hey!” I found a cleared space just in front of the last