Annie Seymour 01-Sacred Cows by Karen E. Olson Page A

Richard Wells in, goddammit, and I was not about to be pushed away.
    I’ve seen Trauma: Life in the ER on the Learning Channel. That’s the show where they bring in the stabbing victims and proceed to stick their fingers into the wounds to see how deep they are. But this was worse. A hundred times worse.
    Because it was Allison.
    Whoever had done this had not touched her face, and I could still see it as I drank my margarita and wanted to yell at her like her mother.
    I’d seen enough, and I backed off, nodding at Tom, turning toward the sidewalk to join the rest of the vultures. But I’d lost my appetite, even when Richard Wells smirked at me.
    That’s when I remembered I didn’t even know her last name.
    “Hey, Annie, wait up!” It was an all-too-familiar voice following me to my car. Seeing that girl like that and then hearing Dick Whitfield’s voice made me stoop down and vomit onto the curb. So much for the omelet.
    I managed to stand with as much dignity as I could, since Dick was still standing there like the moron he is.
    “You okay?” he asked.
    I snorted, not a pleasant sound. “Do I look okay, Dick? Give me a fucking break.”
    “Did you get anything?” He pointed toward the scene.
    “Yeah.” I got into my car. I had to go home and change and brush my teeth. I couldn’t think straight at the moment.
    “What’d you get? Should I stick around?”
    “Yeah, sure. Go ahead. Be my guest.” I started to pull away.
    “But what’s going on? Can you at least fill me in?”
    I stopped the car and stared at him. “There’s a body. She’s stabbed, many times. The cops aren’t saying a fucking thing. Now I have to go home and put myself together and I’ll be back.” I tried to keep the exasperation out of my voice, but honestly. He’s a reporter, too. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to do this job, even though so many have tried and failed. I really was getting too old for this crap. Not to mention I was extremely embarrassed at losing my breakfast all over the tires of my car.
    I took a long, hot shower. They’d all still be there when I got back, although the body might be gone. But that would be a good thing. The body. Allison. Maybe it had nothing to do with anything except a serial killer was after girls who worked for Hickey. Maybe Melissa and Allison were going to break out on their own and Hickey was mad. Maybe he did it. It couldn’t be David Best, not this time, since he was “being detained” as the lawyers put it.
    I shut off the water and stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around me. The face in the mirror stared back at me, and I picked up the tweezers and started pulling out the hairs between my eyebrows. If I didn’t do that periodically, I would look like the Neanderthal man, which would be a complete turnoff to any man, with the possible exception of Dick Whitfield, who probably hadn’t gotten laid since, well, since ever. I tried to think of Dick with the layers of green peeled off and decided to stop thinking about it because I’d probably vomit again.
    A clean pair of jeans and a flannel shirt over a long-sleeved T-shirt would have to suffice on a Sunday morning, since my laundry basket was overflowing and I didn’t know when I’d get a chance to do laundry. I picked up the pieces of the Times and piled them in the corner next to my desk as I dialed the all-too-familiar number.
    “Come Together.”
    “Hickey Watson, please.”
    “I’m sorry, he’s unavailable.”
    “Not to me, he isn’t,” I said. “Tell him it’s Anne Seymour. Tell him it’s about Allison.”
    “Hold a minute, please.” The words were pleasant, but the voice was cold. I started washing the coffee cups while I listened to a Muzak rendition of “Helter Skelter.”
    “Yeah? What’s up with Allison?”
    No hellos for Hickey. He’s a busy man.
    “She’s dead.” I shut the water off and put the mug in the dish drainer.
    “What?”
    “She’s dead. She’s in a parking lot