Death On the Flop by Jackie Chance Page A

elevator too many times did to me. Or maybe this was what forty felt like.
    I buried my face under a pillow for a few minutes and tried not to think about that.
    Frank’s voice was all I heard from the living room so I presumed he was either talking to himself or on the phone. I sucked in a breath and got brave, sitting up and swinging my legs over the bed in one smooth motion. I was a scary sight in the mirror, hair a matted mass, mascara smeared under one eye, crease marks on the opposite cheek. I considered showering, putting a decent face on and dressing before I went out but since Frank wasn’t interested in me that way, I didn’t bother. I mean, the bags under the eyes comment hurt at the time, but I had to say it completely dispelled the sexual tension, which was a relief (and a lot less work, frankly). The weird thing he’d said about giving me something to thank him for might have been read as a double entendre for someone who didn’t remember that comment. That someone wouldn’t be me.
    I wrapped my robe around me and padded out on bare feet to the living area. The sun was at about noon. Frank was in front of the laptop with his cell phone at his ear. I missed my cell phone. I smelled coffee and saw a steaming mug, and my mouth started to water.
    “Hold on, let me get that information for you,” Frank said into the phone. He handed it to me. “Tell them what Ben looks like, including any unique identifying marks.”
    What was this? Was he finally giving in and reporting Ben missing to the police? “My brother is, uh, forty years old, about six feet tall, weighs about a hundred and seventy pounds, has black hair and green eyes. He, uh, has a mole behind his left ear and a tattoo of a giraffe below his belly button.” Don’t ask, I issued in silent warning to Frank whose eyebrows had risen.
    “Race?”
    “No, I think he just works out at the gym and plays rugby.”
    Frank hid a smile behind his mug as he took a sip.
    “No, ma’am. I mean: what is his ethnicity?” The woman asked on the other end of the line.
    “Oh, sorry.” My cheeks burned. “Caucasian.”
    I heard some papers rustling across the phone line. Finally, she spoke, “We have two John Does matching that general description that have come in in the last twenty-four hours. Of course, neither had a tattoo.”
    My heart clutched. I stared at Frank. He looked sorry and snatched the phone out of my hand. “What was that?” He nodded brusquely. “Okay. We may come down anyway. Thank you.”
    I stared at him. This was too much for me to process B.C.—before coffee. “Was I just talking to the county morgue?”
    “Yes.” Frank was in full cop mode, no gentleness, no “I’m sorry for waking you to talk about your brother’s corpse.” “I’ve called all the hospitals in the area too and so far the morgue is the only possibility.”
    “Why? Neither Doe had a tattoo.”
    “She said that neither has been autopsied, and the check-in dude is some minimum wager who misses a lot. They just got him to get hair color right. I think we need to take a look.”
    I fell into the couch, rolled into a fetal position and buried my head in my hands. I felt his hand touch my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Bee, but investigation is a process of elimination.”
    I groaned.
    “Are you okay?”
    “I NEED COFFEE,” I said through my fingers.
    “Ah, a woman after my own heart,” Frank said, his hand leaving. I could hear him over in the bar area. “Black, cream or sugar?”
    “All of the above. Any way it comes.”
    He chuckled, returning to waft the cup under my nose. Peeking through my fingers to make sure it wasn’t a ruse, I sat up, took the proffered cup and had a sip. I already felt better. Of course, now I was hungry. “I just realized I haven’t eaten in . . .” I paused, remembering the quesadilla we’d shared while we waited for our flight, “. . . eighteen hours. Wow. That’s got to be some kind of record.” I saw his indulgent grin.