The Body Mafia by Stacy Dittrich Page A

this year, no sir.
    As I prepared to light my millionth cigarette of the night, a very eerie and familiar feeling came over me. It was the feeling that someone was watching me. I put my lighter down, stood up, and walked to the end of the porch to see into the side yard. Nothing. As I walked to the other end, my eyes scanned the darkness and shadows but again saw nothing. Opting not to reclaim my seat on the swing, I stood and looked out at the street before me. Someone was out there—I’d have bet my life on it.
    There had been times in the past when I chastised myself for being paranoid when this feeling came,but after learning that my instincts had been right every time, I listened to them. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that it was either the Mafia or someone related to the homeless murders watching me.
    I slowly backed up, and when I reached my front door, I turned around and went inside. If it was in fact the Mafia watching me right now, I was in serious trouble.

C HAPTER S EVEN
    I couldn’t sleep and didn’t want to stay alone in my house tonight. On edge, I paced around my kitchen before deciding to leave. Less than forty-eight hours ago, I had contemplated suicide, and now I was standing in my own home terrified someone was going to kill me. As I grabbed the keys to my personal car, a thought stopped me in my tracks—the thought of a car bomb. My car had been there all day. I had used my department-issued SUV when I drove to Cleveland.
    I dashed upstairs to my bathroom and grabbed my makeup mirror. Out of the downstairs closet came a roll of duct tape and a broom. After attaching the mirror to the end of the broom handle using the tape, I went into the garage and turned on the lights.
    Even though I wasn’t experienced enough in explosives to know exactly what to look for, I knew enough that any black electrical tape, colored wires, or any type of clock or watch would be a major clue. Lying on my garage floor, I slowly slid the broom handle with the mirror under my car. Scouring every inch, I found myself soaked with sweat despite the rapidly falling temperatures outside. Once I was satisfied there were no bombs attached to the bottomof my car, I thought about what Alan Keane had told me.
    The bomb that killed Michael had been placed under the fan belt in the engine. I needed to look down in the engine from above, since I had already looked underneath. From what I could see, there was nothing but an engine—all was as it should be.
    After slamming the hood down and tossing the broom to the side of the garage, I brushed myself off and got inside my car. My hand was slightly trembling as it turned the ignition. When I’d put the car in reverse and successfully backed onto the road, I let out a large burst of air. I hadn’t even realized I had been holding my breath. Laughing, my foot planted firmly on the brake, I was overcome by the recognition of how absurd my paranoia was. My laughing stopped when I noticed the fading black spot on the road, a spot that had been purposely ignored over the last several months.
    Why in the hell would the mob watch me? I thought. Michael was dead, so the threat was gone. There was no reason for them to watch me. Even if they had in the beginning, they would see that I had turned into nothing more than a washed-up drunk of a detective who was slowly working her way into a mental institution. No threat here.
    Nonetheless, my earlier feeling had been real. So whoever was watching me had to be related to the homeless murders, not the mob. Relaxing drastically, I put my car in drive. I decided to continue to my original destination—a local bar.
    As if driven by absolute will, I found myself sitting in the same bar where, not long ago, Michael and I had sat before making love for the first time. Rememberingthat night was not a difficult task, truthfully. Every part of the night, down to the song playing on the jukebox, was as fresh in my mind as if it had just happened