Trial by Fire by Jo Davis Page B

railing on either side of her. Her chin was tilted up, back arched, nipples thrust through long dark hair, knees bent with her heels planted into the mattress. Her legs were open wide for the camera, revealing a thick triangle at the apex of her thighs, the pink flesh of her gleaming sex.
    “My God.”
    Who would take a perverted photograph like this, then leave it in his door? With his freaking name on it?
    Julian? No. No damned way. Even Salvatore’s warped idea of a joke didn’t lean toward anything this disturbing. He shook his head. Not disturbing. Sick.
    Something was off about this photo, besides the fact some perv left it as a present. Squinting at the woman’s face, he wondered what bothered him, outside the obvious. What was missing? And then the realization smacked him in the head.
    Arousal. Howard knew what a woman who was enjoying herself ought to look like, and the tight-lipped, hollow expression on this lady’s beautiful face wasn’t it. Her eyes were . . . empty. Resigned. She might’ve been a mannequin, or a stoned-out druggie posed for a BDSM magazine.
    Or a woman who knew she was about to die.
    A memory seized him. Skyler, stumbling from the smoldering house. Retching on the front lawn.
    A b-body, in the master bedroom. It’s h-handcuffed to the fucking bed.
    Charred beyond recognition.

His hands began to shake. This wasn’t happening. The person who died last night couldn’t be the lady in this photo, because why in God’s name would anyone deposit a lewd picture of the possible homicide victim on his porch?
    He laid the awful image on the coffee table. Went straight to the phone, hit Skyler on speed dial. He had the whole team programmed in there, in case of emergency. This more than qualified.
    Skyler answered on the third ring, fumbling with the receiver. “Yeah?” he croaked, voice raspy with sleep.
    “It’s me. Howard. Sorry to interrupt your shut-eye, kid. You awake?”
    “Um . . . yeah. I mean yes, sir.” More fumbling, and a huge sigh. “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”
    His grip on the phone tightened. “I need to ask you a couple of questions about last night. The fire and the body. You with me?”
    “Got it.” A loud yawn. “Whatcha need to know?”
    “You dealing okay?”
    A hesitation. “I’m good.” The unspoken afterthought, considering , fell between them like a rock.
    “Most guys go years before having to work a scene like that. Some get lucky and never do.”
    “I’m fine. Sir.” More bite this time.
    Relief washed over him. The kid would be all right. “Glad to hear it. Listen, I need you to tell me about the bedroom where you and Eve discovered the body. Start with describing the bed.” Silence. “Tommy?”
    “What for?”
    “Humor me.”
    “The bed. Right. Ah, king-sized. Dark, maybe cherrywood. Massive, with stout posts. Paneled headboard with a fancy metal railing across the top. It had, I dunno, curly vines, leaves, and shit in the pattern.”
    Somehow, Howard’s feet carried him over to the coffee table. He stood, turned to stone, staring down at the photo he wasn’t going to touch again. “Were the victim’s wrists fastened by the cuffs through the metal vines?”
    “Yes,” Tommy said slowly. Suspicious now. “How did you know that when you didn’t go upstairs?”
    “What about beside the bed? Was there a nightstand? ” he asked hoarsely, as though he’d sucked in a gallon of smoke.
    “Two. There was an ashtray on the right-hand nightstand as we were looking at the bed.”
    Staring at the ashtray in the photo, cigarette perched casually on the lip, Howard fought the sudden urge to throw up. “Cigarette?”
    “The room was fully involved with flames, sir. With all due respect, we didn’t have time to take inventory. What’s this about?” Then, softly, “Am I in trouble?”
    “No, it’s nothing like that.”
    “What—”
    “I’ll explain when I see you Tuesday on shift.” If the whole fire department hadn’t gotten