Aphrodisiac Read Online Free Page A

a sec. That was a nickname Gwen had given to me. The sa-zi-ga were ancient Mesopotamian remedies and incantations used primarily to cure men’s sexual difficulties. Yep, even four thousand years ago guys had problems with their dicks. According to Gwen I was a contemporary version of a sa-zi-ga priestess.
    When I thought about it, addressing her final note to me seemed a reasonable thing to do. I had keys to Gwen’s place. She must’ve assumed I’d be the first one to check in on her as the days went by. But only one day had passed before her body was found in the water. At least that’s what the police said. And because there was ID in her fanny pack, the cops went straight to Gwen’s next of kin. Darryl.
    I read through the poem again and noticed another line: “The loyal sentry of my youth.” That couldn’t be referring to anyone else but me. But why didn’t she just use my real name? Why hide it? Why not say, “This is my farewell, Saylor”? Was Gwen’s artistic nature the reason? Or was she trying to tell me something she didn’t want anyone else to know?
    I had an ominous feeling about this.

    ***

    One great thing about moving into my aunt’s place was the fact that I could give up paying a colossal rent for a dingy closet-sized office at Eleventh and Broadway. Her DUMBO loft came with a home office just perfect for my private therapy clients. And, oh, those windows. All that sunlight pouring in had to have a positive effect on client morale. On the wall was an abstract painting done by my aunt back in her expressionistic period at the Art Students League. It was awful, but it came with the room, and I didn’t have the heart to remove it. In the corner was a futon sofa bed that my aunt sacked out on during those nights she came into the city.
    The open floor plan of the loft and walk-thru kitchen allowed for speed when traveling between my office and the refrigerator. I could zing to the food zone, down a mouthful of pasta salad and be back in my chair before my clients returned from their trip to the bathroom. Of course, there was the time Marjory Lolopps gave me a strange look and said, “Eew. Is that a noodle on your sweater?”
    My Wednesday noon session was with a dental hygienist I’d been treating for Hyperactive Sexual Desire. Kim assured me she’d gone past the G-spot and was now on her way to H. As soon as we finished, I stuffed a printout of Gwen’s poem into my purse, spritzed on the bold scent of Stella and hopped into the Salsa red Camry Binnie and I had bought from her cousin. I drove to the Seventy-fourth Precinct. It covered the area of Red Hook where Gwen had been living. And where she died.
    Detective Dan Roach had a heavy Brooklyn accent and puffy eyes that spoke of too much caffeine and not enough sleep. “Just to make sure I understand you, you’re referring to the floater we found in the basin last month. Suicide victim.”
    “Victim, yes. Suicide, no.” Dressed in a beige linen suit with a snug-fitting blazer and A-line mini, I sat in an office chair beside his desk, trying to sound direct and businesslike. Men weren’t always inclined to take women seriously when we acted like, well, like women.
    All around us, cops at gray desks drank their coffee. Loud voices talking, phones ringing, air conditioners buzzing. “So, you’re saying the robbery of your apartment and a group of men chasing you on the streets at two a.m. have something to do with Gwendolyn Applebee?” His gaze never left my legs. It’s hard to sound businesslike to a man when he’s talking to one of your body parts.
    I tugged at my skirt. “Correct. Don’t you see? Binnie and I were her best friends.”
    He gave me a blank look. “So?”
    “That’s only the beginning, Detective. I also know that Gwen would never want herself to be found wearing one of those marsupial things. A fanny pack. She had style. I mean, occasionally her taste in clothing was truly abominable. There was her cargo pants