Hot Ink (Paranormal Erotic Romance): Book I (A Walsh Jackson Novel 1) Read Online Free Page B

She stared at the woman’s arms in particular. The green and blue design there, it was familiar to her in a way she did not yet understand. Without thinking, she took a few steps toward the bodies for a better look, but Furlong held out his arm to stop her. She had almost stepped in evidence, the pooled blood, without realizing it. A first.
    He leaned in, whispering something that only she could hear. “Are you OK, Ash?”
    She knew what his words really meant; the agent who never makes a mistake nearly contaminated a crime scene, and that he had saved the day. Jerk.
    “I’m fine, Furlong,” she lied. “I wanted to get a better look at their ink. Maybe it’s meaningful to the case.”
    Furlong motioned for Lamont, the head of Forensics. In his sterile-white collection suit, Lamont inched his way around the blood to where they stood.
    “We’ve haven’t been able to locate the victims heads yet, ma'am,” he said.
    “Interesting,” Furlong said. “Should we call in Brent from Serials?”
    Bridget held a finger to her lips. Without locating the victim’s severed heads at the crime scene, Furlong probably wasn’t the only one in the room thinking serial killer. Keeping tokens was the calling card for collectors. There was the staging of the victims, the way the pool of blood seemed to be an attraction rather than a symptom of the crime. The signs were all there–Miami had a new serial killer, but something gnawed at her.
    “Got any shots of the wound area?” she asked Lamont.
    “Yeah.” He showed Bridget and Furlong the photos on his camera disk, the pictures that showed the points on the bodies where the head was removed. The precision of the cut looked so clean and skilled, yet something seemed off.
    “Might be a good idea, Furlong,” she said. “But let’s wait for the labs. Let me know, Lamont, when you’ve got something.”
    “Yes, ma'am,” Lamont said, returning to his collection duty.
    “Do we know their identity yet?” she asked Furlong, who clearly looked ticked off over the Serials block. He’ll get over it, she thought to herself. He always does.
    “We believe the man is the owner, Bob Grim, and the woman is possibly his wife, but we won’t know anything until the DNA comes back.”
    “Is there any next of kin?”
    “Local is checking on that now.”
    “Let me know what they find out. I’d like to interview them personally.”
    Bridget took in the scene once more: the lifeless bodies, the blood, the ink, all of it. She recognized the gruesomeness, the cull of brutality. She had seen it hundreds of times in countless cities all over the country. Yet here, today, looking at these victims, she felt her skin tighten in a sickening way.
    Without another word, Bridget removed herself from the crime scene. She brushed past her detail, avoiding their looks, ignoring their questions, and pressed on toward the double-parked SUV. Connie was at wheel; she had kept the motor running. Bridget quickened her stride. The press circuit had assembled at the bakeshop across the street. It was her job to speak to them. If she left now, Furlong would get the hit of limelight. It might be too much for him; she’d have to keep one eye looking over her shoulder from now until the end of time. Bridget stopped at the curb. Her mind went blank and the waking city around her roared in her ears.
    “Whoa. What’s the rush, boss?” Connie called from the waiting car.
    Bridget walked to the driver’s side. “Move over.” She climbed in as Connie scooted to the passenger seat. Before Connie had a chance to adjust her seatbelt, Bridget was putting the car in drive and making a tire-screeching departure.
    “I just need to get out of here,” she said.
    They drove in silence as Bridget’s thoughts turned to Walsh, his rock hard body slamming against hers, and the gruesomely decapitated bodies of the presumed Bob Grim and his wife. Her one night of recklessness brought her closer to the stench of death and decay,