“Yoo-hoo, Nick!”
They turned around and spotted Lily waving from the parking lot of the mansion. She had Burt on a leash. The dog was actively circling a prime shitting spot.
“If that dog sees a squirrel, that’s the end of that tiny old lady,” Weber observed.
“Burt’s a gentle giant,” Nick promised. “He’s too lazy to chase anything but an ice cream truck.”
He waved at Lily.
She cupped her hands and yelled, “You’re at the wrong house!”
“Does she think you don’t remember where you live?” Weber asked with a smirk. The joke was on him because he was about six inches away from getting his shiny loafer dipped in glittery dog shit.
“I know, Lily,” he called back. “Detective Weber and I are just having a look around.”
Burt’s head came up at the sound of one of his humans’ voices, and he ceased squatting.
“Uh-oh,” Weber said as Burt tugged on the leash. “It was nice knowing Lily.”
“You can let Burt go, Lily,” Nick yelled. “I’ll walk him.”
Lily gave him an exaggerated thumbs-up and dropped the leash. “I’ll make some lovely cucumber sandwiches for you and your handsome detective friend.”
“Son of a bitch.” Weber looked down at his shit-streaked loafer.
Nick snickered. “I forgot to mention you should probably watch your step.”
“I do not miss you being my partner.”
“Yeah, you do,” Nick said with a smug grin.
Burt bounded up to them, grinning doofily, and Nick picked up his leash. “Let’s go find a dead body, buddy.”
“Don’t let that beast contaminate the crime scene.”
“So you admit it’s a crime scene,” Nick said triumphantly as they continued the trek up to the house.
“I admit nothing—”
He would have said more, but the slow, summer breeze shifted then, wafting the unmistakable scent of decomposition toward them.
Both men covered their noses, Weber with a handkerchief and Nick with the neck of his sweaty, sparkly t-shirt. Burt lifted his nose and sniffed excitedly.
“Could be roadkill,” Weber insisted.
“Decomp and what the hell is that?” Nick asked, taking another sniff. “It smells like someone died on the john in an old lady’s house.”
“What?”
“You know how old ladies have that dried potpourri crap and those smelly soaps?
Weber lowered the handkerchief for a second. “Oh, God. That’s exactly what it smells like.”
The breeze died, leaving them with just the heavy humidity, and they both uncovered their noses.
“I feel like I can still taste it,” Nick complained.
“You never could handle the smell of death,” his ex-partner reminisced.
