“No. I don’t. I hate it.”
With a smile in her voice, she said, “So, it’s settled. We’ll be enemies. But we could be enemies with benefits.”
She let it hang there.
“Let’s be honest,” she said. “The sex was phenomenal.”
“Good night, Catalina.”
“Good night, Deputy. You’ve got my new number now, in case you want to revisit this conversation.”
I ended the call and slipped the phone into my pocket.
JD asked, “What was that all about?”
I smiled. “She misses me.”
“I guess that’s better than being on her hit list.”
We called it an early night. Cinnamon and Ginger tucked JD in and looked after him during the night.
I tried to put Catalina out of my mind.
My phone rattled the nightstand bright and early the next morning. I reached a sleepy hand for the device, saw the caller ID, and swiped the screen. I scratched out. “What is it now?”
“I need you to get to the country club,” the sheriff grumbled. “We’ve got a homicide.”
5
First responders swarmed the tennis court. Camera flashes bounced off the clay as Dietrich snapped photos. Brenda hovered over the remains, examining the body.
The sheriff looked on with a somber face and folded arms. A few of the country club staff members stood nearby, along with the club manager.
JD and I approached the scene. I had driven the Porsche. Jack was in no condition to drive, but he certainly wasn't going to sit this one out.
The sheriff gave him a look when we strutted onto the scene. "Shouldn't you be recuperating?”
Jack smiled. "I'm recuperated.”
The sheriff rolled his eyes.
I recognized the victim—the club tennis pro, Liam Prescott. We had met him during a previous investigation.
Liam was a handsome man in his late 20s with a square jaw, wavy blond hair, and an athletic physique that had all the women in the club swooning. Let's just say he gave more than a few of the married women private lessons, working on their off-court technique.
It looked like his extracurricular activities had caught up with him.
Liam’s face had been mangled. Repeatedly bludgeoned with the bloody racket that lay on the court nearby. His face, once worthy of the cover of a men's magazine, was now a shredded mass of flesh.
The Rolex Daytona still adorned his wrist. This wasn't a robbery—that was obvious. This kind of rage could only come from someone who knew the victim. Or knew what he was doing to bored housewives.
A few of Liam's personal belongings lined the side of the court—a fancy stainless steel thermos, his cell phone, and a protein bar.
"Who found the body?" I asked the sheriff.
"Maintenance guy," he said, pointing to a man who stood not far away, wearing an olive green work uniform.
"Do we have a time of death?"
