Killer Summer by Lynda Curnyn (knowledgeable books to read TXT) 📕

about to ride off down the beach without satisfying my now rampant curiosity. “Officer…“ I tried to remember his name, then realized I didn’t have to remember when I jumped in front of the quad he sat on, catching a glimpse of his nameplate as I did. ”Officer Barnes?“

He stopped, turning his sunglassed gaze on me and making me very aware of my sweat-stained T-shirt and running shorts.

He lifted his aviators for a better look, and I thought I saw a flicker of interest in those baby blues he revealed.

No way. I certainly wasn’t going to win any beauty pageants in this sweaty getup.

“Hi,” I said, uncertainly. “You probably don’t remember me…”

He dropped his glasses back on his nose. “I remember you,” he replied coolly. Or maybe it just seemed cool. Everyone sounded cooler when speaking from behind aviator glasses. Beneath those aviators was a strong jaw, stubborn mouth, straight nose. Regulation cop. Where did they find this guy—central casting?

“You were at the house the night of the 10-32,” he said.

“10-32?”

“Oh, sorry.” His lips quirked ruefully. “The drowning incident.”

Definitely central casting. He had the part down pat. Still, I answered politely. “Yes, I was. Good memory.”

“I never forget a pretty face.”

Holy cow. This guy was checking me out. The breeze blew, pressing my damp shirt against my breasts. Seduction by sweat. Hey, maybe some guys were into that sort of thing.

I had never used sex appeal to my advantage. In fact, I wasn’t even sure I knew how. Still I was willing to take a crack at it. In the name of justice, of course.

Giving him what I hoped was my most winning smile, I said, “Zoe Keller, in case you’re not as good at names.” I held out a hand, which he looked at for a moment, then shook. Mmm, nice grip. “I guess that doesn’t happen every day either?”

His expression was puzzled as he looked down at our linked hands.

“A 10-32,” I prompted, dropping my hand.

“Oh, that. Actually, it happens more often than you think,” he said, leaning back on his quad. “Do you know that last summer there were thirty-seven water-related accidents in Suffolk County alone?”

I felt my eyes bulge. Maybe I was making too much out of this. “Really?”

His chest seemed to visually puff up. “Well, not all of them resulted in a DB.”

“A DB?”

He smiled. “Sorry. Dead body. But nine out of ten times, it’s usually an alcohol-related incident. Victim has a few drinks and gets into the water. Kinda like your friend there.”

I frowned. Why did this story seem so simple to everyone else? “How many people would you say skinny-dip by themselves?”

His eyebrows raised and I saw that smile tinge his lips once again. “You know, we don’t have statistics on that. How about you?”

“Me? I don’t have any statist—”

“No, skinny-dip. Ever do it?”

“Uh, no,” I replied, feeling like a prude. Worse, a sweaty prude. I didn’t care what this guy thought, I reminded myself.

Was he looking at my breasts?

Okay, maybe I did. “How about you?” I asked, even though this conversation was slowly becoming beside the point. “Ever skinny-dip?”

“Sure,” he replied. Something about the way his mouth clenched made me think he was just boasting. I suddenly wished I could see his eyes.

As if he read my mind, he lifted his glasses. “Perhaps someone should show you what you’ve been missing,” he said, his gaze intent on mine.

Uh, nope. He wasn’t boasting.

I felt my body tighten, and as soon as it did, a wave of embarrassment followed. What was I doing panting after some cop on a motorbike? I wasn’t… I wasn’t that kind of girl. Besides, I was never too good around authority figures, witness the scar over my left eye, earned when a cop tried to stop me from plowing through a police barricade with my camera during an antiwar demonstration.

I dropped my gaze to his chest, noticed it was looking rather firm under his sexy little uniform.

Maybe I was that kind of girl.

Since I was too embarrassed to find out, I got back to the matter at hand. “Let me ask you something,” I said, studying the Marine Bureau insignia on his chest, “is there any way to tell when a person drowns, how it happened? I mean, if the person was pulled under by a wave. Or, say…a person.”

He dropped his glasses back down now that I had turned to less flirtatious subjects.

“Well, generally speaking, the first thing you look for is evidence of a struggle. Torn clothes. Marks on the body.”

“And were any marks found on the body?”

“Well, I was the first officer on the scene, and I didn’t see any,” he said defensively. Then his lips firmed, as if he remembered something. “I really shouldn’t even be talking about this case.”

“Really? Why?”

“It wouldn’t be ethical.”

I bit my lip. Leave it to me to find a noble cop. But it didn’t make sense. Last I checked, all civilians were entitled to information contained in police records due to the Freedom of Information Act. I knew that much. Hadn’t I dug into files myself, while filming my doc on homelessness, when I needed information on one of my subjects who went missing three weeks before I was done? Yes, I could go the official route, but I knew it would take time. And if Maggie was murdered, I didn’t have time.

I was going to have to appeal to Barnes’s ego. And if the way his chest was all puffed up was any indication, this might have been his first big case. He couldn’t have been any older than my own thirty. He probably hadn’t handled many DBs, as he called them. “Well, maybe you can just speak generally about…about 10-32s. I just find this stuff fascinating, Officer Barnes.”

“Jeff,” he replied. Then he smiled. “You can call me that. Since we’re speaking unofficially.”

“Jeff,” I repeated, smiling right back at him. “So if there is no evidence of a struggle, that would rule out someone pushing the victim under? What