Body Copy by Michael Craven

Author:Michael Craven [Craven, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery
ISBN: 0061657166
Google: Cr99NhLAq6cC
Amazon: B001QB9F76
Barnesnoble: B001QB9F76
Goodreads: 6078208
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2008-01-01T10:00:00+00:00

Nina said, “What I find amazing, about breakups, marriage . . . is that no matter how much it hurts, no matter how much you have to go through to get over it, you always, eventually, want to try again. That hope remains, even if it’s way deep down inside.”

Again, Tremaine didn’t respond. He just listened.

They walked a little more, their cars were out of sight now. Nice night, nice temperature, but probably time to head back.

Nina said, “I should probably go.”

“Yeah,” Tremaine said.

“I had a wonderful night. Thank you for dinner.”

“It was my pleasure.”

As they turned around, they faced each other. Nina looked like an image to Tremaine now, the moon making her glow, almost. A silhouette. Like a ghost on the beach.

A beautiful ghost on the beach. That hint of sadness in her eyes was there, but Tremaine thought he saw something else this time. Something else hopping around in there. But he wasn’t quite sure what it was. He knew what he wanted it to be, but he wasn’t quite sure what it actually was.

They got back to their cars and stood in front of them putting on their shoes and getting out their keys.

From the beach, from the side that they hadn’t walked down, they heard, “Yo.”

Nina and Tremaine turned around to see three men, looked to be in their mid-twenties, approaching. One 144

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Latino guy, two white guys. Gangbanger types. Tank tops, lots of tats, giant jeans. They were all sporting smug looks, and Tremaine could tell from their glassy eyes and the smell that they’d been drinking.

Tremaine said, “Can I help you gentlemen?”

The three guys laughed.

Then one of the white guys started to talk. It was the one who’d said “Yo.”

The guy said, “What the fuck you two doing up in this beach?”

This was a white guy trying to sound like a black guy.

Nina moved behind Tremaine when she heard the pro-fanity, the threatening language.

“We just came out here for a little walk,” Tremaine said.

He could feel some adrenaline beginning to pump through his veins.

“Yeah, it’s a nice-ass beach. But we ain’t here to talk about the beach. We here because we want your wallet and that bitch’s purse. So why don’t you just give it to us.”

The other two guys stood just behind the talkative one. These two looked at Tremaine and Nina and sported cocky, smug expressions.

“I’m afraid, gentlemen,” Tremaine said, “that that’s not going to happen.”

The white spokesman who talked like he was black looked down at the ground and laughed. A mocking, smart-ass laugh.

“Why don’t you quit calling us ‘gentlemen.’ That tone, I hear it, showing us disrespect.” Then he reached in his pocket and pulled out a knife. Looked to Tremaine like a knife used in the armed forces. Pretty small blade, thin 145

Michael Craven

black handle, easy to conceal. And sharp. Then he picked his head up, looking at Tremaine now, and said, “And give me your fuckin’ wallet.”

He was holding the knife up, showing it off, tilting it to the side a bit.

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