Holy Hell (Lillian Byrd Crime Series Book 1) by Elizabeth Sims

Author:Elizabeth Sims [Sims, Elizabeth]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Spruce Park Press
Published: 2011-05-25T04:00:00+00:00

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Greg Wycoff remembered me and readily agreed to meet me for coffee at Delia's on Woodward, a chrome-and-countertop diner that's been there so long there are dinosaur tracks in the parking lot. He looked as I remembered him, neat and trim with a confident air, like a football coach at a private prep school. He didn't seem the slightest bit surprised or insulted by my interest in his disgrace. A film of reserve veiled his eyes, yet deep in them I saw a barely concealed eagerness to dish.

After shaking hands we took a table at the back and ordered coffee. He ordered a BLT as well.

"I really appreciate your meeting with me," I began as soon as Delia had brought our cups, steaming from the big Bunn shrine behind the counter. "Most reporters are liars, but for whatever it's worth, I give you my word that this talk will stay entre nous."

He cocked an appreciative eyebrow at the French term, which I'd thrown in with just the right shade of conspiratorial gravity. You never know what will ingratiate you with a source. Something very slight can do it.

"I come to you because you're—well, you're a man of certain experience."

He nodded in acknowledgment.

"Um, do you miss being a mortician?"

"Horribly. I miss it horribly."

"But you still have connections?"

"A few." He made a gesture as if to say, It's all right, go ahead.

"OK, here goes. I want to learn about people who mess with dead bodies."

He swirled cream into his coffee and squinted into it.

"I mean," I went on, "I guess there's more than one reason people want to get their hands on dead people. Right?"

He sipped his coffee and said, "Most people are in it for the sex. What's your angle, sweetheart?"

"I found out a secret about a recent murder."

"Something about the body?"

"Yes."

"I see. You've got an inside bit of information on something, and I can guess what it is, but I won't yet." He paused, then said, "Death is second only to sex in the fascination it holds for people. And when you combine them, you get the ultimate peak experience."

"Yeah?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Excuse me for being obtuse, but how do you—how does a person have sex with a body?"

"Oh! It's easy! Like falling off a log. First of all, if the body's been autopsied, you need some towels handy because there's going to be quite a lot of fluids, and—"

"Stop! I'm sorry! I'll use my imagination. So most people are in it for the sex. What about the others?"

His sandwich came, and he lifted it to eye level to inspect it. Then he bit into it, showering crumbs down into his napkin. I gazed at the traffic on Woodward. A wino lurched past, open-mouthed.

Greg Wycoff swallowed and said, "Well, you know how there's a black market in Nazi artifacts, like crafts made from Jewish corpses?"

"No!"

"You've never heard of it?"

"No! God almighty! I mean, I've heard that the Nazis made lampshades out of people's skin and so on, but I guess—I would've thought all those things would be destroyed by now.

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