I started the Death and the Detective series from the writing prompts challenges at Creative Copy Challenge. The words in bold are the writing prompts from the challenge.
Brett retrieved the newspaper from the bushes in front of his beach bungalow, cussing another errant toss by the paper boy.
“Kid better forget any dreams of pitching in the majors,” he grumbled.
Removing the rubber band from the ever-shrinking paper, Brett laid it on the counter by the brewing coffee. He glanced over at the headline as he poured his first cup of coffee.
BEACH TOWN IS MECCA FOR SERIAL MURDERERS
Brett cussed for the second time that morning as he scanned the story under the sensationalized headline. They made him out to be some damn, quixotic avenger of victims as they ran through a list of his solved murders.
Tossing the paper aside, Brett walked to the shower. Maybe he could drown the asinine piece from his mind. He should have known that wouldn’t last long. Walking towards his desk, several cops held up the morning’s paper.
“Detective, can I have you autograph?”
“I’m sure you’ll have this solved by the end of shift, don’t you worry.”
“Suck my…,” his voice trailed off as he saw the lady shrink leaning against his desk.
“Good morning, Detective,” the sexy voice seemed to leap under his skin with its own fluttering pulse. His gaze latched on the lone freckle that kissed her upper lip.
“Doc. You slumming?” he responded, trying for a vapid delivery.
“I wondered if you would have time to talk some time today.”
“I’d rather discuss it in my office,” Maggie said in her controlled, psychiatrist voice, as she looked at her Blackberry calendar. “Would 2:00 work?”
“Schedule all your time in there, Doc,” came the facetious reply.
Raising her annoyed green gaze, Maggie clipped, “Will 2:00 work, Detective?”
“I’ll have to check my calendar. You know, the paper kind.”
“Fine,” Maggie snapped, “You do that and call my secretary.”
There were hoots of laughter as Maggie stormed back to her office. Why did she always misfire with Detective Connors? He thought he could bedazzle her with his electric, blue stare and very male attitude. Problem was – he could. Well, she would not skulk around him, feeding his massive ego, and offering the soft coo of affection he was probably used to from women.
Reaching her office, Maggie took a deep, soothing breath to pull on the professional cloak she wore so well – with everyone but the Detective. Under control, she walked through the door.
“Any messages, Autumn?”
And the doctor was in.
Detective Brett Connors sat cooling his heels in the reception area of the precinct’s psychiatrist and profiler. He had no doubt it was payback for the hard time he gave her when she was on his turf, asking for a consult.
That he should feel any guilt was a travesty of justice, but that’s just what he felt – especially with the look the Doc shot his way as she stormed out of the department. One look like that could eviscerate the strongest of cops.
“The doctor will see you now,” the Cerebus secretary frowned at Brett.
“About damn time,” he muttered, trying to keep the furious tone to himself. He didn’t want to give the lady shrink the satisfaction.
Trying not to exacerbate the situation, Brett replaced the scowl on his face with what he hoped was boyish charm – yeah, right.
“So, what did you want to talk about, Doc?”
Maggie held her power position behind her desk as she gestured to one of the two chairs in front of her desk.
“Have a seat, Detective.”
“I’ll stand if you don’t mind.”
Forcing a smile, he would not succeed with his own power play, she mused, “I’ll strain my neck if I have to keep looking up at you. Please.”
“Well, since you asked nice,” Brett smirked, easing his 6 foot 4 inch frame into a chair with slender arms no wider than the tip of antlers on a young buck. He’d be lucky if it held him – maybe that was her plan – to put him on his ass.
“We are both busy so let me get straight to the point.”
“By all means.”
“I want in on your investigation.”
“Which investigation is that?”
How did this man so easily snap her famous control? She fought hard to mask her vivacious nature of the cloak of professionalism, but oh, how the detective tested her.
It was difficult to temper her images of that squalor offering of a poor woman laying on her balcony.
“Please, Detective. I thought we agreed not to waste each other’s time. I want in on your investigation of the murdered woman, dumped on my doorstep.” Her look and tone would incinerate a lesser man.
Resisting the urge to make a bawdy remark about her use of the word “dump,” Brett tried reason instead of his usual protective, heathen humor.
“Look, Doc, I know you have more than a passing interest in the case, but you are as much of a victim as that poor girl. I don’t think it’s a good idea to mix the two.”