Miss Valentine

Her candy apple ass lay exposed on the bed. Ray let out a sad sigh. He could recognize her from this angle, even though their relationship was strictly professional. No one could mistake those Valentine hips.

Still, seeing her lifeless body—naked and discarded—was a shock to Ray. He knew she had had a rough life, and from the looks of the abrasions and bruises that marked her dead body, she had struggled in the end, too. Elise was a call girl. It could’ve been a John who got too rough. But her ties to the Holman case were too strong. There was no way this could possibly be an accident.

Ray picked up her purse and took out her little black book. He recognized the bag. It the same one she had carried years ago when they first met. At the time, he was a lowlife PI—snapping photos of secret rendezvous, exposing countless marital affairs for mere peanuts. Later he’d call a few of her clients to see if he could find any leads. He’d call a few of her better customers to let them know she was gone.

She was gone. That was the harsh reality of it all. Ray took another solemn exhale. Today, he had lost one of his best informants. Today he lost his best friend.