Oldest Story in the Book

One detective; one body; one past

The pillow might have hidden the carnage, but nothing covered up that smell—the smell of blood; the smell of death.

Detective Frost lifted the pillow, which had been used to muffle the gunshot. The only thing recognizable was one pearl earring—all that was left above the neck to suggest this was, if fact, Jedda Fashi.

"Jesus, Ian, who shoots someone up close with a damn hand cannon?!" It was the coroner.

He lowered the pillow back over the face. "Someone with a score to settle, buddy." He stood, clapped the man on the arm. "And you watch—in this city, it'll be a miracle if we ever find the weapon, even if we get the perp."

As he strode out the door, he literally bumped into Captain Brannigan. "Where you going, detective?"

"A drink and a think. There's something about this one..."

Brannigan, who never liked Frost, stepped aside. "Try to make it just one drink this time, Frost," Brannigan called after him.

@-----@-----@

Frost sat in a booth nursing a third whiskey sour. "One drink," he muttered. He looked out the window, but all he saw was Jedda. In her bikini and beach wrap in the Keys; in a fuzzy sweater; in nothing but her earrings.

...In another man's arms.

He stood up, threw a twenty on the table, and meandered down to the Riverwalk. He looked out over the river, but he only saw her: the pillow pushed over her face; then a hole in the pillow; then thin wisps of smoke. He may always see her in that tragic way, but one thing was sure—he'd never have to see Jedda in Brannigan's arms again!

He casually tossed his big .44 over the railing and into the water. Just in case of a miracle, he thought.

(Word Count: 300)