Free Dark Places by Linda Ladd

know yet.”
    â€œWhere’d they find him?”
    I watched Black shake his head. He did not look thrilled. He said, nope, muttered, “Well, that kisses Paris good-bye.” He got up and headed for the bathroom. A minute later the shower came on.
    Bud said, “Somewhere out around that school he works at. One of the instructors slid off in a ditch last night, and when the wrecker showed up this mornin’, they found a corpse in the woods. How long’s it gonna take you to get ready?”
    â€œFive, ten minutes tops.”
    â€œPut on somethin’ warm. It’s freakin’ freezin’ out there.”
    I was out of my robe and into jeans and a black turtleneck before the line went dead. I pulled on a clean gray sweatshirt with SHERIFF DEPARTMENT on the front in glow-in-the-dark yellow, pumped with excitement at getting back to work in earnest. I do love my job, even in snow and ice and frigid weather and Christmas traffic. As I sat down and pulled on thermal socks and worn black-leather combat boots, I heard Black brushing his teeth. Now I had a legitimate excuse not to go to Gay Paree and mingle with all the French America-phobes. Besides that, my book for him would look even more paltry on top of the Eiffel Tower with all those sparkling Christmas lights and panoramic views of the Seine River. The pirouetting swans would have to live without me, too.
    Black was back, hair combed, wearing a cream-colored sweater and denim jeans, smelling like Irish Spring soap, alert and ready to jet. “I take it they found that guy you’re looking for?”
    â€œThey found a body they think might be Classon. Bud’ll be here any minute.”
    â€œWas he murdered?” Black was into murders, too. Big-time. Gave him fodder for the forensic psychiatry cases he dealt with when he wasn’t busy playing shrink to Hollywood stars and abused political wives. Nick Black, Man of Many Talents. Plus some.
    â€œNot sure yet, but it looks like it.”
    â€œGuess that means I’m headed to Paris solo.”
    I picked up my badge and dropped the chain around my neck, then retrieved my well-worn leather shoulder holster from the bedside table. “Yep, sorry, maybe I can tag along with you next time.”
    â€œI’ll hold you to that, Morgan.”
    While he finished dressing, I threw some cold water on my face and brushed my teeth, then retrieved my 9mm Glock from underneath my pillow. Since my last case, the hair-raising, Hellraiser -ish one, I prefer to sleep with my weapon. Black doesn’t mind because he was there last summer, so he sleeps with a loaded gun nearby, too. Legal, of course, since Missouri enacted its new concealed-weapons law. He carried one before that, too, but I chose to overlook it. Black watched me strap on my shoulder holster and slide the Glock snugly into its bed. I secured the snap, and no longer felt naked.
    â€œMan, what is it that’s so damn sexy about a woman wearing a shoulder holster?”
    â€œMaybe if you’re a good boy, I’ll wear it to bed when you get back.”
    â€œGood God, Claire, give me a break. It’s hard enough to take off without that image dancing in my head.”
    We laughed together but waited to say our good-byes downstairs in my huge, glassed-in front porch, which looked even more huge and glassed-in in the light of day. We had two or three minutes tops before Bud arrived, so we took full advantage of it with lots of rubbing around and kissing and touching and heavy breathing. When Bud’s white Bronco nosed around the bend, Black stepped back. “Okay, I’m out of here. Be safe. Duck and weave, and all that.”
    That was Black’s way of telling me to be careful, sort of an inside joke. He grabbed an aluminum travel mug with the Cedar Bend Lodge logo, filled it with coffee, pulled on his heavy black parka, and headed for his slick Cobalt 360 cabin cruiser docked in all its magnificence at