Free Their Summer Heat by Kitty DuCane

figure that?” asked Bates.
    “It takes lots of force to break a neck, and you’d either have to be a highly trained and exceptionally strong woman or just a strong man. I think the movies miss-portray this act.”
    The detectives regarded her as if she were a mental escapee spouting nonsense.
    “Sorry, I’m a psych major with an emphasis on criminal psychology. And if I wasn’t a suspect, I’d ask to see the crime scene to get a feel for it.”
    “Yes, well, that’s out of the question,” said Connors. “Did either of you know Miss Swenson or date her?”
    “I took her out to a movie and dinner about three months ago,” replied Logan, “We dated, I guess, but only for a couple of weeks.”
    Summer didn’t peg Logan for a liar, but Margo expected Logan to bid on her, so Margo must have been extremely optimistic or tremendously desperate.
    The sound of something vibrating broke the silence. Bates fished his phone from his inside coat pocket and answered. A frown wrinkled his forehead then he grunted.
    “Send it to me,” he said. After disconnecting the call, he asked Summer, “Do you know Francis Montello?”
    “I believe she was one of the ladies auctioned off at the gala Friday.” Summer remembered hearing the name but couldn’t actually paste it to a face.
    Bates spun toward Max and Logan. “How about you two?”
    “Yes,” they both replied in unison.
    “Either of you ever date her?”
    “I did,” said Max. “Last year. Why do you ask?”
    Bates pulled up a photo on his phone and turned it around. “This was left on Miss Montello’s bedroom wall.”
    You’re not Summer Heat!
    Summer’s heart fell like a rock. This couldn’t be happening. This was about her? Staring at a spot on the floor, she fought the urge to wrap her arms around her waist and fold into herself. She understood emotions more than most, but at this precise moment, she didn’t have the brains to conquer her feelings, hoped focusing on the puzzle would help.
    “Same M.O.?” asked Max.
    Bates nodded.
    “This has now turned in to what’s called a spree murder, which, accordin’ to the FBI, is two or more murders committed by an offender or offenders, without a coolin’-off period.” Her voice quivered when she delivered this gem of knowledge.
    Was she supposed to have been the third victim?
    Bates eyed her as if she had a second head, but spouting facts had seemed like a good idea before she actually heard the words.
    The crime lab people came and headed straight to her bedroom.
    “I need to get some clothes when they are done.”
    “I’m not sure you have anything left, Miss Heat. All the clothes I picked up are damaged,” said Bates.
    So someone didn’t like her clothes? What psychosis was this?
    “How long have you known the Prestons, Miss Heat?” asked Connors.
    “I met Max in court Friday and Logan at the gala Friday night.” Of course, they already knew that if they’d been anywhere near a newspaper or a TV.
    “And do you always sleep with men you’ve known for less than twenty-four hours?” asked Connors.
    “Don’t answer that.” Max glared at the detective.
    “I won’t,” she replied. “Because my promiscuity is irrelevant.”
    “According to the news, you work a 900 sex number,” said Bates.
    “I do.”
    “Could any of your clients be responsible for this?”
    The way he emphasized clients made it obvious he thought she was a prostitute.
    “No. My phone number is not published, I use a call sign, and I’ve never offered any personal information to the callers.”
    “According to the paper, these two bid $100,000 each for you, and you were supposed to be the one having dinner with the Prestons, not Miss Swenson.”
    “That is correct.” Before they could ask, she forged on. “I asked Miss Swenson to take my place because I had to work.”
    And how all this was connected—because she believed it was—she didn’t know.
    “Why would you squelch dinner with two of New York’s most