Free ANGEL'S KISS (A Dark Angel's Novel) by Lynne Stevie Page A

absurdity of the interior of the home. The ceiling, walls, and floor—even the furniture—were covered in zebra print. The contrasting colors were so vivid; the effect almost took my breath away. The wall covering wasn’t wall paper, it seemed to be some sort of fake animal fur…or at least I hoped it was fake. Wow.
    I was snapped out of my ‘welcome to bizarro world’ induced coma by Ottie’s voice coming from down the hall to my left. I pressed on, careful not to slip and fall in my bootie-covered shoes. When I got to the hallway, Ottie’s voice was louder—and floor-to-ceiling mirrors covered the walls. I felt like Alice in Wonderland down the rabbit hole.
    I shouted to Ottie as I came down the hall, but before I got to him, officer Maloran stepped out of a doorway and blocked my path. His eyes narrowed in anger. “How the hell did you get in here, Mrs. Lewis?”
    I was thankful that I’d bumped into him before I saw a dead person. It made it much easier to sound blasé.
    “I like the ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy,” I replied calmly with my hands on my hips. Ottie chuckled.
    Maloran shook his head. “Rookies. I should have known. I’ll have his badge.”
    Then he sighed. “Well, now that you’re here, I’d like to hear your explanation. What’s your involvement in this case? Your associate here,” he said, jerking his thumb in Ottie’s direction, “won’t give me a damn thing.”
    With a small smile to Ottie, and my hands still on my hips, I answered. “At the moment we are under no obligation to release any of our information to the police. We have a strict confidentiality policy to protect our clients. Plus, how can I have an opinion when I don’t know what’s happened?”
    Maloran’s eyes turned challenging. Then he held out his arm in a grand gesture, allowing me to walk into the room he’d just left. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ottie take a step forward as if to protest, but I continued through the door.
    I had to shade my eyes from the glare. Bright golden light hit me the moment I walked into the room. The walls, ceiling, and floor were covered in small, shiny gold tiles, like mosaics. Even the windows were draped with gold chains for curtains. I couldn’t focus on anything but the glare.
    Then I saw Philip Janeck. He sat directly across the room at a glass-top desk, which showcased an overly ornate gold desk set to match the room. Janeck was naked, and his tan skin stood out in direct contrast to the golden glow of the room. His arms rested on the glass, and he held a gold pen in his right hand.
    Janeck’s head was hanging down as if he were trying to see something he had written. I stepped closer to see what it was, but I stopped when I realized why his head was hanging so low. Someone or something had torn—not cut, but torn—his head almost completely from his body. It was just hanging by threads.
    He looked like a wax figure in one of those old movies with fake muscle and meat curled upward and away from the roughly ripped skin. The injury didn’t look real because there was no blood anywhere. His young body was beautifully placed, with not one speck of blood to ruin the look of his sculpted masculine form. I remembered when I’d met Philip at the restaurant, the heat in my blood, how he’d whispered in my ear, “another time perhaps.” That had been so real. This scene was not. I kept waiting for someone to yell “CUT! We got the shot, everyone can go home now.” But Philip was home, and he wasn’t going anywhere.
    My head began to hurt with a sharp, buzzing feel, and that’s when I realized that Philip hadn’t died alone. Mrs. Palma Janeck was all over the room, like she’d been tossed in different directions. Her arms were in the corners on either side of the large, gold-draped canopy bed, and then I saw her torso on the floor. I’d almost stepped on it in my dazed attempt to get a closer look at poor Philip. When I turned to get the hell out of the