Free Passion Patrol 2 - a Sexy Police Romance Suspense Novel With a Touch of Humor: Hot Cops. Hot Crime. Hot Romance. by Emma Calin Page A

Spencer. He needed a shave and his intelligent hazel eyes conveyed a sad weariness.
    “Hope you’re staying out of trouble down here. There’s been no crime here since records began and now there’s a body in a ditch as soon as you arrive.”
    “Trouble finds me.”
    “Love the hairdresser’s jeep. How the hell did you swing that?”
    “Things aren’t quite normal in these parts.”
    “Really?”
    “There’s Spencer—the earl....”
    “Yes....”
    “He kinda swings things.”
    “Like you’re kinda swinging him?”
    “No.”
    “Shannon, you changed the tone of your voice. It shows, Sugar. I’m a bloody detective. No way would they give a plod that vehicle. So the earl is caught in your tractor beam. He might as well surrender.”
    “Aristocrats don’t surrender. They fall on their swords and get cremated on their shields.”
    “So what’s he like?”
    “Big guy, dark hair, forty-one years old. And he needs you far more than he needs me.
    “He’s gay?”
    “He’s a cricket nut. He needs a player for Sunday. My dad can pick you up.”
    Mel glanced at her and took another slug from his beer.
    “Yeah, it’ll be great. Thanks for asking me,” he said, reaching out a hand to squeeze hers. His loneliness had started to eat him alive.
    As they ate the curry and drank too much beer Inspector Lilly phoned to tell her the post-mortem was at 10:30 a.m. at the Croydon mortuary. She gave a little shudder. Dead bodies and intestines were not her favorite element of police work.
    “Why you gonna be there?” asked Mel.
    “I feel involved. I want all the info while it’s fresh.”
    Mel looked at her shrewdly. “She’s got road traffic injuries. She’s an illegal fallen off a truck.”
    “But why there?”
    “Why anywhere? We ain’t gonna know. If you were in charge of the case where would you start? You might find out she came in on a Romanian truck towing a hired Belgian trailer. How many men could you commit to it?”
    “I feel lucky,” she said.
    “If you get lucky just share it with the big boys and be a good village cop.”
    “I’m allergic to cats.”
    “Too bad.”
    “I do want your help with a case.”
    “Shoot.”
    “Spencer’s son was nicked for possession of cannabis. I don’t think he knew the stuff was in his pocket. Can you get me the file?”
    “So, he had his mate’s coat or the copper planted him up or what?”
    “There’s a something and I want to check it out.”
    “Cos you’re loved up on his dad?”
    “No. Because I believe him.”
    “That’s good enough for me. Give me the details.”
    She scribbled them down and put them in his jacket pocket. Then she warmly kissed his cheek and left him to the sofa and her spare duvet.

Chapter 7
    She watched the careful dissection process. She had showered and had dressed in a one-piece disposable white suit and a plastic hair cover. Only her eyes were visible. The body lay like a discarded doll on a stainless steel table. What life had that poor child known? What tears had she cried? Had she hugged her mum and dad and set out for some dream of a new life? Was there a silent phone in a foreign place watched by a desperate boy?
    The pathologist worked with two assistants. Methodically the information that added up to a human being was revealed.
    Oriental female, moderately undernourished. Weight 42 kilos, height 160 centimeters. Age 19 to 22 years, all teeth present, no tattoos, surgical scars, or indications of pregnancy or birth. Sexually experienced. Menstruating at time of death. Weight of brain 1290 grams. Cause of death, internal bleeding due to frontal impact to chest and head. Large loss of skin on left leg and face. No indication of violent penetration. Stomach contents poorly digested.
    Shannon’s ears pricked up. She had eaten not long before death. She watched the pathologist dip his fingers into the flesh, sniff, and separate the material into a bowl.
    “Fish fingers and beans at a guess,” he said.
    She felt an