Amaretto Amber (Franki Amato Mysteries Book 3) by Traci Andrighetti Read Free Book Online

the same—like sleazy cabarets that stunk of baby powder, stale sweat, spilled drinks, dirty money, and something male, possibly testosterone. This time, however, there was also a sweet, acrid odor that I couldn't put my finger on.
    After my eyes adjusted to the redness, I scanned the rectangular room for the scene of the crime. To my left, five officers were gathered around a command post that had been set up at one of two small stages, which, except for the poles running through the center, looked oddly like dining room suites for twenty. Behind the stages, along the far-left wall, there were two men in suits, probably plainclothes detectives, who were conversing on a red, quilted, plush velvet couch that I wouldn't have touched with a ten-foot stripper pole.
    I looked to my right and saw several crime scene investigators in white coveralls and Latex gloves standing on a much larger stage next to a full bar. I figured that's where I'd find the victim.
    As I took a step forward, a hand gripped my shoulder and pulled me back. I turned expecting to see the boy cop, but instead I came face-to-face with the bastard cop who'd kicked me to the cooler, to use Ruth's term. But this time he wasn't wearing an ill-fitting uniform—he was wearing a form-fitting suit. "What are you doing here?"
    He crossed his arms. "I believe that's my line, Ms. Amato."
    Sadly, the cop had a good memory. And as much as it pained me, I needed to get on his good side to have a shot at viewing the crime scene. So, I opted for the cooperative route. "I'm a private investigator, and I'm here on behalf of a prospective client."
    He snorted and bowed his head. "A buddy of mine down at the station told me that your attorney friend said you were a PI." He grinned and shook his head. "He said you were an ex-cop too. But he was just pulling my leg, right?"
    Well, I certainly didn't want to answer that question now . So, I turned the tables on him. "What's with the suit?" I forced a half-smile. "Don't tell me you just came from church."
    The mocking grin disappeared from his face as he flashed his badge. "Detective Wesley Sullivan. Homicide."
    "You're a homicide detective?" Okay, the compliant act was off. "Then what were you doing in uniform in the French Quarter yesterday arresting innocent people?"
    "The only person I arrested was guilty," he said with a sardonic stare. "And we like to build up our police presence in the Quarter when the Irish and Italians have simultaneous street parties." His gaze bored into my eyes like a drill. "Because the Italians have been known to pick fights with the Irish."
    I bristled at his comment. That was no stereotype—that was a veiled accusation. Now the gloves were off. "Spoken like a true Irishman, Detective." I grasped my chin in a pretend pensive pose. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't the Irish the ones who are typically stereotyped as the fighters?"
    He feigned a posture of his own, putting his finger on the cleft in his chin. "Oh, that's right. The Italians are the drinkers. And while we're on the subject, is that alcohol I smell on your breath?"
    Crap . I guess I should've taken an extra two minutes to brush my teeth before leaving the house. "That's my lemon mint breath spray?"
    He pointed toward the door. "Out."
    I blinked. "But I need to see the scene of the murder."
    His pointed finger moved from the door to my face. "Do you really think I'm going to let a half-drunk PI with a flagrant disrespect for the law around my crime scene?"
    The detective had a point. "Would it help if I told you that I was leaning more toward hungover than half-drunk?"
    He put his hands on his hips, pulling back his suit coat in the process and revealing a set of handcuffs. "Would it help if I told you that I was leaning toward arresting you for disobeying an officer?"
    "Given your track record? You bet." I spun on my heels and headed for the door. And to add insult to injury, my tooth started to hurt again.
    Now the alcohol decides to