Dying To Play. Debra Webb

      Chapter 1

      This was one of those necessary little annoyances in life a woman could definitely do without, Elaine Jentzen thought glumly. And on such a perfectly beautiful day. She’d fallen in love with the day the moment she stepped out into the early-morning sunshine. The air was fresh and the sky looked bluer than she’d ever seen it before. The sun glittered like a sparkling Georgia peach climbing its way into the cloudless blanket of pure blue. The smell of spring was everywhere. But she’d had to leave her small, neat, Dunwoody home to drive across Atlanta to be here at nine sharp.

      She supposed it could be worse, though; she could be having her period and stuck on an after-hours stakeout with her partner, Hank Henshaw. Her nose crinkled instantly as her mind conjured up the odor of stale cigars and cheap aftershave.

      No, she decided as she flipped through a fairly recent issue of Working Woman, this was even worse than an after-hours stakeout.

      Elaine sat in a stiff, upholstered chair in front of her gynecologist’s cluttered desk. She waited, her patience wearing thin, for him to come in and go over his findings with her. She never understood the need for this particular part since the results of the Pap test wouldn’t be back for days. What could he tell her? That she looked tired? Overworked? She already knew those things. She worked fourteen-hour shifts most days, even the occasional Sunday. She’d accrued enough leave time to take the whole summer off, but she couldn’t…or wouldn’t, of course. Her job always came first.

      If she were at work now she wouldn’t have time to reflect on things she’d just as soon not think about. She sighed and tossed the magazine aside. She hated these appointments. That was the reason she’d waited over two years to come in for her annual exam.

      One would think she’d committed a crime of the worst order. Not only had the receptionist who’d made today’s appointment tsked when she saw on the computer screen that Elaine hadn’t bothered to come in at all last year, the nurse had also firmly counseled Elaine as she led her to the exam room this morning. The you-know-better-than-that lecture had continued as Elaine stepped into the tiny dressing room and removed her clothing.

      She was the deputy chief of detectives for the Atlanta Police Department, Homicide Division, for Pete’s sake. She wasn’t supposed to cow so easily to a gray-haired, rosy-cheeked nurse who looked old enough to be her grandmother. But there was something oddly intimidating about having to take her clothes off under orders from a woman who would have made the staunchest instructor at the police academy proud.

      As if that wasn’t bad enough, then there was the humiliating experience of greeting the doctor while wearing a paper gown that opened down the front. Of course, Dr. Bramm could always be counted on for bedside humor, especially the kind that involved police work, like, “Captured your quota of bad guys already this week?”

      Elaine had laughed, as expected, and gone on to answer his barrage of health questions in the most normal tone possible, considering her body was being plundered with cold, clinical objectivity.

      She’d explained about the acute cramping and the increased nausea, which were the actual reasons she’d even bothered to come in. She was twenty-nine, the youngest detective, male or female, ever to make deputy chief. She didn’t have time to be sick—or to be at this appointment. But she’d said nothing of the sort to the good doctor. Any negative comment on her part would only serve as a catalyst to start him on a tirade about how people took better care of their cars than themselves. She vaguely remembered hearing that one, the last time she was here.

      She’d thought at first that her ulcer might somehow be causing the new problems and had said as much to the doctor. Lord knew it was already the bane of her existence. To her way of thinking she should own stock in the Tums and Maalox