Lover Beware

whose ghoulish curiosity might impel them to slip under the tape and intrude on the scene.
    Anna parked the car next to the curb, glanced into the rearview mirror to see Detectives Donovan and Armstrong park behind her.
    Jerry reached for her hand, his own closing warmly around hers. “Are you saying that I have a chance with you, Anna?”
    Her gaze went back to his as she tugged her hand away. “I came here to do a job, Jerry.”
    “Is that a nice way of saying go to hell, Costos?”
    She opened the car door.
    “Fine,” he said. “I get the picture.”
    As she stepped out on the street, the unbearable heat and humidity bore down on her, and the sun’s reflection from the old brick pavement momentarily blinded her. Donovan and Armstrong joined her, the younger detective popping gum between his teeth and Donovan mopping the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.
    “So what exactly is this BSU Special Division?” Armstrong asked, his gaze slowly moving down her, then up again to her breasts.
    “Specialized agents capable of dealing with machismo ass-holes,” she said. “And if you continue to stare at my breasts, Armstrong, you’re going to find out exactly how we deal with the situation.”
    She gave him a flat smile, then turned and walked away, dipped under the crime tape, and moved onto the sidewalk while Jerry joined Donovan and Armstrong and followed.
    “I don’t get her,” Donovan said. “This isn’t normal profiler stuff. They usually do their thing at Quantico. What the hell is she doing coming to New Orleans anyway?”
    “What difference does it make,” Jerry snapped, “whether you talk to her on the phone or face-to-face?”
    “I don’t know what the hell she expects to find on-site. She acts like my CSI don’t know their asses from a hole in the ground. They got their photographs and evidence, and then some. What more does she need?”
    “Suck it up and shut up, why don’t you? Let the lady do her job.”
    Anna moved along the sidewalk, her gaze sweeping the area. A stretch of warehouses formed a barrier to the south, the river beyond a wide brown stretch where flatbed barges crept. She paused by the One Way street sign near the curb.
    The visions always began with a flash. This one came at her so unexpectedly she felt as if someone had blindsided her.
    “Anna?” Jerry touched her arm. “Are you okay?”
    Anna briefly closed her eyes. Come and gone. Too fast to grasp. She gave Jerry a reassuring smile and nodded. “Okay. Just the heat, I think.”
    “You’re white as a sheet.”
    She rubbed her temple and squinted as the sun bore down on her. The traffic noise pounded at her head, as did the conversations of the cops surrounding her. Whatever insight had winged at her had been obliterated. No doubt about it, however. The crime that had taken place the night before had begun here. ONE WAY spotted before her eyes like the afterburn of a camera flash.
    Followed by Jerry, Donovan, and Armstrong, Anna moved down the alleyway, into the shadows, high weathered brick walls towering on either side of her, carefully sidestepping the overflow of trash from a Dumpster, ignoring the cops who paused to watch her, their conversations a distant murmur as she did her best to focus. Jerry had his hand on her arm. Distracting. Too distracting. She pulled away.
    Bobbie Cox’s apartment was little more than a hole in the wall. An efficiency. One room and small bath to one side. Blood stained the tattered mattress, the walls, and much of the floor. Evidence of the CSI’s search showed in the print powder they had used on the furniture and walls.
    The stench of blood took her breath away. She fought back her gut reaction to gag as she moved to the middle of the room and turned slowly, focusing her attention on the bed.
    “Just what the hell is she doing?” came Donovan’s voice.
    “She’s FBI, man.” Armstrong laughed. “What difference does it make?”
    “Knock it off,” Jerry said.
    “Ooo, touchy.” Armstrong elbowed Donovan. “Kinda tender over Ms. Travelli, isn’t he?”
    Jerry moved up beside her, regarded her sternly. “What the hell are you doing?”
    She flashed him a look. “My job.”
    He cleared his throat. “You looked at the files. I hardly think that you’re going to find anything more here than you did in the reports.”
    “I work better up close and personal, Jerry.”
    “The smell of blood must trigger her bloodhound instincts.” Armstrong grinned at