Page 13 of Her Only Hero

“Do you want me to stay the night? I can return in a couple of hours,” he said. With furrowed brows, he looked worried.

“Patrick, do you really think the person in that car had anything to do with me? He probably pulled over to talk to a girlfriend and took off when he saw us.”

“You were at a murder scene, June. Don’t be dismissive.”

“I was at a murder scene, sure, but who saw me? The bad guy knocked me from behind and ran away. Right?”

Patrick nodded. “Perhaps. But just in case, make sure you don’t open your door for anyone.” He slid his arms around me.

He showed he cared, and I reveled in holding him close. “Yes, Officer, I can do that.”

“But will you?”

“I can. And I will.”

“Good. And keep your outdoor lights on.” He swooped in for a kiss. “I can’t get enough of you, June Harber.”

I knew what he meant.

“Call 911 if you hear or see anything. Want me to enter it into your speed dial?”

I laughed and smacked his rear before he scooted to his truck.

Chapter Seven

Monday morning, I zipped into the last parking spot at work. Pressed for time, I didn’t straighten my car to fit nicely between the lines. I grabbed my travel mug, handbag, and scurried across the parking lot. My heels clicked like trotting pony hooves. I rummaged through my purse for my ID badge but couldn’t find it, so I pressed the buzzer beside the door.

“Forensics,” a familiar male voice said from the speaker.

“Hey, Charlie, it’s June. I forgot my badge; can you buzz me in?”

“Wow, that’s a first. No problem.” The latch clicked.

“Thank you!” I rushed down the hall, dumped my stuff in the locker room, and entered the lab. The door slammed behind me, and I blew hair from my eyes. My three co-workers remained motionless, staring at me.

“Good morning,” I said. Still, no one moved. “What’s up?” I asked and reached for my hung-up lab coat.

Edward Ying finally moved; the more-salt-than-pepper-haired DNA guru put down a tray of samples. “You’re late. And your hair’s down. Are you sick?”

I buttoned my coat. “I’m not sick. And it’s five to eight. Technically, I’m early.”

Lara Lambert shuffled papers on the bench top. “For you, this is late.” She spoke with a French accent, having emigrated from Brussels only eight years ago. She moved toward me and looked down. “You’re wearing a skirt. And pumps.”

I pulled on a pair of gloves and went to the fridge to retrieve my samples. “You wear a skirt and heels every day, Lara.” I didn’t want to add she also wore pantyhose, even in ninety-degree weather.

Lara nodded. “Yes, I do, but you don’t. You wear pajamas, I mean, scrubs.”

The others snickered.

I shook my head as I lined up my specimens. “Will you guys stop already? So, I dressed up a bit. Big deal.” I went to the locked fridge to search for the items Patrick said he had dropped off. I turned to Vinny Fuller, the most senior analyst. He sat beside me on a tall stool, logging in forensic evidentiary items including cigarette butts, torn fabric, and a toothbrush.

“Hey, Vinny,” I said. “Have you come across any recent items such as bloody gauze in a jar, or maybe a knife from a crime scene?”

Vinny scrunched his nose and pushed up his black-framed glasses. His magnified eyes showed surprise, and then he scratched his bald head. “Actually, yes. Those exact items are waiting to be processed. How did you know about them?” He leaned closer to me. “What’s that black stuff around your eyes?” he said and then chuckled like a hyena.

I broke down and finally laughed at all the razzing. “Okay, guys, it’s getting old. Now, let’s get some work done, shall we?” I focused on my tasks when I heard the door open and close.

“Good morning, Officer Verbeek,” Edward Ying said. “What brings you here this morning?”

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