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"Asphyx. Plastic bag, rubber band."
"Rape?"
"No. But maybe erotic asphyxia."
Dance shook her head. Really? Risking death? How much better could an orgasm be?
"I'll get it on our internal wire," TJ said. This would send the picture to every one of the CBI offices, where a facial recognition scan would be run and compared with faces in the database.
"Thanks."
TJ took the pictures off to scan them.
O'Neil continued, to Dance: "The boyfriend's probably married. Panicked and took off with her purse. We're checking video nearby for tags and makes. Might find something."
"Why wasn't she on the bed? I don't care how kinky I was, sex on the floor of that motel is just plain ick."
O'Neil said, "That's why I said maybe about the erotic asphyx. There were marks on her wrists. Somebody might've held her down while she died. Or it could have been part of their game. I'm keeping an open mind."
"So," she said slowly, "you still with us on the Solitude Creek unsub?" She was afraid that the death--accidental or intentional--would derail him.
"No. Just complaining about the rain."
"You still on the hate crime case too?"
"Yeah." A grimace. "We had another one."
"No! What happened?"
"Another gay couple. Two men from Pacific Grove. Not far from you, down on Lighthouse. Rock through their window."
"Any suspects?"
"Nope." He shrugged. "But, rain or not, I can work Solitude Creek."
He was then looking down at the newspaper on Dance's chair. The front page contained a big picture of Brad Dannon.
The fireman, in a suit and sporting an impossible-to-miss American flag lapel pin, sat on the couch next to an Asian American reporter.
Hero Fireman Tells the Horror Story of Solitude Creek.
"You interview him?" O'Neil asked.
She nodded and gave a sour laugh. "Yep. And his ego."
"Either of them helpful?"
"Uh-uh. In fairness, he was busy helping the injured. And we didn't know it was a crime scene at that point."
"You ran the Serrano thing, in Seaside?"
"Yep."
"How's that working out?" The question seemed brittle.
"It's moving along." Then she didn't want to talk about it anymore.
Her phone rang. "Kathryn Dance."
