Expired Read Free Page B

Burlingame stood ramrod straight, arrogant and proud. She looked both beautiful and ravished, as though someone had invaded her secret territory.
    Her light cocoa-brown eyes stared at Monica from a face hauntingly at odds with the pain engraved across it. Even in grief, Tracie Burlingame was an extraordinarily stunning woman.
    Tracie’s sons Michael Burlingame, seventeen years old, and Dre, stood supportively on either side of Tracie. Michael was an athletic basketball wonder.
    Monica recognized his face from the newspaper. He was known as “Rebound” because of his extraordinary leaping abilities on the basketball court, and his incredible wristwatch timing.
    Michael was an ambitious, shy, and compassionate young man. His heart was breaking for his mother and for the loss of his brother Randi, who had been the other basketball star in the family.
    Raw pain glittered from his eyes. Dre, who had had time to compose himself, was much more laid-back. His face was an unreadable mask.
    As Monica approached, Tracie pulled herself up a fraction of an inch taller. She tilted her head slightly in the air. The two women’s eyes locked in an invisible battle. Opposition sizzled in the air between them.
    â€œMrs. Burlingame?” Monica asked.
    Tracie’s eyes flickered. “Miss Burlingame. But you can call me Tracie. These are my sons Dre and Michael.”
    Monica nodded a greeting, suddenly put off by the icy haughtiness of Tracie’s tone. She handed Tracie a standard photo of her son, following the usual procedure for identification.
    Tracie barely glanced at it, handing it back.
    â€œI’d like to see him in person,” she said in clipped tones, furious at the audacity of the City of New York in daring to hand her a standard photograph of her dead son.
    â€œThis way, please,” Monica said, leading the way through the morgue doors. Tracie and her sons trailed behind her.
    Tracie slowed her steps as she spotted the metal slab with the sheet-covered mound in the middle of the floor. Dre gripped her arm.
    He tilted his head arrogantly in the exact mannerism of his mother. Michael’s face became a picture of pain so raw it shot from his eyes. It held those who glanced at him.
    Lonzo stared at Tracie for a long moment. He looked at her sons. Then his eyes found Tracie’s face once again. To Lonzo’s eyes, Tracie was a ravishingly beautiful young woman with a hint of smoldering sensuality, gazing into his own dark liquid eyes.
    The touch of a shadow on the beautiful features quickly vanished under his scrutiny. In the space of a second, Tracie’s cocoa-brown eyes flashed to gray, hazel, back to brown, and finally settled on midnight black. Lonzo felt as though he’d been hit with a sledgehammer.
    Tracie took one step closer to the table. Monica crossed her hands behind her back. She positioned herself next to the medical examiner. Lonzo gave an imperceptible nod of his head. The ME silently removed the sheet from the victim’s face.
    The only sound in the room was the audible gasp that escaped Tracie’s lips. Michael grimaced. Tracie tightened her grip on Dre’s hand. Her long, colored nails cut into his skin, drawing blood, but Dre didn’t flinch.
    Tracie took another step closer to the table. The other perfectly manicured hand reached out to stroke the dead boy’s cheek.
    The medical examiner had been kind enough to try to clean up the body, knowing that the mother would have to ID it. He was just a child, after all—sixteen years old. But even this kind courtesy could not erase the extensive damage to the body.
    Nor had he been able to erase the terror frozen in the features. The one good thing was that the boy’s eyes were closed, so she would never have to witness the stark fear along with the terror that was frozen in his eyes.
    While examining him, the medical examiner had had a queer feeling. He’d dealt with a lot of deaths, but this one