The bondsman, visibly sweating now, coughed and hawked a wad of sputum on the pavement by Monk’s feet. “Yeah, well, but somebody’s got the bail money, right?” He wrung his little sausage fingers. “Cuz if not, I know one blind little Asian who is staying right where he is. This ain’t no charity, you know.”

Messing with her ex-husband wasn’t just fun, it was erotic to the point Holly wished she’d worn panties. Things were getting moist and her pants were dry clean only. She made a mental note to pick up batteries and a good bottle of wine on the way home. Time to push a few more of Monk’s buttons and see if she could secure herself a huge release during play back later tonight.

Monk felt his fingers twitch, and wanted nothing more than to ball them up and shove them into his pockets. But Holly would recognize that move of frustration, and it would amuse her. He was done playing her clown. “The ef are you doing here?” he barked.

“Guess Kit was worried you couldn’t come up with the bond,” she said, a laugh in her voice.

He turned to the bald man. “Remember when librarians used to look like librarians?”

Holly Day oozed out of the shadows; her scarlet stiletto-capped legs almost reached the bald man’s ears. The former Mrs. Felonious Monk had curves like a rollercoaster. Unfortunately, tickets weren’t required and Monk could tell by the way the bondsman ogled her there wasn’t a height requirement either. She licked her lips and flashed Felonious a wicked smile. “Hello, love. Come now, don’t pout. Being life’s bitch has left you ugly enough.”

It felt weird, being back in this neighborhood at this time of night. Kind of like a high school reunion from hell. He scrubbed his hand over his face, moving the wrinkles around a bit, and stepped forward.

“Are you Monk?” said a small balding man with the shiny polyester look endemic to all bail bondsman.

“Yes, he is,” said a jazz-soft voice from the shadows. Felonious would recognize that voice anywhere. The flesh on his arms crawled in response to it.

Felonious pulled his dilapidated Ford Bronco into the visitor’s parking lot across from the precinct. At this time of night the lot was almost deserted. A few slots down a patient woman wrestled her drunken husband into the passenger seat. Felonious said a silent thanks for his sobriety and closed the truck door behind him. He didn’t bother hitting the lock; the damn thing was so ugly no self respecting thief would steal it.

Scene break

Still, the pale moon face of the dead man flopping around in the drier, and the smell of it. Like bad bacon, only somehow worse. How did a dead man get in his drier? Who would put quarters in his machine to dry a dead man? He didn’t look like he had been wet, but then again, Kit couldn’t see very well. He couldn’t get that moon face out of his mind, it looked familiar, somehow.

Kit Zom Bay paced the length of the holding cell trying to forget how bad he had to pee. It’s not that he was ashamed of his manliness but putting it on display for drag queens, crack heads, and bikers just didn’t seem proper. He made a mental list of the crime scene details he’d seen, which weren’t many since it was dark and he was half blind from cataracts.

Scene break

He glared at the fat gray tom lounging in the windowsill—well, mostly in it, anyway. “Thanks for the present, Tucker. You’re lucky I didn’t name you Holiday. You’re just as much a pain in my ass as my ex-wife.” This apparently displeased the cat, who leapt down from the sill and wandered out of the room and down the hall. Probably heading to leave Felonious another present in the kitchen.

“I’m on my way.” Felonious fell back into the pillows, making a mental note to get an unlisted number. He threw his legs over the edge of the bed, expecting cold floor but found a puddle of tepid cat puke instead. “Son of a bitch.” This was starting to look like one of those days where Felonious wanted to take 12 steps backward and treat himself to a whiskey and warm beer breakfast.

“I swear to God I didn’t do it,” Kit Zom Bay breathed into the phone. Felonious wiped his eyes and reached for the glasses on his nightstand. With the black plastic frames perched on his nose he could see the alarm clock, but decided he didn’t want to know what time it was after all. “I need bail money.”