Her blouse had dried but the stench of vomit trailed after her like cheap 'knock-off' cologne. People stared at her but she ignored them, heading straight for the information desk. She was buzzed through a security door while the receptionist sniffed the air trying to detect where the foul odor came from. "Agent Prushenko?" The security guard that greeted her sported a tattoo of a shark's head that was barely visible above the collar of his crisp white shirt. The man was long-limbed, dark-eyed and dark-skinned. Ebonic, she reminded herself. That was now the politically correct term for people of African or 'black' origin. In 2006, the word had replaced African American and all other related descriptions because Ebonic people had protested being lumped into African or American phraseology. Ebonic was more general, like Caucasian or Hispanic. "You sure you want to go to the morgue?" the guard asked. The shark's mouth pulsed menacingly. Natassia waited, silent and impatient. The man shrugged.
