“Why?” Charlie said.
“Cynthia owes Modena five hundred bucks,” Benton said, chuckling under his breath.
She glanced at Charlie. “I said I’d never marry.”
“Yeah.” Benton chuckled some more. The elevator binged. Charlie waited until Benton stepped off, then reached for her hand. Cynthia slapped it away. Benton noticed, and walked beside Charlie as Cynthia hurried ahead of them.
“You’re driving her nuts,” Benton said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her like this.” Charlie glanced at the FBI special agent. His expression was kind, and Charlie saw great affection there for Cynthia. “It’s a good thing, Charlie. Honestly, I was beginning to think she wasn’t human.”
Down the hallway, to the right, shoes slapping on the white tile, they walked toward the morgue’s entrance. The entire floor was quiet, which was the norm. Hands stuffed in her jacket pockets, eyes downcast, she seemed lost in thought. She reached the morgue’s door first. He stepped to her side, used his ID to get past the door’s security lock, and waited for the mechanism to beep. When Cynthia sneaked a guilty peek at him before she stepped inside, Charlie froze.
What did that look mean?
It gave him the distinct impression that she was about to go rogue and confess to Benton, despite their plan, despite her assurances.
Damn. Charlie should have known better than to think he could control Cynthia.
Chapter Seven
The florescent-lit morgue was large, had multiple stainless-steel gurneys in the center, and body refrigerators covered the back wall. There was a double desk set up off to the right for the techs, and Charlie’s locked office to the left. His office was half glass on the top, obstructed by closed white blinds, and drywall on the bottom. Cynthia stood with her back to it as Teresa greeted Charlie and Benton. The tech acted as if Cynthia was invisible, which was…okay. Wired, embarrassed, and sexually frustrated, the last thing she wanted was a shallow exchange with her husband’s groupie, especially minutes after Benton interrupted what looked to be Charlie finally deciding to rock Cynthia’s world. That kiss-that-barely-happened would have been huge, and would have clarified a few things. Maybe Charlie’s feelings weren’t as platonic as she’d feared, and maybe Charlie was okay with her knowing that. In fact, she was beginning to suspect that obligation had nothing to do with Charlie’s decision to kiss her just now.
Then Benton had to track her down and ruin everything.
So, it was with great disgruntlement that she found herself among the dead. They smelled, and they forced her to deal with reality. Right now, her reality was her boss hovering over a naked, partially draped corpse on the closest stainless-steel slab ten feet from her nose. She knew she should feel empathy for the dead guy, but she knew him—he was a stone cold killer—so she had no pity. She wished Benton would leave. Wished everyone in this room would go but Charlie. She wanted her kiss, and to forget that her life was a shit storm.
Teresa produced a clipboard of paperwork. Charlie took it without meeting the eager tech’s gaze, then frowned, flipping through the pages. Cynthia wandered to Kevin Hilliard’s desk and dropped her pocketbook onto its cluttered surface. She knew it was Kevin’s, because of the many pictures of his wife and kids, and she’d seen him sitting there many times. Teresa’s desk, abutting Kevin’s, had a sole picture of her sorority sisters at NYU. Lots of teeth, all of them blond, with plenty of pink lipstick.
Cynthia turned her back on it and stepped to Benton’s side, next to the slab, and studied the naked vic, too. Livor mortis, the patches of settled blood on the skin, was at its zenith. It meant the body was approximately twelve hours post mortem, which explained the awful stink. Mid-thirties, large and muscular, the man was Caucasian, pale, blond, and if not for the bullet to the brain, probably would have enjoyed another thirty years of life. She and Benton had interviewed him during the long months after Dante Coppola’s arrest. He was given a choice: life in jail, or snitch. Hindsight’s a bitch. Anthony DiGiacomo chose poorly. Though there was currently no proof Coppola was behind this, it seemed likely. All six WITSEC witnesses were connected to the Coppola case.
“So.” Benton stood next to Cynthia, his tone quiet, his hands jammed into his pants pockets. “Married, huh? If this is a hostage situation, blink twice.”
Cynthia closed her eyes, allowed the humiliation to flood over her without fighting back. She deserved it. How many times had she declared herself a bachelorette for life? And the bet she’d made with Modena after his engagement? She deserved every blush and cringe, so decided to woman up and take it.
“I love him,” she said. It was true, so it sold easily. She loved three people in this world, and they all had the last name of Foulkes.
Benton glanced at Charlie over his shoulder, then shrugged. “I didn’t even realize you knew the guy. I mean, beyond the professional.”
He continued to wear a baffled, if not concerned, expression, which bothered Cynthia. Benton might do some due diligence, and with his penchant for solving mysteries, his concern might trigger an informal investigation into her and Charlie’s lives. If so, the irony would be colossal. She needed to nip this in the bud. Direct his attention elsewhere.
“I’ve known him since I was a kid,” she said, keeping her eyes on the decomposing body. “He was best friends with Terrance.” She glanced at Benton, carefully keeping her expression neutral.
“Ah.” His mouth opened, and he nodded, glancing at Charlie. “Well, you’ve always been private, but damn. You’ve taken it to another level. I guess I should feel privileged that I know you had a brother.”
She nodded. “You should. I don’t talk to many people about him.”
“You don’t talk to many people about anything beyond work, Deming. Not since I’ve known you. I’m glad you’re happy.” He pinned her with a sober glance. “You are happy, right?”
She glanced at Charlie, nodding. “He’s my world.”
As soon as the words left her mouth, she realized how true they were, and the analyst inside her was flummoxed. He wasn’t just her best friend, he was her everything. Why’d it take so long for her to realize that? And how would Charlie feel if he knew he’d become her world? Surprised, most likely. Charlie lived in the present, dealt with facts and figures, and treated emotions as if they were colds: something to avoid. She feared if she laid it all out, telling him exactly how she felt, she might embarrass him. Pride had stopped her, and frustration. She’d fallen in love with a man who couldn’t read her mind, and that pissed her off.
Charlie had stepped to Teresa’s desk, and he leaned over it, signing things. The tech hovered over Charlie, prompting jealousy to seep into Cynthia’s funk. The blond tech was too close to him, mere inches from pressing her boob to his arm. It depressed the hell out of Cynthia to admit, but they made a lovely couple. Both obsessed with dead bodies.
Charlie looked up, caught her watching, and winked. Cynthia scowled back. He smiled, and she found herself smiling back, though he didn’t deserve it. Teresa saw their exchange, and looked away quickly with something resembling guilt on her face. Resembling? No, it was guilt. Cynthia recognized guilt when she saw it. It had been her constant companion for ten years. It was guilt. Teresa had designs on Charlie…a newlywed!
Cynthia stood straighter. She was Mrs. Charlie Foulkes now, so Teresa needed to back off. Well…Cynthia would be Mrs. Charlie Foulkes, if she took Charlie’s name, which she wouldn’t, because that was an arcane practice, but still. Charlie was off the market. Teresa knew this. Right? Cynthia lifted her hand, showcasing the MIT ring. Teresa did her best not to look, so Cynthia took that as a sign that Teresa had heard the news of her and Charlie’s recent marriage. The bitch.
“Charlie,” Benton said, “would you mind if Cynthia and I used your office to look those forms over? If I have any questions, I’d rather just shout them out than have to interrupt you with phone calls whil
e you’re performing the autopsies.”
“Sure, of course.” Charlie nodded, his glance in their direction perfunctory, completely oblivious to two grown women fighting a turf war over his delectable ass. If Charlie had an inkling, he wouldn’t be Charlie.
Teresa copied the paperwork, opened the office using a set of jangly keys, and then handed the paperwork to Benton before leaving them to rejoin Charlie and assist with the first autopsy. First thing Cynthia did was close the door and open the blinds. She wanted to keep an eye on Charlie and his tech. See how they interacted. Maybe she’d read too much into Teresa’s guilty glance. Charlie had a strict policy about fraternization in his crew, and Cynthia liked to think she’d have known if Charlie was dating someone. She’d get a feeling…hell, his mother would have called.
Soon, Benton’s questions, the evidence, the grisly photos, and her job distracted her enough to forget about the potential relationship between Charlie and his tech. She and Benton fashioned a preliminary profile for the unsub. Nothing big. Just a framework. And every once in a while, she’d glance out the blinds and find Charlie looking at her. It sent a thrill through her, and she’d force herself not to smile and wave like an asshole. He’d smile at her, looking goofy behind his face shield, elbow deep in a body, wearing a bloody apron. So gross. Though she had to admit he wore it well. He was huge, and geared up he was even bigger. She really liked that about him. How damn big he was.
Kevin caught them. And Cynthia caught him watching as if she and Charlie were a tennis match. It was embarrassing, so Cynthia closed the blinds. It was a mistake, because then she worried she was missing Teresa pressing against Charlie’s side, and no, knowing Kevin and a dead body were chaperoning didn’t make it less frustrating.
Benton sighed, raking his fingers through his black hair. “We have to be careful with this one, Deming. If these kills somehow give Coppola’s lawyers an in to reopen his case, all our work over the last two years is in jeopardy.”
“I know. We won’t allow it to happen,” she said.
“Charlie has five more autopsies after this,” he said, “reports to fill out and distribute, and then the tests need to be sent out. We’re not looking at any answers for at least twenty-four hours.”
“And he’s exhausted,” she said. “I don’t envy him the next ten hours.” A glance at the blinds had her wondering how stupid she’d look if she opened them now, a mere five minutes after closing them.
“Let’s go to the precinct and confer with the team,” he said. “They’ll want to see what we have.”
Cynthia nodded, springing from her chair, pulling open the door. “We’re out of here.” She kept her gaze averted, afraid of what she’d see if she looked at the threesome working on the body. Chin lifted, she did her best to walk like a queen as she headed for her pocketbook on Kevin’s desk, past the smelly body et al. Benton drove like a NASCAR veteran in his cherry red Chevy, so she didn’t want to get in his car queasy.
“One down, five to go,” Kevin said. Cynthia heard wheels moving and risked a glance as she slung her pocketbook over the crook of her elbow. Kevin was transporting body number one, aka thug DiGiacomo, toward refrigeration as Teresa wheeled body number two from its slot in refrigeration. No gore. All sanitized.
“Once again, congratulations on the wedding, Charlie,” Benton said. Cynthia headed toward the morgue’s exit.
“You mean engagement,” Teresa said, and Cynthia detected a thread of resentment in her tone.
“Yeah, so when’s the happy day?” Kevin closed the refrigerator door with a crack.
“Today,” Charlie said. “We got married at lunch.”
His words had Cynthia stopping, mid-morgue. She looked at Charlie and saw him snap off his gloves, never once looking at the two techs whose jaws just dropped. Then he tugged off his bloodied disposable apron and protective gown like a stripper wearing Velcro pants, and tossed it all into a nearby red medical waste bin. “Speaking of which, excuse me and my bride while I say goodbye to her in my office.” He grinned at Cynthia, and the naughty gleam in his eye made her nervous. “In private.”
“Make it quick,” Benton said, and then he rolled his eyes. “What am I saying?” Cynthia clutched her pocketbook to her chest, feeling her face flame with embarrassment, but she did her best to play along, smiling, shrugging, and hurrying along as Charlie took her hand and led her toward his office. “You know what?” Benton said. “I’ll meet you in the hall.” He left the morgue, pulling his phone from his suit pocket.
Kevin chuckled. “Teresa and I will prepare body two.” Teresa’s face flamed red.
Charlie closed the door behind them. Cynthia tossed her pocketbook on his desk, scowling. “Totally unprofessional,” she said.
“Calm down,” he said, his tone flat. She immediately understood she was talking to Boston Police Department’s forensic pathologist, rather than her husband. “I wanted to speak privately, and thought it better that they believe we’re kissing and talking dirty—”
“Talking dirty?” She couldn’t even imagine Charlie doing that.
“—than conspiring to commit a felony. Where are your notes?” Charlie took the pad of paper she slipped from her pocketbook’s depths, and then scanned her notations. “The unsub is male, single, separated or divorced. Probably white, late 20s to 40s. No particular ideology. Gun bought legally, probably evidence of mental illness, if killings are random.” His shoulders sagged. “What the hell is this? We both know these killings aren’t random, and most people with mental illness are not violent.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Is that why you pulled me in here? To critique my notes?” She preferred the dirty talk and kissing scenario, but should have known better. This was Charlie.
His brows lifted, and his surprise had him studying her expression. “What did you think I was pulling you in here for?”
“Nothing.” She glanced toward the door, knowing she should just leave. It was hard to be reasonable with Charlie so close and oblivious. She was always afraid she’d give herself away and she’d be confronted with his apathy, or, worse, his sympathy. Was there anything more terrifying than the object of your affection feeling bad for you because you loved them? Probably, but she didn’t want to experience those things either. She wanted the man who’d thrown her up against the elevator door to kiss her because he couldn’t help himself. “My notes are generic and incomplete. I’ll plug in details when you give me evidence I can use. You’re the forensic guy. Give me something.”
He leaned against the desk, folding his arms over his chest. “Well, I can tell you our killer isn’t some random mass murderer.”
“Just because the vics are Coppola syndicate alums doesn’t mean Coppola is behind it.” She bit her lip, knowing if Coppola was behind it, they’d all rest a little easier, because it would be easy enough to prove. “The killer, whoever he is, statistically is a misfit, loner, socially isolated male, late 20s to late 40s. Give me something else.”
“I’m just saying—” She detected a prelude to mansplaining.
“Listen, buddy.” She poked his chest. “You leave the profiling to the professionals, huh? Or do you want me hip-chucking you aside to do your autopsies?”
Charlie grinned, glancing at her index finger still pressed to his chest. “Buddy?”
She dropped her hand. “There’s a process, Charlie. Much like you with your bodies. Just because it’s a GSW to the head doesn’t mean the vic didn’t die of something else before the bullet entered the brain. You still do an autopsy, right? Well, I need to do a complete profile so we don’t miss anything.”
He sighed. “Okay. Fine. I’m feeling impatient.”
Cynthia stepped away from him, mostly because she didn’t want to. Then she stuffed her hands into her suit jacket pockets and took a step toward the door. Benton was waiting, and she’d taken too long in here already. “Let me test some guidelines,
accumulate the information we have, and my team will do its thing, play out scenarios, see where we’re at.”
“It’s a hitman, either in the Coppola syndicate or a rival syndicate,” Charlie said.
She nodded. “Probably, but probably doesn’t hold up in court. We need to support that assumption with compiled evidence. We haven’t even received results from all the criminal databases yet. The vics are barely cold. It takes time.” She put her hand on the doorknob, squeezing it, not wanting to leave but knowing she should. “I’m thinking this is a personal grudge.” She leaned against the door, glancing back at him. “Who else would bother? These men already did their damage when they testified.”
Charlie opened the window blinds and glanced toward his team preparing the body. Then he approached Cynthia, and she assumed he, too, was about to leave the office. She twisted the doorknob, but Charlie leaned his palm on the door, effectively preventing her from opening it. He was so close she could feel the heat of his body, and his face was lowered, his lips near her temple. “Do you sometimes feel,” he whispered, his breath teasing her skin, “as if you’re spinning your wheels? Accomplishing nothing? Different day, no closer to answers?”
Cynthia found it hard to breathe normally. “Are we still talking about the murders?” She tilted her head back, searching his gaze.
Then he kissed her.
Chapter Eight
Charlie kissed Cynthia for a reason. He had his excuse locked and loaded so that when she retaliated, he could explain without having to think. She’d said it herself. No one believed she’d want to marry, so the onus of convincing everyone was on them. Their greatest threat, unfortunately, was Teresa. She’d been working with him for months, crushing on him, always in his business. She’d have known if he and Cynthia were seeing each other, and she knew they weren’t. What if she started rumors, and those rumors caught the ear of a particular special agent in charge?
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