by MJ O'Neill
“And who killed Gillian Mathers,” I said.
Chapter 18
“We can’t just go barging in there and scare all the madam’s clients,” I said to Flynn. We had added the latest information to the board and were trying to decide what our next move would be. Flynn wanted to interrogate all the dungeon clients.
“Besides, the note said it was an accident,” DC added.
“Because murderers are such an honest lot,” Flynn quipped.
“Mrs. Scott thought it was true, that Chentinko sent the girl to steal his missing laptop and ran into a client,” I replied, my mind racing through all the connections on the board.
“So if that’s true, does that mean Chentinko didn’t kill Gillian?” Neutron asked.
“Mrs. Scott had assumed Chentinko somehow figured out she’d given the laptop to Gillian, but I don’t know how he could have. Gillian hadn’t done anything with it yet that would have tipped him off that she had it,” I said.
“So Chentinko didn’t kill the girl, and he didn’t kill Gillian,” Burns said and threw his cup into the trash with a little more force than necessary. “We’re right back at square one.”
“Not completely,” I said. “We know who Joy is now, and we think we know she was killed for the laptop.”
“Didn’t you guys realize her laptop was missing?” DC asked.
“It wasn’t hers, remember. Reid said hers was at the paper. Neutron didn’t find much on it,” Burns replied.
“We need to find that laptop, which will lead us to Gillian’s killer,” I said. “We could interview all the dungeon clients to see if one of them knows more about the girl, but I’m not sure that even if we found that person, it would give us much more information.”
“And if Chentinko didn’t kill Gillian, it means he probably isn’t responsible for stealing her forensics from the morgue,” Burns said, walking up to the pictures of the morgue suspects.
“So we’re back to who at the morgue did, because they have to be connected to the laptop,” I said.
“Time for you two lovebirds to put this plan in motion,” DC said, sticking his head between us and clapping one hand on each of our shoulders.
I DIDN’T HAVE TO WAIT for someone to badge me into the morgue the next day because the door stood propped open. Sporting tattoos that matched Sam’s, biker guys in construction hats passed by me as they carried wood into the morgue. Volunteers were everywhere. The makeover and party setup for tomorrow were in full swing.
“Get your foot off my nose, you moron!” Flynn clung to the rungs halfway up a ladder with one hand and had his other hand steadying Neutron. Neutron stood at the top, one foot partially in Flynn’s face, as he stretched to reach a camera on the wall.
“Good morning.” I waved up at them.
“Hi, Kat. The place is really starting to transform.” Neutron bent and waved back at me.
“Keep your balance pointed to the ceiling!”
I spied Marshall out of the corner of my eye. “Keep up the good work. I’ll catch up with you later.”
Marshall carried a box out of the evidence room.
“Marshall! Just the man I wanted to see.”
“Babe? What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“You’re not trying to weasel out of bowling tonight?” He set the box down. He breathed heavily, in desperate need of a breath mint, as he straightened back up. “You can’t bail on me now.” He clutched my arm, his face almost white.
“No, no. It’s nothing like that. Quite the contrary. I’m looking forward to bowling tonight.”
“You are?”
I wasn’t, actually. Not the bowling part, anyway. But I needed Marshall’s help. I linked arms with him and headed toward the employee lounge to put my stuff in my locker.
“Of course. Communal sport, cute shirts... what more could I ask for? That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I want you to bring Henry with you.”
“Henry? No way. He can’t be my date.” Marshall threw up his arms and grabbed both sides of his pudgy head. “That would be a disaster.”
“I’d still be your date. I promise. I just need you to get Henry to the bowling alley tonight.” I opened my locker and noticed a nicely wrapped package. “Otherwise, if you can’t get Henry there, I may not be able to come at all.” It was time for some hardball. I was tired of being nice to him.
“You have to come. You made a deal!”
“I’m altering it slightly. If you want me there, you figure out a way to get Henry there too.” I stroked his cheek with my finger. “I know you can do it, Marshall.”
He nuzzled my hand. “Don’t think a little attention is going to get me to cave.”
I stroked his face again.
“All right. I can do that.”
“Marshall, where’s that damn box?” DC’s voice came from the other room, and Marshall went to find him.
I took the pretty wrapped package from my locker and warily set it on the table. I couldn’t find a card, so maybe it wasn’t my Russian Secret Santa. I listened to the package, even though I wasn’t sure it was possible to hear a bomb inside. I unwrapped the package and opened the box.
And let out a bloodcurdling scream.
Instantly the room filled with people. Burns rushed through the crowd to get to me. He looked at the dead rat sitting in the box. The pretty wrapping paper lay next to it. His hand went up my back, and he pulled me into a half hug. “There’s a card.” He reached into the box and grasped the card by its edges.
Cutout letters from a magazine had been glued to the plain card stock. Some were big and dark, some smaller but in vibrant colors. The message read, “I know what you’re doing, and you’d better stop. Or ELSE!!!!!”
“Don’t worry, Kat. That really is nothing,” DC said as he came to my other side and pointed at the box. “You’ve probably got bigger rats than that in your apartment.” He smiled big.
“We should get security,” Meg said.
“That would not be advisable.” Burns scanned the crowd, his arm still around me.
“Is that one of your ‘complications’ you told me about?” Meg asked. Her smile put me at ease.
Burns ignored her and signaled to Flynn to start moving people out of the room.
“All right, everyone back to work. Plenty to do today.” Flynn directed the workers out into the hall.
Meg squeezed my hand before she left. It helped me shake off the awful feeling I had from the note and dead rat.
“What are we going to do with the rat?” DC asked. “And how are we going to find out who put it there? I can’t start getting death threats. Kimi’s barely speaking to me as it is.”
“We should stick to the plan.” I let out a breath and put down my arms. It was a good plan. We’d made someone nervous. “You’ll get a good feel for the people today, and the big reveal DC and I cooked up will help smoke out whoever’s behind this. Everyone needs to keep their eyes open. Someone will give themselves away. I’m sure of it.”
“Stretch? There you are.” Fletcher Reid glided in from the other room.
“I should have known you’d be close by when I saw the rat.” Burns eyed him intently.
For a moment, Fletcher looked confused, then he peered into the box on the table. “You shouldn’t be too surprised, Kat. Things do have a bad habit of turning up dead around Burns. You might want to share that with the cops.” Fletcher ignored Burns and instead shot his electric smile toward me.
“I don’t think so.” Burns stepped slightly in front of me.
“Oh, that’s right. You’re above the law,” Fletcher said.
“All right, I’m overloaded on testosterone now,” DC said and furrowed his brow. “I have an auction to plan. Dr. Hawthorne’s been twitchy about all the stuff in the evidence room since I started. I should go make sure he hasn’t blown a gasket. I’ll catch you later, Kat.”
Despite the obvious tension of the situation, neither Burns nor Flet
cher looked tense. Burns stood with his hands in his pockets, his usual intense but controlled look. Fletcher stood in the doorway, looking like he’d just strolled in off the beach, his casual air not fading even when Burns pushed his buttons.
Nonetheless, I had a full agenda for the day that didn’t include male posturing. “Burns, would you mind terribly taking care of the rat? Fletcher and I will only be a minute.”
“Which one?” Burns asked, smiling as he picked up the box by his fingertips.
“Cute,” Fletcher said as Burns passed him.
I motioned Fletcher over to the couch in the small lounge area. By the end of the day, the torn secondhand monstrosity would be replaced with a sleek but comfortable new settee.
“When I requested the paper give us some coverage, I didn’t think they’d send their ace reporter.” I sank down into the ripped cushion.
“I asked for the assignment. Did you get my flowers?” Fletcher asked.
“Yes, they were very beautiful. Thank you. But they were also unnecessary.”
“Flowers are pretty, not functional. They’re never necessary.” Fletcher looked as put together and casual as always. He wore a tan sweater-vest over a plain button-down and black slacks, giving off a sexy geek vibe. The dingy light from the overhead made his surfer mop look even more sun bleached.
“Don’t get all logical on me. You know what I’m saying.”
“I only understand you about half the time,” Fletcher said. “But I’d like an opportunity to improve on that. You didn’t answer my request for dinner.”
“For a crack reporter, you sure are dense. Have you noticed what a shambles my life is currently in?”
“I’m aware.” He didn’t seem deterred by my protest.
“Aside from that, I could be dating someone.”
“I don’t think you are. Although I think you and Burns are considering your options.”
I wondered how he could possibly know that.
“The average cost of a wedding in 2011 was twenty-seven thousand and twenty-one dollars, with West Virginia of all places being the least expensive state at fourteen thousand two hundred and three dollars, according to the top two internet wedding sites.”
“Don’t you wonder where the extra twenty-one dollars went?”
“What?”
“You said it was twenty-seven thousand and twenty-one dollars. What did the extra twenty-one dollars go to?”
“Why would I know that?” I shifted to get the pointy spring out of my butt.
“You seem to know pretty much every other useless fact.”
I needed to change the subject from my love life. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“What do you really know about my dad’s arrest? Not the sensational stuff you run to sell papers but the real story?”
Fletcher squirmed into the lumpy couch. He tried to cross his legs but sank back instead. “Honestly, not much. Which, I would add, is strange.”
“What do you mean?”
“None of my contacts at the feds knew anything about this. There was no months-long secret investigation or sting operation that led to your dad’s arrest. It came out of the blue.”
“So why all the mob talk?”
“Sells papers. Racketeering charges make it an easy target. But I can’t find a single person who knows anything about what’s going on. No one from a grand jury. No one in local law enforcement was in on it. That doesn’t mean they aren’t out there. If anything, it means it’s a bigger case than we think.”
“Does libel mean anything to you?” I asked. I could feel my blood starting to boil.
“I’m sorry. I know you and your father are close.” Fletcher looked genuinely sorry. His arm was stretched over the back of the couch, and he reached toward me but stopped short of ruffling my hair. My man radar flashed red, and I moved away from him. He tried to change the topic and asked, “How’s your grand?”
“If you’re covering our big event tomorrow, you’ll get to see her. She’s running classes to teach people how to put together death scrapbooks.”
“Of course.” He laughed. “She clearly has skill. So are you going to tell me why someone’s delivering dead rats to you?”
“Maybe someone doesn’t like parties.”
“Maybe someone doesn’t like you and Burns snooping around.”
“I can assure you, unequivocally, that Burns and I are not snooping together.”
“I don’t know if that’s supposed to make me feel better or worse.”
“Can I ask another question?”
“Maybe, if it gets me out of trouble.”
I couldn’t deny that Fletcher’s charm had chiseled away at my staunch determination not to like him. “Actually, I need a favor. I need something run on the society page.”
He looked puzzled.
“Don’t worry. It’s to help a friend, and it’s something I’m sure you would approve of.”
“Okay. I’ll help you.” Fletcher wiggled his way up off the couch. “In exchange for dinner.” He stuck his hand out, offering to help me up.
Before I could answer, a loud chorus of voices sounded from the front of the morgue. I ran to the front and found a crowd of people. A paint roller on a large extension pole lay over Sam’s shoulder.
The transformation of the morgue captivated me. “Wow, look at this!” Sleek desks with state-of-the-art computer equipment had been set up in the old administration area. A new wall with gray slate tile had been built to cordon off the new coffee bar area. The espresso machine shone in the light of Meg’s beautiful lamps. I stood on a new engineered hardwood floor that would hold up way better under the demands of the morgue than the awful pee-colored carpet. The walls had a fresh coat of a soothing moss-colored paint on them. “Sam, it’s wonderful.”
He beamed. “All that’s left in here is to paint the accent walls.” He twirled the paint pole. In addition to their matching leather and tattoos, Sam and his gang all wore matching tool belts.
“Pink. He wants to paint the morgue pink.” DC’s voice squeaked.
“It’s not pink. You’re blind. It’s rouge.” Sam took his pole and ran a stripe of paint down the back of the coffee bar wall, over Henry’s head. He was right. It wasn’t pink. And not red either. Somewhat like a salmon, but that didn’t quite capture it. “Rouge” described the color perfectly.
“I like it,” Meg said. “It’s warm.”
“But not too bright,” Henry finished.
“And it matches the moss and gray perfectly,” Meg added as Henry nodded.
For the next several hours, everyone worked diligently completing tasks for both the makeover and the celebration party tomorrow. Meg and Henry worked to mount the photo stories of the famous past “clients” for the autopsy walk down the hall that led to the autopsy room. Sam finished painting in the main area, and next, he and his crew tackled the employee lounge. DC and Marshall plowed through the evidence room leftovers, sorting, organizing, and pricing.
“Get away from that, Mr. Claiborne. That’s not for sale,” I heard Dr. Hawthorne yell from the room.
“What’s going on in here?” I asked. The room looked like a yard sale had thrown up.
“Dr. Hawthorne doesn’t want me to sell anything,” DC said, pouting like an eight-year-old.
“It’s a family-oriented open house. We can’t sell that blow-up doll,” Dr. Hawthorne insisted.
“He might have a point,” I said.
DC looked as deflated as the doll.
“Do you really think anyone’s going to buy all this junk?” I asked him.
“Oh, for sure. We’re going to rake it. You only have to show up at an estate sale on a Sunday morning to know that people like dead people’s stuff even more than church.”
As I came out of the room, Dr. Jaffe grumped in behind them, carrying a paintbrush.
Burns was in peak form and worked the crowd like a pro, engaging people in conversations that would instantly make
them comfortable. He hit Sam up for advice on his bike’s carburetor. He got Henry talking about the upcoming World Cup soccer tournament. With Dr. Jaffe, it was horse racing.
He even managed to get Dr. Hawthorne to talk by mentioning how great the new equipment would be for the morgue and asking the doctor to tell him about it. For almost ten minutes, Dr. Hawthorne detailed all the new features of the spectrograph.
“For one, we’ll be able to pass lab specimens back and forth electronically and not risk the issues we had with your poor friend Miss Mathers.” Burns steeled himself and clenched his fist, clearly startled by Dr. Hawthorne’s mention of Gillian. “Such an unfortunate accident.”
“How’d you know we were friends?” Burns asked.
“The police told me when you started making a fuss. I don’t blame you. I really felt awful about the whole thing. I’m sure the evidence is in the Pit somewhere. I haven’t given up on finding it and bringing the perpetrator to justice.”
“Okay, everyone. We’re ready,” Meg interrupted with a beaming smile. Henry stood next to her. “Follow me.”
A group formed behind her as if she were a tour guide. The display looked like something I would have curated at the museum. Gorgeous handcrafted frames captured the portrait of each famous St. Louisan engaged in the vocation that made them famous. Underneath each portrait was their story.
“Meg and I will lead the guests through the hall, pointing out facts about each mystery that surrounded the autopsy of the famous person,” Henry said.
It was the first time I’d heard Henry say more than five words at a time. He stood tall. They walked us through the hallway, perfectly in sync as they told the story of each person. Finally, we made it to the autopsy room.
“At the end, we’ll hand it over to Dr. Jaffe,” Henry said.
“And I’ll take each guest through the ins and outs of how we perform an autopsy.”
“Keeping the graphic details to a minimum,” Dr. Hawthorne added.
Although the main autopsy room hadn’t been that transformed, even the minor touches had made a big difference. New X-ray viewers from this decade lined the walls. Burns’s team had installed security devices at the sexavator to prevent another body snatching. They would also leave the Big Maxes of the world without a place for tonsil hockey.