When Jersey answered the phone, a nasally voice—the kind that only comes from repeated blunt-force trauma—said, “Did you break into my club?”
“Now why would I do that, Les?”
“To get the CCTV footage. You called about it.”
“If I was going to break into your club why would I call first?”
Les grunted. “Yeah, okay. Well someone did. The back door was kicked open and my computer don’t work.”
“The surveillance footage is on the computer?”
“Yeah, ’course, that’s why I bought the damn thing. VCRs are for shit.”
“I’ll stop by and take a look. I know a thing or two about computers.”
“Figured you would,” Les said. “You got that geek vibe about you.”
Jersey turned to Amarela. “Can you drop me off at the club and do the NOK without me?”
“Ah, shit, Jers,” Amarela whined. “You know I hate that job. People get so damn emotional, and clingy and snotty… always with the snot, you notice that?”
Amarela actually had a good whine: all pouty lips and large eyes and the ever-present hint of sex if you did her bidding. Fortunately, it hadn’t taken Jersey five years to become immune. The first two were tough though.
“And what?” Jersey argued. “I like it?”
“No, but people take it better from you. You’ve got that cuddliness about you.”
“Cuddliness?”
“Yeah, you know? They see me, they think ‘skinny bitch with a great ass has it all going on’, but they see you and—”
“They think ‘fat fool with a decent ass doesn’t have a clue.’”
Amarela grinned. “No, I’m not saying… it’s just people naturally trust you more.”
“Cause I’m cuddly?”
“Because you appear cuddly. People don’t want to cuddle me.”
“No, they want to—”
“Don’t!”
Jersey sneered without malice. “Suck it up and drop me at the club. I ain’t nobody’s teddy bear.”
Jersey pressed the power button on the PC.
“I tried that,” Les grumbled. “What, you think I’m a moron?”
Les had been owner/manager of The Club for the last five years and had led the format change from black leather biker bar to black leather punk club. The reason for the change was simple—he couldn’t stand listening to Johnny Cash every night.
“Man was fucking depressing,” he told Jersey one night between sets. “All religion and righteousness, but with a voice that chews out a little piece of your soul and spits it on the ground. That cover he did of Hurt? Jesus Christ, stick a gun in my mouth already.”
To blend with his club’s image, Les had buzzed his premature gray hair, leaving a two-inch-wide Mohawk that ran down the center of his head like an exploded zipper. He dyed it different colors to match the various holidays: green for St. Paddy’s; orange for Halloween; red, white and blue for Fourth of July, and so on. Today, it was purple. Whether or not that was for the Queen’s birthday, Jersey didn’t want to know.
To further complement his anti-establishment punk credo, Les wore a tight pair of black jeans and a loose-fitting black T-shirt with the slogan Punk Sucks in a metallic shade of purple to match his hair. Les owned at least a hundred black T-shirts, all with different slogans that ended in either Suck or Sucks, like iPods Suck, Death Sucks, and Pandas Suck.
On his hands and knees under the desk, Jersey discovered the computer had come unplugged from the wall socket. Rolling his eyes, he plugged it in and hit the power switch again. Instead of the expected triumphant Windows launch tune, however, the computer beeped in protest and flashed a cryptic BIOS message on the screen.
“It can’t find the hard drive,” Jersey said. “You got a screwdriver?”
“Bit early for me.”
“Not the drink. The tool.”
“Okay, but you sure you know what you’re doing?” Les started digging through drawers and cabinets.
“I’ve been building these things for years.”
“Building them? What the fuck for?”
“For fun. It’s a hobby. Challenges me, you know?”
“Well, that’s stupid.” Les pulled a fat red multi-purpose screwdriver from a dusty drawer. “They come already built from the store.”
“Yeah, I know.” Jersey sighed. “But I like to customize them. You know, bump up the RAM, add a killer video card, slip in an over-clocked processor or water-cooling. Mod the case, some neon lighting…”
“Yeah, like I said, stupid.”
Les handed Jersey the screwdriver. “You want that drink now?”
“It’s ten in the morning, and I’m on duty.”
“I’m just talking a screwdriver. Vitamin C is good for you.”
“Make it virgin, and I’ll take you up on it.”
“Suit yerself.”
When Les left the office, Jersey unscrewed the top of the screwdriver, found the right bit, and slipped it into the stem.
When Les returned with his orange juice, Jersey said, “I’ve found your problem.”
Les looked down at his computer lying open on the floor, a tangled mess of electronics and multi-colored wires.
“What the fuck did you do?”
“I just opened the case,” Jersey explained. “But I wasn’t the first. Your hard drive is missing.”
“Well it must be in there somewhere.”
Jersey grinned. “No, it’s not. Someone took it.”
“Well, crap. All my records are on there. Payroll, work schedule, inventory, everything.”
“You have a backup?”
“A what?”
“An external drive where you backup all your files.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Les. “I had the computer. It does all that stuff.”
“Not anymore,” said Jersey. “Sorry.”
“Well, fuck. I knew I should have stuck to using recipe cards. You never see good ol’ pen and paper giving you this much grief. Fucking technology, who needs it?”
Les took a long gulp of his orange juice, grimaced and handed it to Jersey.
“That’s yours,” he said. “Tastes horrible without the booze.”
Jersey accepted the glass and took a tentative sip. Surprisingly, it tasted fresh squeezed.
“So can I still get the Internet?” Les asked.
“Without a hard drive, you can’t do anything. Can you think of any reason why someone would want it?”
“Can’t see it being any good to anyone but me.”
“Did you watch the footage from the hit-and-run last night?”
“Didn’t even think of it. The camera catches a good part of the alley, so it was probably on there. You think that’s why I got broken into?”
Jersey shrugged. “We found the driver, but it couldn’t have been him. He’s dead.”
“Maybe it was the Feds. I downloaded some movies the other week, just Asian porn, but still.”
Jersey laughed. “I don’t think the Feds are interested in your peccadilloes.”
“What? No, it was nothing like that. Just some girl-on-girl stuff.”
“Well the action’s over until you get a new hard drive. I know a kid who’ll sort you out. I’ll ask him to call.”
Jersey brushed the dirt off his knees, handed back the empty glass, and headed for the rear door.
“You’ll need a new lock on here as well,” he called over his shoulder. “This one’s buggered.”
Standing in the alley, looking across the potholed gravel at the dark windows of the mortuary, Jersey pulled out his phone and dialed dispatch.
When the call connected, he said, “Darlene? I need an address.”
14
Sally awoke to a persistent rapping of knuckles on her front door.
She yawned and stretched before sliding out of bed and slipping into her bathrobe and slippers. Jiggy, having migrated from the foot of the bed to curl in a fluffy ball wi
th her head on the spare pillow, opened one lazy eye, blinked, yawned, and went back to sleep.
“It’s okay for some.” Sally left the bedroom and shuffled to the front door.
JERSEY’S PHONG RANG as he waited outside Sally’s door. When he answered, Amarela said, “We’ve got a problem.”
“What?”
“The son went nuts when I broke the news. No tears, no quick stop on grief, just straight to pissed. What the fuck is that about? Both your parents are dead, and I’m the bad guy.”
“We all react—”
“Save it,” Amarela snapped. “He was a fucking asshole. I told you I hate doing this.”
Jersey turned away from the apartment and headed down the stairs. Sally would have to wait.
“Okay, calm down,” said Jersey. “He’s pissed. That’s not our problem.”
“No? The lieutenant wants to see us.”
“Why?”
“The asshole called the mayor, direct. Had the number on speed dial. Made me fucking stand there while he did it, too.”
“And the mayor called Morrell?”
“Duh. My phone started ringing at the same time the fucking NOK is slamming the door in my face. I should have Tasered the prick.”
“I’ll grab a taxi and meet you at the station.”
“Screw that, I’m not walking in there by myself. Where you at? I’ll pick you up, and we’ll go in together.”
As he pushed open the lobby door of the low-rise apartment building, Jersey gave his partner the address of a nearby Grind’m If You Got’m coffee shop that made a synapses-firing Red Eye. His caffeine level was dropping uncomfortably low.
WHEN SALLY opened the door, there was nobody there.
With an irritated sigh, she relocked the deadbolt and padded across the room to the front window. She looked down and saw a husky figure walking away. The breadth of his shoulders and the fit of his jeans told her it was Jersey, the detective who had so unexpectedly kissed her on the back steps of the mortuary.
She still didn’t know quite what to make of that but, despite the boldness of his actions, his lips had been soft and his eyes so very gentle. Hmm, maybe she did know after all; she liked it… liked him.
She wondered if he had stopped by to ask her out, but lost the courage at the last moment, or if the knock had been strictly work related. If it was business, why had he walked away? And, more importantly, if he hadn’t walked away, what answers could she give him without sounding like a complete loon?
Sally snugged her dressing gown tighter at the collar and padded into the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. She liked to start the day with a few strong cups while she watched The View to catch up on what had annoyed the ladies lately.
She actually had a recurring daydream where she was a guest on the show promoting a small book she had always contemplated writing entitled, Beauty Tips for the Dead. The only problem was that she couldn’t imagine any living person—outside of the funeral businesses—wanting to buy it, and the dead didn’t have active credit cards.
IN THE STAIRWELL outside the apartment, Aedan descended from the floor above where he had silently fled when the beefy cop arrived unexpectedly. Moving close, he pressed his left ear against Sally’s door.
He could hear the television. Women arguing.
He inhaled the air, catching a lingering scent of shampoo and soap.
She was the one. She had to be.
15
With a caffeine buzz from his morning Red Eye—two shots of tar-like espresso topped up with fresh brewed dark roast coffee—Jersey felt bright eyed and hopeful. His partner, however, was floating a dark cloud on his parade as they rode the elevator to the thirteenth floor of the Portland Justice Center.
Located in the heart of downtown, the eighteen-story tower was home to not only the Portland Police Bureau, but also four courtrooms and the maximum-security Multnomah County Detention Center. For criminals, that meant the journey from being arrested to incarcerated was a short one.
“I hate getting called into the boss’s office,” Amarela muttered. “Makes me feel like a rookie again.”
“Ah, the good old days,” said Jersey.
“Speak for yourself. Lecherous old men always wanting me to go undercover as a hooker or porn star? It was like walking naked through a safari park.”
Jersey smiled. “Somehow I don’t see you as a victim.”
“No, but I had to crush a lot of nutsacks to get that message across.”
“Men are pigs,” said Jersey.
Amarela burst into laughter. “Amen.”
“Shouldn’t that be A-wo-men?”
“Damn. When a woman gets elected Pope, she’ll need to fix that.”
When the elevator door opened, the partners marched out with sober faces and made their way through a maze of desks to the lieutenant’s corner office.
Lieutenant Noel Morrell steepled his hands as the two detectives entered his office. He still looked as crisp and fresh as he had at four that morning.
“Ah, detectives Castle and Valente,” he began. “Nice to see you finally got dressed, Detective Castle, although a dressier pair of pants, proper fitting shirt, and a decent pair of shoes wouldn’t go amiss.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jersey with an unconscious flexing of mouth muscle that hinted at a smile. “But apart from that?”
“You also need a haircut.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ve been investigating this morning’s hit-and-run?”
“We have.”
“And your progress?”
“Well, as you know, I was first on the scene after the victim was struck and killed by her husband’s car. Detective Valente was on the scene for the recovery of the vehicle and its driver. It appears at this time that the driver committed suicide after killing his wife. However—”
Lieutenant Morrell held up a hand.
“I want to stop you there,” he said. “I have received an urgent request from the son that the bodies of his parents be immediately released to the funeral home. It seems his parents didn’t believe in embalming and the family wants an open coffin, so they need to hold the service as quickly as possible.” He flattened his hands on the desk. “The bottom line is this; do you have any evidence that this is anything other than a domestic murder-suicide?”
“Evidence? No,” said Jersey, “but it feels wrong. The location, timing, and choice of weapon don’t add up.”
“I agree,” said Amarela. “There’s more to this than it appears.”
“But you have no evidence to suggest third-party involvement?”
Jersey shook his head. “Not at this time, but—”
“I’m releasing the bodies to the funeral home,” said Morrell. “The victims’ son is a close friend of the mayor’s son, and I can’t see any benefit to getting into an argument over religious rights and freedoms without something solid to back it up.”
“But,” Jersey protested, “if you release the bodies now, there won’t be time for an autopsy. At least let me request a drug screen.”
“The decision is made, detective. That will be all.”
Amarela grabbed Jersey’s arm and pulled him toward the door. Before he exited, Jersey turned and asked, “What funeral home are the bodies being shipped to?”
Morrell glanced down at a sheet of paper on his desk. “Paynes Funeral Home. Both victims had those pre-paid plans you see advertised on TV. I’ve actually been thinking of getting one for Mrs. Morrell. Our anniversary is coming up and with the new baby…”
Morrell stopped. He was talking to himself.
16
In the chilled basement of Paynes Funeral Home, Sally removed the crisp sheet from the dead woman’s face.
The basement felt different during the day—colder somehow. Despite the blacked out windows, Sally could sense movement all around her: creaks, scrapes, and sighs descending from the viewing parlor and sales office above; rumbles, horns, and grumbles colliding on the streets outside.
It was unsettling.
At night, her workshop was a calm oasis—just her and the guests.
But when Mr. Payne phoned with a special request, how could Sally refuse? In fact, she was delighted to help. The Payne family had always been so good to her.
Sally looked down at her guest again. Any sign of recognition that she expected to feel wasn’t there. The woman was a stranger.
It disturbed her that she had watched this woman die and yet her face hadn’t imprinted itself. Sally mostly remembered her clothes—the periwinkle pantsuit and black raincoat now blood-soaked and bundled in a clear plastic garbage bag under the gurney.
She also recalled in horrifying detail the shock and pain as the woman’s neck twisted beyond the breaking point. But everything had been viewed directly through the woman’s eyes rather than from a spectator’s point of view. Sally had barely looked at her face, except when she touched her mouth. She remembered the mouth.
Jesús had done a wonderful job on her: smashed skull restored with wire mesh and liquid polymer; twisted neck straightened, the metal screws and plastic supports hidden from view so long as nobody rolled her over; flattened nose splintered back into shape; and her broken front teeth hidden behind a thin, opaque mouth guard.
Jesús told her he was trying to convince the Paynes to invest in a 3D printer that would allow him to reconstruct guests’ faces from scanned photographs.
“Everyone could have open casket,” he had enthused to her, “even burn victims or those ravaged by disease. Imagine? I could print ears, noses, even whole faces, and you could use your magic to make everything natural.”
Although she didn’t quite understand the technology behind three-dimensional printing, Sally had to agree, it was a brilliant idea.
Still, even without a special printer, Jesús’s work was that of a master artist. Working underneath the flesh, he left her a clean canvas marred only by tiny stitches in her guest’s cheek, forehead, and nose. Even the once-torn scalp was smooth with the skin stretched over the wire frame he’d built, and the stitches as close to the hairline as he could manage.
Speak the Dead Page 6