“Not a problem, Angel.”
Dr. Leblanc was in his fifties with thin blond-grey hair, and sharp blue eyes that often sparkled with humor. He was unimposing physically—medium height and build with a bit of flab around the waist—but I knew he was tough as nails when it came to standing up for what he believed in. “You’ve spoiled me by usually having everything ready half an hour before I’ve even finished my morning coffee.” His eyes crinkled as he smiled at me. “In fact I don’t think I’ve ever seen you running late before. Is everything all right?”
“Yep!” I replied as I set out his implements: scalpels, scissors, saw, forceps, rib shears, syringes. “I was studying in the investigator’s office. Had another tutoring session with Nick this morning.”
“Ah, of course. Five more days.” He pulled smock and apron on, tugged on gloves. “Nick’s been helpful?”
“Oh my god, more than helpful,” I said fervently. “There’s no way I could afford to pay a tutor for the amount of time he’s worked with me. And he’s actually really good at teaching this stuff. I mean he’s not, er, his usual self.”
Dr. Leblanc’s eyes flashed with amusement. He knew exactly what I meant. There was a good reason why I used to mentally refer to Nick as “Nick the Prick.”
“You make him want to be a better person,” he said with only a trace of facetiousness.
I responded with a soft snort of derision. “Hardly. I think he simply enjoys the challenge of filling my blank slate.” I shook my head. “Anyway, it’s pretty amazing he’s willing to help. A year ago I’d never have imagined I’d have so many awesome people supporting me.”
“You were just waiting for your moment to shine,” he replied. He moved to the table and peered down at Mr. Stewart, assessing.
“Helps that I had so many people giving me a hand up along the way,” I said with a shrug.
He glanced up at me. “That only works if you have your hand up and reaching.”
“Well that’s damn near poetic,” I said with a laugh.
He gave an answering grin. “I blame the formalin fumes.” He picked up a scalpel. “Let’s find out if there was anything amiss about Mr. Stewart’s death.”
* * *
Except for the crushed nature of Mr. Stewart’s head, he seemed to have been in excellent health. The autopsy went quickly, and I drew and packaged up blood, urine, and vitreous samples for later toxicology testing. The conversation I overheard at the stadium, about the death possibly not being an accident, replayed itself in the back of my mind, and the autopsy didn’t help put it to rest. While Dr. Leblanc had no problem listing the blunt force head trauma as the cause of death due to the extent of the crushing damage, he fully admitted there was little way to determine if it had been accidental or intentional.
After he finished and left to go write up his notes, I returned Mr. Stewart to the cooler. It bothered me that we might never find out if he’d been murdered, though I knew there’d be slim chance the killer would ever be found and prosecuted, even if we knew for sure. Lots of murders went unsolved, and I had no doubt there were plenty of accidental deaths that weren’t, or overdoses that had been helped along.
I guess all we can do is the best we can, I decided.
The rest of my shift was busy enough to keep it from being boring, but I was glad to leave when it was over. Lightning flashed through the dark clouds of the late afternoon sky as I slipped out the back exit of the morgue, and I felt a bit of relief that the rain had taken a break for the moment. I started toward my car, then almost had a heart attack as a figure moved from around the corner of the building.
“Angel,” the figure said, and it took me a couple of heart pounding seconds to recognize the speaker.
“Jesus Christ! Ed?”
He moved closer. “Yeah, sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“That’s cool,” I said, taking a deep breath to get my pulse under control. “I know you can’t exactly saunter up to the front door in broad daylight.” Ed was wanted for multiple murders. Yeah, he’d killed those people—all zombies—but he’d been played and manipulated pretty heavily by the ruthless Dr. Kristi Charish. She’d convinced him that the “zombie menace” needed to be eradicated and that killing known zombies would be a good and noble thing to do. It didn’t help that he’d seen a zombie kill his dad about a decade earlier—which Charish knew all about and gleefully exploited. The truly tragic part was that she only manipulated Ed into becoming a serial killer because she wanted zombie heads for her own screwed-up research. Bitch.
I peered at him. When I first met Ed Quinn he looked like the typical boy next-door—tall and slender, reddish brown hair, scattering of freckles across his nose. After he went on the run he went goth as a disguise—dyed his hair black and spiked it, sported a variety of piercings, and dressed in skull-adorned clothing. Now he looked…ordinary. Dark brown hair in a conservative and boring style. Khaki pants. Dark blue polo-style shirt. Even the freckles were gone, either bleached away or hidden beneath a layer of makeup. I wouldn’t look at him twice, which was probably the point, I realized. “How are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m okay. I mean as okay as I can be while being hunted as a serial killer.”
I winced in sympathy. “I guess no one’s come up with some brilliant way to get you cleared of all that yet, huh?”
Ed exhaled, shook his head. “Nope. Never will be cleared legally,” he said, regret tingeing his voice. “Maybe a little redemption if the heads can be restored.”
“Yeah. That would be great, for your peace of mind and for them.” After the fiasco with Dr. Charish, I’d insisted that Pietro recover the zombie heads from her lab with the hope that the bodies could someday be regrown. Dr. Charish had done it once, though not with complete success. But I hadn’t heard squat about the heads in the past six months. I made a mental note to check on that soon.
Ed gave me a resigned shrug, and I could tell guilt ate at him. “Thankfully, Pietro has kept me well-hidden from the law.”
“But you can’t stay hidden forever,” I pointed out.
To my surprise a slight smile touched his mouth. “Actually, I can,” he said. “Not here, though. I’m leaving the country tonight. Pietro’s got me set up in Costa Rica. New identity. Fake passport and everything.”
“Oh. Wow.” A sharp pang of loss went through me. I definitely considered Ed a friend. Sure, he’d tried really hard to kill me, but he then made up for it by helping me out when I was kidnapped by Dr. Charish. “Costa Rica, huh?” I fought for a smile and struggled to be happy for him. It really was the only option that made sense, and Pietro certainly had the resources to make it happen. “That’s awesome,” I managed, then bit my lower lip, met his eyes. “Will you ever come back? I mean…will I ever see you again?”
“I don’t know,” he said, expression suddenly bleak. “Pietro and I talked about it. I’m going to have some plastic surgery.” He grimaced, rubbed his eyes. “I think I need some time away to get my head together. It’s been nothing but stress and confusion for a long time.”
“Yeah, it’s been pretty weird,” I agreed, then sighed. “I’m gonna miss you. I mean, I know I’ve barely seen you these past few months, but I’ve always known that I could see you…and now you’re going so far away.”
“I’ll miss you too,” Ed said. “That’s why I wanted to come say goodbye. I was really hoping you’d come out before I had to go.”
A warm fuzzy feeling went through me that he’d waited here. “Thanks,” I said. “I’m really glad you came by. Maybe you can write. I mean, using your new name and all.” I frowned. “What is your new name?”
He chuckled. “James Clement, and no, I’m not used to it.”
“James.” I laughed. “Yeah, that’s weird. You don’t seem like a James.”
“I know, but I can’t complain,” he said, shrugging. “Pietro really came through for me.”
I made a sour face. “Well, he kinda owed you, big time.�
� Pietro had been the zombie who’d killed Ed’s father. Of course that was right after Ed’s father had killed Ed’s mother because Pietro was sleeping with her. Yeah, major zombie soap opera stuff.
“He does owe me,” Ed agreed. “But owing and paying are two different things. I’m glad he didn’t take the easy road and get rid of me.”
“Oh shit,” I breathed, shocked at the idea. “I never even thought of that. Yikes.” A shudder ran through me. “Damn. Yeah, I guess that would’ve been a lot easier. Says something about Pietro, I suppose.”
“Exactly.” He gave me a smile. “Give me a hug. I’ve got to get out of here or I’ll miss my flight.”
I wrapped my arms around him, hugged him tightly while I tried not to cry and failed miserably at that. “You be careful,” I sniffled. “And you’d better write. I want postcards, dammit.”
Ed gave me a squeeze and kissed my cheek. “Don’t worry, sweetie. You can’t get rid of me.”
I finally released him and wiped at my eyes. “You’d better go.”
“Yep. And I’m going to be sweating bullets until I get through airport security,” he said. “I’ve been assured that I don’t need to worry, but damn.” He flashed a grin.
“If you get caught I’ll bust you out,” I promised, echoing his grin.
He laughed. “Deal. But let’s not think about that.” He kissed my cheek again. “Gotta run. Take care, Angel.”
“Always,” I replied softly as he turned and hurried to a waiting car. Was it possible to be happy and sad for someone at the same time?
With a sigh, I headed for my car, happy and sad…but mostly sad.
Chapter 4
I raced home, showered and changed, even spent about twenty minutes on my hair and makeup and was mostly pleased with the result. I also made sure to chug down half a smoothie to give that extra glow of “yes, I’m really alive” to my skin. Nothing like grey and rotting flesh to kill a great look.
I’d hit the thrift store before my tutoring date with Nick and totally struck gold in my quest for a properly stylish and dressy outfit to wear to the Gourmet Gala that wouldn’t break my pathetic budget. It helped that I was a pro at finding cool stuff for next to nothing. For about thirty bucks I walked out with a cream silk blouse, black dress slacks, and a really striking thigh-length jacket in a dark red velvet. And as rainy as it was, I intended to wear my black boots, and to hell with whether they were appropriate for the event. They had low heels, so would hopefully be dressy enough.
My dad was in his usual spot in front of the TV when I came out to the living room. I plopped down on the other end of the couch and pulled my boots on. His gaze stayed on whatever show he was watching without even the barest acknowledgement of my presence. He had his feet propped on the coffee table, a position he claimed took the pressure off an old back injury he’d sustained a decade ago on an offshore oil rig. Years of hard drinking and smoking had left him looking way older than his actual age of forty-eight. Even though he’d made an effort to clean up his act in the past few months, it couldn’t erase the haggard look and sagging jowls that had been long in the making. His light brown eyes were clearer though, and these days he kept his face clean-shaven most of the time, a big change from the scraggly beard he used to keep so he didn’t have to bother shaving.
“Have you eaten yet?” I asked.
“If you’d be home sometimes you’d know.” He finally looked over at me, eyes narrowing at the sight of me all dressed up. “Where the hell you going now?”
Scowling, I zipped up my boots. “I spend pretty much every night here, Dad. You don’t see me ’cause you’re not here in the evenings.” I gave him a hard look, cocked an eyebrow at him. “What, are you out feeding the poor or something noble like that?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded. “I can damn well be out if I want to be out.”
I stood and pulled on my jacket, reveling in the way it flared out and swirled as I moved. I loved that jacket. Loved the way it felt. Loved everything about it. “You know what I mean. You making the rounds of the bars again?”
His expression darkened. “Well, what if I am?”
My mouth tightened. “Yeah, what if you are.” I sighed, shook my head. “Whatever. I’m going out with Marcus tonight. He got tickets to the Gourmet Gala.”
“Well, that’s some shit,” he said with a small sneer. “Act like you’re all worried about whether or not I’ve eaten anything and then go off with that asshole to stuff your face and leave me here to fend for myself.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Dad! Y’know what? I won’t ever ask how you’re doing again.” I stomped out of the house and slammed the door behind me, only to hit the steps and realize I’d forgotten my purse. Scowl deepening, I slammed back into the house, grabbed my purse, and then once again stomped out and closed the door hard. Didn’t help my mood that I thought I heard my dad give a snort of laughter. Yeah, so much for a dramatic exit.
Plus, Marcus wasn’t even there yet, but I wasn’t about to go back inside to wait. Fortunately, for my own state of mind, it was only a few minutes before he pulled up. I dashed through the rain to the truck and climbed in as quickly as I could.
“You look great, hon’,” Marcus said with an appreciative smile as soon as I had the door closed. He leaned over and gave me a kiss.
“Thanks. Ugh,” I said, returning the kiss. “Sorry, the ‘ugh’ wasn’t for you. Let’s get out of here. Dad’s being a pain again.”
“Uh oh,” he said as he pulled out onto the road. “I was wondering why you were huddled on the porch. I didn’t think I was running that late.” He slanted a glance my way. “What’s he doing now?”
I heaved a sigh. “The usual. Defensive bullshit. Pissed that I’m with you. Whinery and bitchery. Same old same old.”
“Crap,” he replied, grimacing. “I thought he’d gotten better.”
“I thought he had too.” I controlled the urge to rub my eyes and smear my makeup all over my face. At least I’d remembered to use waterproof mascara and eyeliner since it was raining and so damn humid. “I don’t know what the deal is,” I continued. “There’s no beer or booze at the house, so I figure he’s drinking somewhere else. He knows I’ll go ballistic if I find any at home.”
“Sounds like you’ve at least put the fear of Angel into him,” he said with a low chuckle. “It’s a start.”
I gave a bark of laughter. “Yeah, there is that.” And it was true. Late last year he’d given me some real bullshit, and I’d used zombie strength to pin him against the wall. He didn’t have a clue I was a zombie, but he sure as hell knew he couldn’t mess with me like that anymore.
I peered out the window. “When is this damn rain supposed to stop?”
“Never?” Marcus made a pained face. “The forecast says it’s supposed to be hard rain like this for at least the next four to five days. And this past winter was wet as hell, which means we’re primed for flooding in all the low lying areas.” He looked over at me, worry flickering in his eyes. “Like where you live.”
“We’ll be fine,” I reassured him. “I mean, the worst we’ve ever had is some water across the road.”
Marcus nodded, clearly relieved. A wave of warmth went through me at the concern. Damn it, he was nice, sexy, considerate, and we were great in bed together. Why the hell was I holding back?
“Still, five days of rain sucks ass,” I said, yanking my thoughts away from my issues. “There’s not much worse than picking up a body in the rain.”
“You could get lucky,” he said. “Maybe no one will die, and there’ll be no bodies to pick up for a couple of weeks.”
I shook my head. “Nope. Then Allen would convince the coroner to lay off staff, and I’d be the first to go.” I made a sour face.
He raised an eyebrow. “But you’re the shining star of the Coroner’s Office, remember?”
“Election’s over,” I reminded him. “He can dump me at will. I think I only still have a job ’cause
Dr. Leblanc sticks up for me.”
“At least you don’t give them any real reason to fire you.” He paused, then chuckled. “I mean, any that they know of. Swiping brains would do it.”
“Swiping brains would get me committed if I ever got caught,” I shot back, laughing.
We made it to the fairgrounds and found parking that wasn’t too far of a hike, then Marcus and I huddled close beneath a compact umbrella, arms around each other as we headed to the entrance.
The venue itself consisted of a half dozen or so long tents spaced out on either side of a paved walkway. Each tent had about fifteen tables around the perimeter, each table belonging to a local restaurant eager to hand out small samples of their cuisine. The rain had slacked off to a drizzle, yet I still saw quite a few elegantly dressed couples pop open umbrellas to walk the ten feet or so between tents. Maybe it was a bitch to get water marks out of silk? I sure as hell wouldn’t know.
As we made our way through the tents, I amused myself with some people-watching. No surprise, there were plenty of folks here who absolutely reeked of wealth. Quite a few trophy wives and even a scattering of trophy husbands. High powered business-types and a generous handful of politicians roamed the event, including the coroner, Dr. Duplessis, who I shamelessly avoided by ducking behind a thick-necked man who turned out to be a former Saints player. Last thing I needed was to annoy my boss by making him feel he had to stop meeting-and-greeting to be sociable with me.
Marcus did his best to murmur names of people he recognized, or point out who he thought I’d get a kick out of seeing in the flesh. “Karla Stanford,” he told me with a nod toward the C-level actress—well past her prime but still dressing like a twenty year-old, and not doing it well. “Jerome Leroux,” he said, subtly indicating the silver-haired and quite handsome man who owned the high end Leroux Jewelry. That surprised me. Rumor had it that he’d been a recluse since his partner—in more ways than business—had committed suicide last year for no known reason. He sat alone at a table looking so forlorn I wished someone would go sit with him. “Nicole Saber,” Marcus said with a nod toward the CEO of Saberton Corporation and daughter of its founder, Richard Saber. A tall woman with honey-blond hair pulled back in an elegant twist, she wore an elegant black pantsuit that managed to be sensible and sexy at the same. She sipped her wine and idly twisted a stray lock of hair around her index finger over and over as she conversed and laughed with table mates, all the while watching the proceedings with a keen eye. “And that’s her son, Andrew Saber,” Marcus added. He didn’t gesture or point, but I had no trouble picking out who Marcus meant. Andrew Saber was a good-looking man in his late-twenties or so, tall and broad-shouldered, with the same honey-blond hair, bright blue eyes, and regal profile as his mother. He stood near her table, faint smile touching his mouth as he idly scanned the area and pretended interest in the eager conversation of a forgettable man beside him.
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