Picture Me Dead

by Heather Graham

  Then there was Franklin. Once again, he spoke about his experience with what he considered a far more important agency, but his experience that day seemed to signify only that he should tell them not to neglect the rest of their work, that they had close to zilch to go on, that he had combed the FBI computer and spoken to law enforcement officers across the country, and hadn’t found the break they needed. Franklin was tall, dark-haired and considered himself extremely knowledgeable—and suave. He gloried in the fact that he had been asked to share his incredible knowledge on various television shows. “Until we get an I.D. on that girl, we’re spinning our wheels,” he said, staring at them all. “We really need an I.D. on her.”

  Jake refrained from speaking. He glanced at Rosario and almost grinned, because he was so certain they were thinking the same thing.

  Duh, asshole!

  “The FBI has no magic solution for this one,” Franklin said. “What it will take is really good police work on your part.”

  Jake felt like a dog with his hackles up. To the best of his knowledge, the case was still under the jurisdiction of the county.

  Jake stood then, but held his temper.

  “Jake?” Captain Blake said, frowning. He was seated on the edge of his desk, since they’d met in his office so he could review their work on the case.

  “Special Agent Franklin is correct,” Jake heard himself say politely. “Gentlemen, let’s get back to work.”

  Blake knew him—knew he didn’t have one good thing to say about Franklin. But he had spoken with an almost flattering conviction.

  Jake escaped. He made a call to forensics, then to Dr. Gannet. He looked at his watch and knew he had time to head south, even though he would have a long drive back to the morgue.

  A moment later, he grabbed his jacket and briefcase and was out the door.

  “Mr. Bordon?”

  “Yes?”

  Peter Bordon was sitting outside in the exercise yard, feeling the sun on his face. The guard spoke to him politely. Hell, most of the guards were polite. They had no reason not to be. He was unerringly respectful, truly a model of good behavior.

  “There’s a phone call for you. You have permission to take it.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Your cousin Richard. There’s an illness in your family, I’m sorry to say.”

  “Ah.”

  “You’ll be out soon, right?” the young guard asked him.

  “If the parole board says so.”

  “Well, good luck.”

  “Thank you, Thomas, is it?”

  “Yes, Mr. Bordon.”

  “Thank you, Thomas.”

  He was led to the phone. Peter picked up the receiver. “Peter Bordon.”

  “So the cop has been to see you.”

  His fingers tensed. He allowed himself no outward expression. “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  “He’s got nothing.”

  “Let’s hope it stays that way.”

  “It will.”

  “Yeah, we’ll see that it does.”

  The phone went dead in his hand. His escort was waiting. “Not so bad,” he told the guard. “My nephew is ill, but he’s coming around.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “He’s a tough little guy.”

  Back out in the yard, Peter felt the sun again. It wasn’t as warm. He thought back to his arrest. The cops were allowed to lie to suspects during interrogation. And Dilessio had lied. Because he had known something. Damn him, he’d known something.

  But Peter hadn’t cracked. He’d taken a lie detector test and passed with flying colors. Even so, he’d wound up in prison for fraud and tax evasion.

  He smiled, lifting his chin. He didn’t mind so much. He’d determined from the beginning not to plan any stupid escape attempts, just to do his time. And now he was glad.

  After all, he’d found God.

  He just wished he’d found a little more courage, as well. Dilessio was still out there. And he was like a damned terrier with a bone. The others didn’t quite get it yet. He would never let go.

  Unless he was dead.

  Outside the building, Ashley called Karen to tell her about Stuart and about her own change in direction. Karen insisted that she wanted to go to the hospital that night herself, and said she would call Jan. At the very least, they could give more moral support to the Fresias. Ashley agreed. After that, Karen allowed her happiness for Ashley to burst through.

  “It’s perfect. You’re with the police—”

  “I’ll be a civilian employee, until I go back and finish up at the academy.”

  “You’ll still be with the police. But you’ll be using your artistic talent, learning so much, and getting paid. Well paid.”

  “That’s a definite plus. I intend to go back and finish the academy, though.” She hesitated. “Homicide detectives and some of the other specialists can do even better.”

  “But that could well be ten years or so down the road. And if you decide at some point that you want to apply for homicide or whatever, you’ll have this incredible body of experience behind you.”

  Ashley had to agree. She ended the call, telling Karen she would be by for her around six.

  Just as she hit the “end” button, she felt a whoosh of air coming from behind her. Startled, she gave a little cry and spun around. Arne and Gwyn had come up behind her. Arne threw her into the air as if she weighed no more than ten pounds, then caught her on the way down. Gwyn caught her face and kissed her on both cheeks.

  “Hey, promotion girl!” Arne said.

  “We heard it was official, that you’ve put in the paperwork and you’re going to become a forensic artist,” Gwyn told her.

  Ashley nodded. “It did seem like an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

  “Refuse? Do you know many people apply for a position like that?” Arne said, shaking his head. “We want to take you out to celebrate.”

  “That’s great of you guys. I’d love it.”

  “Tonight?” Gwyn asked her.

  “Not tonight, I just promised to go to the hospital with a couple of friends.”

  “Has there been any change in your friend’s condition?” Arne asked.

  Ashley shook her head. “No, but I feel so much better, getting to see his folks.”

  As she spoke, she felt arms curl around her waist. She turned, surprised to see Len Green.

  “Hey, boy!” she teased. “Did you give up your patrol car?”

  “No, young lady, not at all. I’m just in one of those paperwork hell places that come along now and then. And, actually, I’m glad of that for once. I just heard about your promotion.”

  “Well, it’s not exactly a promotion—” Ashley began.

  “Like hell!” He waved a hand in the air. “It’s incredible. You still going to talk to a lowly patrolman now that you’ve soared past me?”

  She laughed. “I didn’t soar past anyone,” she protested. “I changed course.”

  “However you want to look at it, it’s wonderful,” he told her sincerely.

  “More training than ever,” she heard herself say hastily.

  “We’re going to get the class squad together and take her out to celebrate,” Arne told Len. “You want to join us?”

  “Sure, of course, if I can. When?” Len asked.

  “We’re working on that right now,” Gwyn said.

  “How about Friday, Ash?” Arne said.

  “Friday sounds good. Unless…well, unless, you know, something happens with Stuart.”

  “Hey,” Gwyn said. “You can’t move in there, you know. You said his parents are there around the clock. But they’re his parents. You can’t let yourself get obsessed with this.”

  “I know that. But I do feel I’m doing some good. But, yes, Friday night celebration. That sounds wonderful,” Ashley said. “I think I’ll bring a few friends. You remember Karen and Jan.”

  “He knows Karen and Jan?” Arne said.

  “Len was up in Orlan
do when we were there,” Ashley explained. She shrugged, watching Len’s reaction. She wished so badly that he would focus on Karen. “He met them then.”

  Arne made a teasing, disgruntled sound.

  “They cute?”

  “Well, hell, yes, my friends are cute,” she told him.

  “Then I’m glad I’ll get to meet them Friday night. The more the merrier.”

  “Great,” she said, and looked at Len.

  She couldn’t read anything in his expression, but he told her, “Good. I’ll look forward to it—and of course to seeing the girls again. Do we know where we’re going?”

  “Bennigans, out on US1. It’s good, it’s fun, and it’s affordable—since we’re not all getting raises,” Gwyn said.

  “I’ll treat you guys,” Ashley told her.

  “Hell, no, you won’t. We’re going to suck up big-time, just in case you become one of those famous people on America’s Most Wanted or something like that,” Gwyn said. “We do still get paychecks, you know.”

  Ashley laughed. “Sounds great.”

  “We have to get back to class,” Arne warned. “Since we’re just poor slobs who would have gotten our asses fired if we’d been caught drawing in class.”

  “Quit that,” Ashley protested, but they were both grinning at her. They were new friends, but good ones. They sincerely wished her well.

  “I have to get back, too,” Len said. “I just saw you here and couldn’t leave without stopping to say congratulations.”

  “Don’t you have to go draw something?” Gwyn asked.

  Ashley laughed. “No, I have the afternoon off.”

  “Well, isn’t she special?” Gwyn joked, shaking her head.

  “I don’t think you’re off anymore,” Len said, staring over Ashley’s head toward the entrance of the building.

  She spun around. Captain Murray was walking toward her. A pleasant, cordial man who drew respect despite his easy manner and low voice, he greeted the others, who voiced their pleasure that Ashley had ended up in a perfect place.

  “She is,” Murray said. “Except that I told her she could have an afternoon off and now I want to renege.”

  She arched a brow.

  “Well?”

  She had to smile. “I haven’t had a chance to plan an afternoon at the beach or anything. And if I had made a plan, I’d drop it like a hot coal if you asked, Captain Murray.”

  “Come on, then. I’ll explain as we go.”

  She waved to the others and matched her footsteps to Murray’s no-nonsense stride.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “County morgue,” he told her briefly.

  The room was sterile; the occupants might be dead, but the place was cleaner than any hospital Jake had ever been in. Tile and chrome, and personnel in white uniforms.

  The girl had been brought out by the time he arrived when he looked through the glass door, Gannet was the first person he saw. To his surprise, Captain Murray, head of personnel, was at the doctor’s side. When he opened the door and walked in, he saw that Nightingale was there, too. His heart sank somewhat—she was one of the best crime scene photographers he’d ever worked with, but her art skills were lacking.

  Then, despite himself, his jaw nearly dropped.

  Ashley Montague was standing at Nightingale’s side.

  Her eyes met his. She had known he was coming.

  He looked from Gannet to Murray, expecting an explanation.

  “Jake, you’re here. I gather you know Ashley Montague already, that you’re neighbors,” Murray said.

  “Yes.” But what the hell was she doing here now? This case was far too important for them to be dragging in would-be cops from the academy.

  “Ms. Montague is joining the civilian forensics team. Her paperwork hasn’t been processed yet, but when Gannet called us, we asked her to come in with us.”

  He stared at Ashley. She returned his gaze steadily.

  “Because…?”

  “She’s the best sketch artist I’ve come across in years,” Murray said.

  He realized then that Ashley was holding a pad and pencil. Their Jane Doe, their poor Cinderella, was lying exposed before her.

  “I’m going to clean the skull, and Mason in forensics will be doing the reconstruction, as planned, but since you’re so anxious that we get something out in the paper, Ms. Montague seemed like our best recourse for the moment,” Gannet told him.

  Feeling as stiff as a steel pipe, Jake folded his hands behind his back and nodded. The gaze he turned on Ashley then was close to hostile, he knew.

  Couldn’t help it. He didn’t like surprises.

  “Since you recommend she give it a try, we’ll see what she can do,” he heard himself say. He couldn’t help but be glad that Ashley Montague looked a little bit green. He knew what she’d seen and gone through to have gotten where she was in the academy. She’d undoubtedly witnessed an autopsy.

  But there were few corpses that displayed the violence that had been done to this one.

  Nightingale had a pad, as well. Seemingly oblivious to the tension in the room, she walked around to Jake. “Here’s a first rendering, Detective.”

  He accepted the drawing and bit down hard on his lip.

  It was good. Incredibly good. He looked from the sketch in his hand to the decayed remains of the face of the woman on the table.

  Somehow Ashley had found the humanity in the girl. She had built upon patches of flesh. The left eye had suffered severe deterioration; the right eye had not. The mouth had been discolored and bruised more to one side. Ashley had evened it out. She had, he was certain, been forced to rely on instinct and imagination in some areas, but when he looked from the battered remains of the poor dead girl to the page, he had to admit—he saw her alive.

  He handed the sketch back to Nightingale.

  “Not bad. I assume you’re doing more?” he said to Ashley.

  “Yes, that’s what they’ve asked for,” she replied.

  He nodded. “Fine. I’ll be back in an hour.”

  “Jake, I can see that the sketches are delivered to headquarters—” Gannet began.

  Jake shook his head. “No, thanks, that’s all right. I want to compare them to the girl myself, make sure I’ve got the very best likeness. I’ll be back.”

  He left the room, amazed to discover that he had to unclench his fingers to open the door.

  He knew the morgue too well. Knew where to go for coffee.

  He sat down, drew out a folder of notes, certain if he read and reread, he would find the thread he needed. Smoke and mirrors.

  Fuck. He couldn’t concentrate. He was furious.

  Why?

  She’d known this, known that she wasn’t going to be a cop, not for now, anyway. She must have known she was going into forensics, and she hadn’t said a damn thing.

  Not that they’d really carried on a conversation….

  Fuck.

  She should have told him. Still, it was a good thing, a damned good thing. Now she wouldn’t be on the streets.

  There were lots of women cops. He wasn’t a chauvinist. He had no right to want her off the streets. Hell, he hadn’t even known she was an artist.

  He took a sip of his coffee. It had grown cold. Impatiently, he put his notes back into the folder and started back down the corridor anxious to see the drawings.

  There were several. All of them good. And all of them representing a living, breathing young woman, one who’d been attractive in life. Surely someone had loved her. Someone who shouldn’t have to wake up and realize that not only was she dead, but she’d died in a particularly horrible way.

  “Detective? Changes, suggestions?” Nightingale asked.

  He wanted to say something. Wanted something to be wrong.

  Hell, no, he didn’t. He wanted the case solved. He just didn’t want Ashley Montague to be…so damned good.

  No. They needed good people. He just hated surprises.

  “Jake?�
� Mandy Nightingale persisted.

  “No. They’re good,” he said, and added the drawings to the contents of his briefcase.

  He didn’t thank the artist, though he knew he should have done so. He nodded an acknowledgment to Gannet and the others, including Ashley, and turned to leave. He forced himself to turn back.

  “Thank you all. I’ll choose one of these for tomorrow’s paper.”

  That was as much as he could manage. He turned and exited, further aggravated to discover he had to unclench his hands again to open the door.

  CHAPTER 12

  Ashley should have felt a deep sense of accomplishment and pride. Gannet, Nightingale and Murray had applauded her artistic efforts with a great deal of satisfaction—even smug satisfaction, on Murray’s part. Well, his job was personnel. He was supposed to know people, their talents, their weaknesses and just where they could best serve the public interest. Mandy Nightingale was also wonderful, telling her not to worry, all the other skills she needed would come, but that she’d already performed a very important service—and her paperwork hadn’t even gone through. Even Dr. Gannet had been extremely kind, shaking his head with a little bit of awe that she had been able to create such a plausible likeness from the pathetically damaged face of the corpse.

  The corpse.

  Oh, Lord.

  Yes, she’d seen a lot, most of it on video, but she’d been to an autopsy. She’d never come near to passing out or vomiting. She had stood her ground; knowing that no matter how something made her feel, it would be her job to do the best for the injured and the dead.

  But she hadn’t seen, or even imagined, anything close to the horror of seeing a body like that of Jane Doe. She had felt bile rising in her throat. The air had gone still around her, and for long moments she had felt as if she couldn’t breathe. Somehow she had swallowed the bile, then pinched herself to keep from seeing the spots growing before her eyes. She had forced herself to think as an artist, to find the features that would lead her to the true vision of the woman as she had been in life. But all the time, every minute of it, she had longed to throw the sketch pad down and run screaming from the room.