It was worse than I’d imagined. Summer was overblond, with breasts the size of beach balls, and far too little blouse to accommodate them. During introductions, she wrapped a territorial hand around Pete’s upper arm.
I offered congratulations on their engagement.
Summer thanked me. Coolly.
Pete beamed on, oblivious to the hypothermics.
I asked how wedding plans were progressing.
Summer shrugged, speared an apple slice with a red plastic swizzle stick.
Mercifully, at that moment their order arrived.
Summer popped from her stool like a spring-loaded doll. Snatching the bag, she mumbled, “Nice to meetcha,” and made for the door, leaving a gale of fleur-de-something in her wake.
“She’s nervous,” Pete said.
“Undoubtedly,” I said.
“You OK?” Pete studied my face. “You look tired.”
“Rinaldi was killed yesterday.”
Pete’s brows did that confusion thing they do.
“Eddie Rinaldi. Slidell’s partner.”
“The cop shooting that’s been all over the news?”
I nodded.
“You’ve known Rinaldi forever.”
“Yes.”
“You were there?”
“Yes.”
“Shit, Tempe. I’m really sorry.”
“Thanks.”
“You holding up all right?”
“Yes.” I could manage only monosyllabic replies.
Pete took my hand. “I’ll call you.”
I nodded, faked a smile, afraid speaking would unleash the pain that was a tangible presence in my chest.
“That’s my Tempe. Tough as a lumberjack.”
Pete kissed my cheek. Then he was gone.
Closing my eyes, I gripped the back of Summer’s empty bar stool. Behind me, conversation burbled. Cheerful diners, enjoying the company of others.
My nose took in sesame oil, garlic, and soy, smells from the happy years, when Pete, Katy, and I made Sunday-evening outings to Baoding.
The past few days had been overwhelming. Rinaldi. Katy. The chief. Boyce Lingo. Takeela Freeman. Jimmy Klapec. Susan Redmon. Now Pete and Summer.
I felt a tremor low in my chest.
Took a deep breath.
“Waiting for take-out?” The voice was right at my ear.
I opened my eyes. Charlie Hunt was leaning down, face close to mine.
“Buy you a Perrier?” Charlie asked.
What I did next I will always regret.
“Buy me a martini,” I said.
23
I DON’T REMEMBER THE REST OF THAT NIGHT OR MUCH OF MONDAY. Arguing with Charlie. Driving. Tossing items into a supermarket cart. Fighting with a corkscrew. Otherwise, thirty-six hours of my life disappeared.
Tuesday morning I awoke alone in my bed. Though the sun was just cresting the horizon, I could tell the day would be clear. Wind teased the magnolia leaves outside my window, flipping some to show their undersides pale against the dark green of their unturned brethren.
The jeans I’d worn Sunday lay kicked to a baseboard. My shirt and undies hung from a chair back. I was wearing sweats.
Birdie was watching me from under the dresser.
Downstairs, the TV was blaring.
I sat up and swung my feet to the floor, testing.
My mouth felt dry, my whole body dehydrated.
OK. Not too bad.
I stood.
Blood exploded into my dilated cranial vessels. My eyeballs pounded.
I lay back down. The pillow smelled of Burberry and sex.
Dear God. I couldn’t face students in my condition.
Staggering to my laptop, I sent an e-mail to my lab and teaching assistant, Alex, saying I was ill and asking if she could proctor the bone quiz then dismiss class.
When I raised my lids again the cat was gone and the clock said eight.
Forcing myself vertical, I trudged to the shower. After, my hands trembled as I combed wet tangles from my hair and brushed my teeth.
Downstairs, the classic movie channel was pumping out The Great Escape. I found the remote and clicked off as Steve McQueen cycle-jumped a barbwire fence.
The kitchen told the story like a graphic novel. Heaped in the sink were remnants of a frozen pizza and Dove Bar wrappers and sticks. Two empty wine bottles sat on the counter. A third, half-empty, had been abandoned on the table beside a single glass.
I ate a bowl of cornflakes and knocked back two aspirins with coffee. Then I threw up.
Though I rebrushed my teeth, my mouth still tasted noxious. I chugged a full glass of water. Tried Advil.
As expected, nothing helped. I knew only time and metabolism would provide relief.
I was crushing the pizza box when my mind began to dial into focus.
It was Tuesday. I’d spoken to no one since Sunday.
Though Monday was a holiday, I’d surely been missed.
Smashing the crumpled cardboard into the trash, I hurried to the phone.
Dead air.
I followed the cord to the wall. The connector was snugly snapped into its jack. I began checking extensions.
The bedroom handheld was buried under the discarded jeans. It had been left in talk mode, blocking operation of the rest of the system.
Had I turned it off? Had Charlie?
How long had the line been out of service?
After disconnecting, I hit TALK. Dial tone. I disconnected again.
Where was my cell? Using the house phone, I dialed that number.
Nothing.
After considerable searching, I found the mobile downstairs in the back of a drawer in the study. It had been shut off.
Doubtful Charlie did that, I thought, wondering at my alcohol-addled motivation.
I was hooking the mobile to its charger when the landline rang.
“Where the bloody hell have you been?”
Slidell’s tone sent an ice pick straight through my brain.
“It was a holiday,” I said defensively.
“Well, ex-c-u-u-u-se me if murder don’t take time off.”
I was too sick to come up with a clever rejoinder. “You’ve made progress finding Rinaldi’s shooter?”
Slidell allowed me several heel-cooling moments of muteness. Background noises suggested he was at police headquarters.
“I’m barred from the investigation. Seems I’m too invested to be objective.” Slidell snorted. “Invested. They talk about me like they’re talking about a goddamn portfolio.”
It was probably a good decision. I kept the thought to myself.
“But I got a gut feeling this is all connected. I work Klapec and the Greenleaf cellar, eventually I nail the slime that took Rinaldi out.”
Slidell stopped. Cleared his throat.
“I talked to Isabella Cortez.”
“Who?” The name meant nothing to me.
“Takeela Freeman? Grandma?”
“Right. What did you learn?”
“Nada. But I also talked to Donna Scott-Rosenberg. The lady tells a good story. Her version puts the cemetery caper square on Finney.”
“Big surprise. What does she say about Susan Redmon’s remains?”
“Says when her family left for California she decided packing body parts would be too risky. Didn’t want her old man to find them. Didn’t want to leave them behind in the house. So she gave them to one of her Goth buddies, a kid named Manuel Escriva.”
I was sweating and nausea was threatening again.
“Escriva wasn’t hard to find. He’s doing a nickel-dime for possession with intent to distribute. Took a drive up to central prison yesterday.”
In one way Slidell and I are much alike. Though devastated by Rinaldi’s death, neither of us would permit others to see our pain. But, while Skinny had carried on, I’d come apart. I’d blown off the investigation, and for the first time in my life, was failing to carry out my academic duties. Shame burned my already flus
hed face.
“Guy’s an arrogant little prick. Took some bartering, but Escriva finally admits to selling the bones for fifty bucks.”
“To whom?”
“Neighborhood witch doctor.”
“Cuervo,” I guessed.
“None other.”
“Except for unlawful possession of human remains, that puts T-Bird in the clear.”
“I ain’t so sure. Escriva said Cuervo was into bad shit.”
“Meaning?” The phone felt clammy in my palm.
“I pose that very question, Escriva just gives me this cocky little smirk, makes me want to rip his face off. Then he demands something it ain’t possible to arrange with the warden. Things get a little heated. As I’m leaving he calls out. I turn around. He’s still grinning, making some kind of voodoo symbol with his hands. He says, ‘Beware the demon, cop man.’”
“You’re saying Escriva accused Cuervo of devil worship?”
“That’s my take.”
“Did you ask Escriva where Cuervo might be?”
“He claims they’ve had no contact in five years.”
“Did you ask about Asa Finney?”
“Swears he don’t know him.”
“What are you doing now?”
I heard movement, then Slidell’s voice grew muffled, as though he’d covered the receiver with one hand. “Going through Rinaldi’s notes.”
“You still have them?” I was surprised the case notes hadn’t been confiscated by the team investigating the shooting.
“I made photocopies yesterday morning.” Slidell’s words sharpened as he withdrew his lips from contact with the mouthpiece. “Trip to Raleigh ate up the rest of the day.”
Probably a cover. I couldn’t have looked at those notes yesterday, either.
“I need you to make it solid that Susan Redmon is our Greenleaf vic. Be a real pisser if that skull don’t go with the stuff in that coffin.”
I fought down a bitter taste in my throat. I’d be no good in the classroom, but at least I could do that.
“I’m heading to the lab now. I’m sorry about yesterday. Please keep me in the loop.”
Slidell either grunted or belched.
After disconnecting, I splashed cold water on my face, then checked the messages on my cell.
One from Katy. One from Charlie. Three from Slidell. One from Jennifer Roberts, a colleague at UNCC. Everyone said pretty much the same thing. Call me.
I tried Katy, but got her voice mail. Too early? Or had she already gone to work? Or departed Charlotte to work on the project in Buncombe County? I left basically the same message she had left me.
Slidell I would see soon. Talking to Charlie would require some preplanning. Calling Jennifer Roberts would blow my cover at UNCC. She’d have to wait.
Before leaving home, I tried a bowl of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup.
That came up, too.
After brushing my teeth a third time, I gathered my keys and purse and headed out the door.
And nearly fell over a large Dean & DeLuca bag sitting on the stoop. A note had been paper-clipped to one handle.
Tempe:
I know this is a rough time. I’m sorry if I offended you, but I was concerned for your safety. Please take this as a token of my sincere apology. And please, please. Eat.
Call when you feel up to turning on the phone.
Charlie
I was mortified. Sweet Jesus. What had Charlie tried to prevent?
Placing the food on the kitchen counter, I grabbed a Diet Coke from the fridge, and started for the lab.
The movement of the car. The fumes. The soda. I almost lost it again.
OK. I would suffer until my body returned to normalcy. I would pay the price.
The upside was that the bender had played out at home. I’d harmed no one. I’d engaged in nothing more foolish than a sweaty tryst with an old high school flame.
Sadly, that last assumption would prove to be false.
Remember my comment concerning Mondays at a morgue? Double that for Tuesdays coming off holiday weekends.
All three pathologists were present, and the board showed eight new corpses. Since Rinaldi’s was not among them, I assumed Larabee, Siu, or Hartigan had come in the previous day to perform that autopsy. Given the circumstances, my money was on the boss.
Again, I was overcome with guilt. While I’d been destroying brain cells in a grand mal of self-pity, others had been carrying on doing their jobs.
I went straight to the cooler and pulled out Cuervo’s cauldron skull and leg bones and Finney’s mandible. Since both autopsy rooms were in use, I spread plastic on my office desk, lay the remains on it, and added the teeth that I’d taken from Susan Redmon’s coffin.
In two hours, I was finished. Every tooth fit. Every detail of age, gender, ancestry, and state of preservation matched. The measurements I’d taken in the tomb were compatible with those I’d taken from the skull. Fordisc 3.0 agreed. If needed I could run DNA comparisons, but I was convinced the skull, mandible, and coffin remains belonged to the same individual.
Now and then I saw Hawkins or Mrs. Flowers or one of the pathologists hurry past my open door. Larabee stopped at one point, looked at me oddly, moved on. No one ventured into my office.
I was composing my report on Susan Redmon when Mrs. Flowers rang to announce the call I’d been dreading. Dr. Larke Tyrell, head of North Carolina’s medical examiner system, was on the line from Chapel Hill.
“Could you possibly say that I’m not here?” I asked.
“I could.” Prim.
“I’m a little under the weather today.”
“You look a bit peaked.”
“Perhaps you could suggest that I’ve left early?”
“I suppose you might.”
Grateful, I didn’t ask what she meant.
Returning to the Redmon report proved futile. I couldn’t concentrate sufficiently to string words into meaningful sentences. I needed to stick to tasks that were more concrete. Visual.
For lack of a better idea, I returned to the cooler, withdrew Jimmy Klapec’s vertebrae and the mutilated tissue that had been excised from his chest and belly and set them on the desk beside Susan Redmon’s bones. Then I got out the school portrait of Takeela Freeman and the mug shots of Jimmy Klapec and T-Bird Cuervo and added them to the assemblage.
I was staring at the sad little collection, hoping for some sort of epiphany, when Larabee entered my office without knocking. Crossing to the desk, he loomed over me.
“You look awful.”
“I think I’ve got the flu.”
I could feel Larabee studying my face. “Maybe something you ate.”
“Maybe,” I said.
Larabee knew my history. Knew I was lying. Wanting to hide the guilt and self-loathing, I kept my eyes down.
Larabee continued looming. He was very good at it.
“What’s all this?”
I told him about Susan Redmon.
Larabee picked up the jar and inspected the two hunks of Jimmy Klapec’s carved flesh.
“Slidell’s convinced this all ties together.” I swept a hand over the desk. “Crack this, he says, we’ll crack Rinaldi’s murder.”
“You’re not convinced?”
“He was working the cases.”
“Rinaldi was a cop.”
We both knew what he meant. Disgruntled drug lords. Vengeful inmates. Dissatisfied victims. Most do little beyond fantasizing the settling of perceived scores. A dangerous few take action.
Larabee swapped the excised specimens for the mug shot of T-Bird Cuervo.
“Who’s this guy?”
“Thomas Cuervo, an Ecuadoran santero who rented the Greenleaf property from Kenneth Roseboro. Went by T-Bird.”
“The house with the cauldrons and skulls in the basement?”
I nodded. “Trouble is, Cuervo’s vanished. Either no one knows or no one’s willing to say where he is.”
Larabee studied the mug shot
a very long time. Then, “I know exactly where he is.”
24
LARABEE LED ME THROUGH THE COOLER INTO THE FREEZER, TO A gurney rolled to the far back wall. Unzipping the body bag, he revealed a very icy corpse.
“Meet Unknown 358-08.”
I studied the face. Though blanched, distorted, and badly abraded, there was no question it belonged to T-Bird Cuervo.
“How long has he been in storage?”
Larabee consulted the tag. “August twenty-sixth.”
That definitely put Cuervo in the clear on Klapec and Rinaldi.
“Why didn’t I know this body was back here?”
“He arrived the day you left for Montreal. The case didn’t call for an anthro consult. By the time you returned, I’d put him on ice.”
And I’d had no reason to venture into the freezer.
“He’s your boy, right?”
I nodded, arms hugging my sides in the cold.
“Poor bastard took on a Lynx. Just south of the Bland Street Station.”
Larabee was referring to the brand-new light-rail arm of CATS, the Charlotte Area Transit System. A bit much with the Panthers and Bobcats, I know. But then, mass transit planners aren’t known for their subtlety.
“Cuervo was hit by a train?”
“Crushed his legs and pelvis. He carried no ID, and no one ever claimed him.”
“Did you run prints?” My teeth weren’t chattering, but they were thinking about it.
“Yeah, right. This guy was dragged almost fifty feet. Palms and fingers were raw meat.”
“How did it happen?”
“The driver thought he saw something on the track, threw his emergency brake and blew his horn, but couldn’t stop. Apparently a train going fifty-five miles per hour takes up to six hundred feet to come to a complete halt.”
“Ouch.” I was amazed Cuervo wasn’t in worse shape.
“The cross arms were lowered and the bells and lights were activated before the train approached the station. The driver had also blown his horn.”
“Was the driver tested?” I was amazed I hadn’t heard about this incident.
“Drug and alcohol clean.”
“Cuervo was alive when the train hit him?”
“Definitely.”
“And you had no reason to doubt that his death was an accident?”