4 Blood Pact (20 page)

“Yes. Although I haven’t practiced medicine for some time, I am a medical doctor and your mother, understandably upset, wanted a second opinion.”

“And you told her?”

“That she had perhaps six months to live without corrective surgery. Pretty much exactly what her own doctor told her.”

“Why didn’t she go in for the surgery?”

“It’s not that easy,” Dr. Burke said, leaning back in her chair and lacing her fingers across her stomach. “There are always waiting lists for major surgery, especially transplants, which is what your mother would have needed, and with budget cuts . . .”

Vicki’s pen gouged through the paper and her voice emerged through clenched teeth. “So Dr. Friedman said.”
My mother could’ve died from god-damned fucking budget cuts
. “I’d like to see copies.”

“Of the tests? I didn’t keep any. I gave copies to your mother, who, I assume, gave them to her doctor, but I saw no point in keeping a set myself.” Dr. Burke frowned. “I did what I could for her. Do you doubt my diagnosis, Ms. Nelson?”

“No. Of course not.”
So you were there for her and I wasn’t. That’s not the issue now
. “Who else knew about the tests?”

“Why?”

The question came as no surprise, and Vicki realized it came primarily in response to her aggressive tone. She’d have asked it herself if someone slammed a question at her with that amount of force.
Brilliant interrogation technique, Nelson. Forgotten everything you ever learned?
Maybe she should’ve brought Celluci. Maybe she wasn’t thinking clearly.
No. I don’t need him holding my hand. I’ve worked through anger before
. She’d been one of the best; top of her class; the fair-haired girl of the Metro Police. She took a deep breath and fought for some semblance of professionalism. “My mother’s body is missing, Dr. Burke. I intend to find it and any information you might be able to give me can only help.”

Dr. Burke leaned forward, both hands flat on the desk. “You think that the body was taken by someone who knew she was going to die?”

Celluci’d always said she was a lousy liar. Vicki looked Dr. Burke in the eye and decided not to even make the attempt. “Yes. That’s exactly what I think.”

Dr. Burke held her gaze for a moment, then sat back again. “Besides myself and Dr. Friedman, I can only be certain of Mrs. Shaw, although it’s likely Dr. Friedman’s nurse knew. I didn’t tell anyone, Mrs. Shaw might have, and your mother could have mentioned it to friends, of course.”

“She never mentioned it to me,” Vicki snarled and then pressed her lips tightly shut, afraid of what else might slip out. She hadn’t intended to say that.

“Given that we were using university equipment,” Dr. Burke continued, graciously ignoring the outburst, “I can’t guarantee that no one else knew about the testing, you understand.”

“Yes.” A single word seemed safe enough. Pity she had to use more; every syllable carried more heat than the last and there didn’t seem to be anything she could do about it. “I need to speak with those members of your department my mother came into frequent contact with.”

“That would be all of them,” Dr. Burke told her dryly. “But surely you don’t believe that someone in my department is responsible?”

“They do seem to be the first people I should check, don’t they?”

Answering a question with a question. Nice try, Ms. Nelson, but I have no intention of surrendering control
. “I’d certainly be interested in your reasons for thinking so.”

As her reasons for thinking so were based solely on a midnight visit she had no intention of mentioning, Vicki found herself momentarily at a loss. “The members of your department are scientists.”

“And why would a scientist take your mother’s body?” Dr. Burke kept her expression outwardly neutral while inwardly she kicked Donald’s careless butt. She knew Catherine couldn’t be counted on to consider the more mundane aspects of the situation, but she’d expected better of him. It was obvious that last night’s side trip had been observed. Nothing else but the knowledge that a dead woman was up and walking around could logically account for the sudden obstinate certainty that someone at the university had to be responsible. “It could just as easily,” she continued, “have been taken by a spurned lover. Have you looked into that possibility?”

“She had no lover,” Vicki ground out, “spurned or otherwise.”

Behind a mask of polite apology, Dr. Burke enjoyed the reaction. Of course she didn’t. Mothers never do. Aloud she said, “That brings us back to my scientists, then. Shall I have Mrs. Shaw make some phone calls for you, set up appointments?” It was a large university and there were ways to make it larger still.

“If you would. Thank you.” Well aware that Dr. Burke’s assistance could cut through the time-consuming tangle of academic red tape, Vicki had been about to ask. That Dr. Burke remained on the list of potential suspects devalued that assistance not at all. The manner of the assistance, could, in fact, be used as further evidence. “I need to talk to the faculty in the school of medicine.” She’d start with the obvious. Later, if necessary, she’d widen the circle. If necessary, she’d tear the bloody university apart, limestone block by limestone block.

“I’ll do what I can. If I might make a suggestion, your mother was quite friendly with a Dr. Devlin, a cellular biologist.”
And talking with that old Irish reprobate should keep you busy sorting fact from fancy for days
. “In fact, he comfortably covers both our theories as I believe he was very fond of her.”

“
Both
our theories?”

“The scientist and the spurned lover.”

Just for a moment, Vicki wondered if her mother
had
gotten involved with someone who’d refused to surrender to death; wondered if a twisted love had tried to force a return of life and created the travesty of her mother she’d seen at the window.
No. Impossible. Henry said there was another one. And besides, she’d have told me if she’d met someone new.

The way she told you about her heart condition?
asked a small voice.

Dr. Burke watched the emotional storm playing out across her visitor’s face and decided the experiment was in no immediate danger. Although last night’s unfortunate lapse in security had brought Ms. Nelson closer to the truth, when it came right down to it, close didn’t count.
And now I’ve given her something new to think about. Dr. Devlin should be in for an interesting interview.
When that played out, another wild goose could always be found.

In the meantime, it was obvious to even the most casual observer—which she most certainly was not—that Marjory Nelson’s daughter rode a precarious balance between rigid control and a complete breakdown. An emotional teeter-totter that could only get in the way of an objective investigation and a situation easy to exploit.

“It’s amazing,” she murmured, almost as though she were speaking to herself, “how much you resemble your mother.”

Vicki started. “Me?”

“You’re taller, of course, and your mother wore no glasses, but the line of your jaw is identical and your mouth moves very much the way hers did.”

Did
. . . Her mother’s face rose up in memory, a sheet of glass between them, eyes wide, mouth silently working.

“In fact, you have many of the same mannerisms.”

Vicki desperately tried to banish the horror her mother had become and replace it with an earlier memory. The sheet lifted, the gray and waxy pallor of death, the chemical smell of the hospital morgue . . . In the memory before that, a phone rang on, unanswered.

“Ms. Nelson? Are you all right?”

“Fine.” The word was a warning.

Dr. Burke stood, satisfaction covered with polite regret. “If you have no further questions, I’m afraid I have a list as long as my arm of meetings to attend. I’ll have Mrs. Shaw set up those appointments for you.”

Vicki shoved her notes into her bag and stood as well, jabbing at her glasses. “Thank you,” she said, forcing her mouth to form the conversational phrases. “And thank you for your time this morning.” Throwing the bag up onto her shoulder, she headed quickly toward the door. She neither knew nor cared if she’d covered all she’d intended to. She wanted out of that office. Of that building. She wanted to be somewhere where no one knew her mother. Where no one could see reflections of the dead in her face.

“Ms. Nelson? We miss your mother around here.” Intended to be a parting dig at damaged defenses, Dr. Burke found to her surprise that she meant what she was saying and instead of twisting the knife, finished simply with, “The office seems empty without her.”

Halfway out the door, Vicki turned and acknowledged the observation with a single nod. She couldn’t trust herself to speak and wished, just for that instant, that she’d listened to Celluci and not come here alone.

Dr. Burke spread her hands and her voice picked up the cadence of a benediction. “I guarantee, she didn’t suffer at the end.”

“No. I’m sorry, Detective, but none of these photographs are of the Tom Chen that we employed.”

Celluci pulled the shot of Tom Chen, medical student, out of the pile. “You’re sure about this one?”

“Quite. Our Mr. Chen had slightly longer hair, more prominent cheekbones, and a completely different eyebrow line. We reshape a lot of faces in this business, Detective,” the younger Mr. Hutchinson continued in response to Celluci’s silent question. “We become used to observing dominant characteristics.”

“Yeah, I suppose you do.” Celluci slid the grainy black and white photographs back into the large manila envelope. Tom Chen, or whatever his name actually was, was not now attending medical school at Queen’s, nor had he graduated from the program over the last three years.

Detective Fergusson had been more than willing to call the registrar’s office on campus and suggest they release the pictures.

“No problem,” the Kingston police officer had declared with complete insincerity. “I’m more than willing to humor ex-Detective Nelson and her wild corpse chase.” The distinctive sound of hot coffee being slurped from a cardboard cup echoed over the line. “You catch the news this morning? Half the fucking force goes out with some kind of spring flu and some asshole starts strangling young lovers. We got a hysterical witness—who’s seen Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ video one too many times, if you ask me—and no suspects. And I don’t need to tell
you
that the fresher the corpse, the higher the priority. If a phone call will keep your girlfriend happy and off my back while I deal with this new situation, it’s worth the two minutes it’ll take.”

Celluci’d been tempted to tell him that the two were connected in one final attempt at enlisting law and order against whatever it was that Vicki and Fitzroy were dispensing but at the last minute decided he’d better not.
Your murderer is a reanimated corpse, Detective. How do I know? A vampire told me
. Kingston had a large psychiatric facility and he had no intention of ending up in it.

Meanwhile, the search for Igor moved no further ahead.

“All right, Mr. Hutchinson.” Time to try another angle. “You said that all funeral directors have to serve a four-week observation period at a funeral home before they’re accepted into a training program.”

The younger Mr. Hutchinson leaned back in his chair. “That’s correct.”

“Well, where do these observers come from?”

“From the applicants to the program at Humber College in Toronto.”

“So this young man, whoever he was, had to have applied to that program?”

“Oh, yes,
and
gone through an interview. The Health Sciences people try very hard to weed out unsuitable candidates before they’re placed for observation.”

Celluci frowned. “So, it was just chance that Ig . . . Tom Chen, for lack of a better name, ended up here?”

“No, not at all. He asked to come here. Said he’d been impressed by the way we handled the funeral of his aunt some years before and wanted to work with us.” Mr. Hutchinson sighed. “All fabricated, I presume, but at the time we were flattered and agreed to take him on. He was a very pleasant fellow and everyone liked him.”

“Yeah, well everyone makes a bad call now and then.” Celluci finished scrawling a note to call Humber College, shoved his notebook in his pocket and stood, glad to be leaving. Funeral homes, with their carpets and flowers and tastefully arranged furniture gave him the creeps. “I wouldn’t worry about it. I don’t suppose you get much opportunity to practice character assessment.”

Mr. Hutchinson rose as well, his expression stony. “Our services are for the benefit of the living, Detective,” he snapped. “And I assure you, we are quite as capable of character assessment as, say, the police department. Good day.”

As he had nothing more to ask, Celluci accepted the dismissal. Once outside, he snorted and headed for the nearest bus stop—with the suspect’s transit habits still their only concrete clue, he’d left his car at the apartment building. “Quite as capable of character assessment as the police department,” he repeated, digging for change. “Just a little sensitive there, aren’t we?” Still, he supposed that funeral directors were as sick of stereotypes as, well, police officers, so the comment hadn’t been entirely undeserved.