Always Kiss the Corpse (31 page)

The downstairs entry phone buzzed. Kyra stood and picked it up. “Yes?”

Squawk, squawk. Kyra pressed nine, put the receiver down. “State Patrol.”

Noel raised an eyebrow. “Let's make sure.” They both quickly cleared the table.

A few minutes and the condo doorbell rang. Both of them went to the door. “Yes?”

A muffled voice said, “State Patrol, ma'am.”

“What do you want?”

“Need to talk to you about your conversation with Dr. Ferrero.”

Kyra said, “Can you show us some identification, please.”

“You'll have to open the door, ma'am.”

Noel pointed to the floor, and planted his foot against the door. Kyra set her foot in a line with Noel's, unlatched the door and opened it an inch. A police officer's face on a plastic card appeared. Kyra glanced through the opening. One man, more or less the same face as on the plastic. She opened the door. Tall, black-haired, in green uniform. Noel noted the gun at his hip.

“Ma'am. Sir. State Patrol. Sergeant Carl Assounian.” He smiled. “May I come in?”

Kyra opened the door to its full width.

He said, “I was in the Bellingham area, thought I'd pop by, ask you in person.”

What accent, Kyra was wondering, Kansas, Kentucky? “Come in.”

He did, following Noel to the living room. Kyra closed the door and tailed the parade.

The State Patrol officer looked at the business card in his hand. “You represent Islands Investigations International?” He was addressing Kyra.

“We are Triple-I. I'm Kyra Rachel, this is Noel Franklin.”

“Private detectives.”

Investigators, thought Noel.

“You talked to the coroner, Dr. Ferrero.”

“Is that a crime?”

“Ma'am.”

She felt reproved by his smiling aggrieved look. “Would you care to sit down?” She did.

So did Assounian. “Why do you think another autopsy is necessary?”

“Nobody believes Sandro injected himself with heroin.”

“Do you have information about an alleged crime the police don't?”
Po-lice
.

She listed the reasons for their doubts, as she had done for Ferrero.

“You didn't see any syringes on Wednesday.”

“Definitely not. Friday we found them behind the cat food. The bag had to come out to feed the cats both days.”

The officer drew out a notebook, a pen. “Anybody beside you two there?”

Noel leaned forward, arms on his thighs. “A woman named Ursula Bunche, in the X-ray department at the Coupeville Hospital. And Brady Adam, the sheriff's secretary.”

“And what was their relation to Vasiliadis?”

“Friends.”

Assounian smiled. “Good friends?”

Kyra glared at Assounian. “Advisors.”

“Advising on?”

Flat: “Vasiliadis was in the process of a sex change.”

Assounian's face tightened and his smile faltered. “How far along was he?”

Noel could all but see the image in Assounian's mind. “He still had his male genitals.”

“I see.” Assounian plastered his smile back on. “And was he—”

Kyra said, “Officer, what's happened that we managed to get your attention?”

Assounian put his notebook down. “Fair enough. Vasiliadis' body contained a large amount of an opiate—heroin, possibly morphine. Enough to kill someone whose body wasn't used to such a dose, not enough to kill an addict.”

“His doctor gave him Demerol at four that afternoon. Some drug interaction?”

“We don't think so.”

Assounian had a small pot-belly. If he didn't smile constantly, Noel thought, he'd be presentable.

“Will Ferrero do a more thorough autopsy?” Kyra asked.

“It's happening as we speak,” Assounian allowed.

On Sunday! Kyra smiled. “He'll find out about the needle tracks.”

Assounian stood. “Yes. He coulda been giving blood, a course. We get a lot of druggies try to sell their blood.”

“He wasn't a druggie, you just said.” Kyra stood too. “Uh, does this mean you've opened an investigation into the Vasiliadis death?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Will you let us know what you find out?”

“Will do. And anything else you learn, you let Sheriff Vanderhoek or me know.”

Noel followed Assounian to the door, opened it, watched him stride down the hall. He locked, took a sip of his coffee, made a face and headed for the microwave.

“The State Patrol investigates, so our work's done,” Kyra said. “They must think it's homicide. Should we let Ursula know?”

Noel looked at his watch; ten-thirty. “Go ahead.”

She dialed. Ursula answered. Kyra reported the conversation with Assounian. “The coroner's doing another autopsy. Know him? Ferrero?”

“Oh sure. He's a pathologist.”

“Ursula, we think we've done all we can. We don't need to be on your payroll any more. There's a police investigation now. It looks like homicide.” She explained.

“Oh god.” She sighed. “Thank you. A lot.” More details, goodbyes, and they hung up.

Noel sipped his again cooling coffee. “I better worry about a flight to Nanaimo.” He dug out the phone book, looked up the number, phoned. Taped recording, nothing till tomorrow morning, eight o'clock. “Okay, I'm hooped. You get to put up with me for another twenty-one hours.”

“Excellent.” She looked at him. She thought he looked pleased at not leaving yet. Good. “I'm supposed to give Jerome an opinion on paint color. Want to come along?”

“You don't have,” Noel raised his eyebrows, “sexier plans for the afternoon?”

“If we do, there's the night.” She raised her brows in mockery.

“Paint color, eh?”

“You'll just love Dog Nelson.”

“On reconsideration, I think I'll stay here.”

Would she prefer to have Noel along? Actually, no. She had to decide about Jerome.

Noel remembered he'd promised to phone Chelsea. “If there were any developments. And now we've convinced the cops that maybe Sandro was murdered. Chelsea should know.”

Kyra should rinse the breakfast dishes. Kyra should do a load of laundry, it had piled up for ages. Laundry, the lesser of two evils.

≈  ≈  ≈

Dr. Stockman Jones said goodbye to Terry Paquette, set the phone down, and stared into the fire. It warmed the room prettily but Stockman shivered. Normally his living room gave him comfort, its shape and height, from the moment he'd first stepped into it—and even more so after Bonnie had given the space substance and beauty. This morning, though, it felt emptied out, brooding where it should embrace, dark where he needed light.

Poor Richard. On top of everything he'd suffered for Sandro's sake. Knowing Richard, he'd likely blame himself for his boat's explosion. But how lucky to be wearing a wetsuit, hypothermia could've done him in as easily as the accident. How can a boat catch fire, just like that? Dreadful. Stockman hoped against the superstition that bad luck comes in three parts. And Terry herself didn't sound great. A dreadful situation. Her husband had nearly died. But Terry would pull herself together. Richard had loved that boat so much, he must be extremely upset. Poor Richard.

The fire crackled but Jones didn't warm up. He reached for his coffee, gone cold from neglect, and sipped. He'd better call the others. He picked up the phone again, stared at it, some strange object he might never have seen before, and pressed Lorna's code. He told her about Richard's accident. Richard wouldn't be in the clinic tomorrow, he needed to pull himself together. Yes, Tuesday they'd all meet and talk. Lorna thanked Stockman and promised to call Terry. Poor Richard. Jones set the phone down and wondered why Terry hadn't called Lorna herself.

Next he phoned Gary Haines, not expecting to catch him in but there he was at the end of the line. Jones explained again and Gary sounded aghast, horrified even—what an awful thing. Gary thanked Stockman for calling.

Stockman stared at the flames, trying but failing to banish the darkness of the brooding room. Bonnie should be back soon. He'd suggest they go out for dinner this evening, somewhere bright and cheery, nice tablecloths, shiny cutlery. Terry's tone, even beyond her news, had caught him hard. Poor Richard. Stockman breathed a small prayer: Thank You for protecting the Jones household.

PART III

SEVENTEEN

“Islands Investigations International, Noel Franklin.”

“Noel, this is Chelsea again.”

“Hi.”

“I was so broken up by your news.” Her voice still sounded thick. “It's as if Sandro died a second time.”

“Yes, it does throw a different—”

“To have his life just taken away. Would you and your associate be willing to go on? Find out who did this? Whatever it takes. Send me the bill.”

“I don't know. The police are on the case now.”

“They have lots of cases but you're on top of this one. Please, stay with it.”

“Can you hold just a minute?” Noel set the phone down and left the den. He said to Kyra, “Chelsea. She wants to hire us. Find out who did Sandro in.”

Kyra shrugged, then nodded. “She can afford us.”

Noel put a finger to his lips and returned to the phone. “Okay Chelsea, you're on.”

“Great. And can you let me know—”

Kyra came into the room, gesturing her desire to speak. “Chelsea, I'm going to let you speak to my partner.”

Kyra took the phone. “Hi, this is Kyra Rachel. A question. I'm wondering what you were thinking in the few minutes between Noel's call and your phoning back.”

“Two things. First, how happy Sandro was. And then, something that's been nagging at me. Is it possible to be fully transgendered without at least some surgery? Sandro said his doctors said surgery might not be needed. Except I've never heard of anything like that. It stands out like a giant question mark.”

“Worth asking. We'll follow up.” Goodbyes. Kyra hung up. She shouted at Noel, who was tidying her kitchen, “Think three times is the record for getting hired on the same case?”

“So far.”

The washing machine beeped, cycle over. She transferred its contents to the dryer.

Noel at his laptop entered Assounian's visit and the call from Chelsea. He moved his head around, testing. “Damn. My face aches.”

“You got slapped good.”

“I guess.” He stared at his computer screen. “Okay, what do we know?”

Kyra sat beside him on the sofa and put her feet on the hassock. “If Sandro's dead he can't become a woman. So no family shame because you can't transgender a corpse. What if Andrei sicced the thug on Sandro. Ever get his name?”

“No.” Noel scowled. “Let's back up. Everything I've read says surgery is necessary in transgendering. So what if this clinic doesn't cut?”

“Or maybe that was just Sandro? Maybe he was afraid of surgery so he pretended?”

Noel keyed in the idea.

“On the other hand, he died of an overdose of opiate. The coroner's original report assumed heroin. But if it was morphine, well, most doctors have access.”

Noel looked up, raising an eyebrow. Which hurt his cheek. Shit. “Yeah, pharmacologically difficult to distinguish between opiates if you're not looking specifically.” He stared at Kyra. “But would someone at the clinic want to off Sandro?”

“Where do you find your language, Noel?”

He smirked.

“It's true, I can't think of a motive for them. Sandro's family is much more obvious. The uncle and the thug have a clear motive. I reiterate, what were they doing that night?”

He typed. He looked up. Kyra's dark curls were wild this morning, and her cheeks held a bright flush.

“If Sandro was murdered. Hmmm. Let's start by hypothesizing it was done by someone close to him. Which gives us a few likely possibilities—someone with the clinic, or Sandro's family, or some other recreational heroin user, or his so-called friends.”

“Brady or Ursula? Cora? Rudy? I doubt it. And if Sandro was using, they'd have known about it. And I don't think he used heroin with others. Not from what we know of him so far. No, I like the doctors better. Someone messed up his balls, remember. Or the family.”

“We don't know enough about the clinic. But Mrs.Vasiliadis is right here in Bellingham, we could talk to her. Let's drop by on our way to Jerome's.”

“I'm not going to Jerome's. Why talk to Mrs. V.?”

“See how she's doing, be friendly.” She drummed her fingers on the sofa arm. “Maybe she'll tell me the thug's name.”

“Let's divide the responsibilities. You go, I'll stay here.”

“I thought you liked investigating together.”

“Ordinarily I do. This case just seems to be dividing us up.”

Kyra stood. “What you can do is find out more about the clinic. I think you should make an appointment. Say you want to be transgendered. Use a false name.”

“Are you out of your mind?” He felt himself flushing. The bruise hurt again.

“They aren't going to tell us anything as
us
. Anyway they know me. You can fake it.”

They stared at each other. She had a point, but—“The one on the boat, Trevelyan, he knows me.”

“It was raining, it was dark, I did most of the talking and you had your anorak hood pulled up. Anyway, see the psychiatrist or Jones. Find out what their methods are. It'll be a hell of a lot safer than the thug last night. Phone the clinic.”

“It's Sunday, sweetheart,” said Noel. “I'll think. One of us should.”

Kyra grabbed her purse and shoes. “Call the coroner or the police, see if the autopsy's finished and what they found.”

≈  ≈  ≈

Kyra pulled up in front of Maria Vasiliadis' house. Good, she thought, no other cars parked nearby, likely Mrs. V. was alone. She got out and locked.