Dead Hot Mama (6 page)

“Palmer!”
barked the voice on the speakerphone.

“Gina, Lewellyn Ferris.” Lew tipped back in her chair, grinning at the sound of Gina’s voice.

Watching her prompted Osborne to remember the sight of the two women working side by side six months earlier, one with dark curls she constantly brushed back, the other with a sleek cap of black hair and never a strand that strayed. Where one was sturdy, strong, and of medium height, the other was small-boned, petite. One wore cop khaki, the other dressed in black. But they shared one unmistakable feature: grim determination. Only the foolish dared get in their way.

“O-o-h,” Gina’s voice slowed and relaxed. You could hear her smile. “Hey, Chief, what’s up?”

“Little holiday action. I need some high-tech assistance up here in the hamlet. Got plans for the holidays?” Lew’s eyes, alert with anticipation, caught and held Osborne’s.

“Got a new job. First of the year, I start a fellowship with the IJNR—
Institute for Journalism and Natural Resources.
Think I can get Ray to come clean that he’s undercover for the DNR? Give me some good leads?”

Gina’s speech pattern always ran at twice the speed of a normal person, which Osborne found amusing. Yep, the woman was an original—she might be tiny in stature, but she compensated with the eyes of a hawk and the voice of an auctioneer.

“If you can get Ray to come clean on anything, why don’t you try getting him to stop hiding thirteen-inch walleyes under the liner of his minnow bucket,” said Lew, winking at Osborne.

He had to hand it to her: Took less than twenty seconds for Ray’s name to surface.

“What do you mean, Chief?” asked Gina.

“I mean that the legal length is fourteen inches—and the legal limit is three. How many do you think Ray slips past our hardworking rangers?”

“Some things never change, do they,” Gina laughed. “You’re giving me bad thoughts. I have a lot of cleanup to do down here.”

“Yeah, but some problems you just gotta deal with in person, doncha know.” Lew leaned forward, her face close to the speakerphone. “Had some trouble out near your property, Gina. Some jabones from somewhere are driving over the ice and breaking into seasonal cabins to steal antique hickory furniture. I’m worried about yours. That place you bought has some very nice pieces out on the porch …”

“Oh …” said Gina, radiating concern. Osborne knew she had overpaid for her cabin. Not only did she love the primitive little building and its prime lakefront location, but it had been put on the market fully furnished. While locals were ho-hum over the property, Gina was well aware of the value of the old furniture.

The former owner, who had died leaving no heirs, was the last of three elderly ladies who had held everyone living on Loon Lake Road, including Osborne and Ray, hostage to a telephone party line. Once she died, the phone company could no longer refuse to provide decent service, and so, following the old lady’s funeral, Osborne and Ray got touch-tone phones—with private lines—and Gina got a hundred-year-old cottage packed with antiques. Everyone was happy.

Now it was Osborne’s turn to wink at Lew. She had chosen the perfect lure: Gina could not bear the thought of a threat to her treasures. “Ray’s got a key—would you ask him to check for me?”

“As soon as I have a spare minute, Gina. Right now I’ve got several criminal cases that are problematic.” Lew gave Gina a quick rundown on the three victims, winding up with “… so I’ve got a Palm Pilot that was found on one of the bodies, and I have no idea what to do with it.”

“You’re kidding,” said Gina, her voice taking on a new timbre. “My special projects reporters just teamed with the business desk to investigate an employee for a major manufacturer down here who was using his Palm to steal patent applications.”

“See, I knew you’d know this stuff.”

“At least you’ve got cell phones these days, right?”

“And high-speed Internet connections,” said Lew. “Updated our computer system, too, since you were here last—it’s the expertise I don’t have.

“Hold on a minute,” Lew motioned to Osborne to shut her door. Even with the door closed, she lowered her voice. “You know how I would hate to turn this case over to Wausau. The senior staff down there will put it on the back burner, and who knows when—or they’ll solve it and land a nice budget increase, while we get nothing …”

“Let me think about this,” said Gina. “I know how you feel about those guys …”

She was quiet on the other end, and Lew waited, saying nothing. “I promised my sister I’d spend Christmas with her and her husband in Evanston,” said Gina. “They’re having marital problems—fun, huh?”

“You’ve got that snowstorm down there, too,” said Osborne. “Roads closed?”

“They’re plowing,” said Gina. “Can you guys find me a place to stay?”

Lew looked at Osborne, relief spreading across her face. “Motels are packed with skiers and snowmobilers,” she said. “Might have to bunk you on Ray’s sofa—or at my place.”

“Oh, hey, if Ray’s got room—”

“Gina, your meals and travel are on the department. How much time can you spare?”

“I start with IJNR on the fourth of January. And I do need a day or two to clean out this office. Mind if I ask you what makes you so sure you’ve got something on that Palm?”

“Wausau sent up a new guy, young, bright. Had to
pry
his fingers off it.”

“That’s a good sign. Look, I’ll finish up here, pack, and check the roads. Look for me tomorrow around noon?”

“You betcha.”

“Merry Christmas, Lewellyn Ferris,” said Osborne as the speakerphone clicked off.

“Merry Christmas, yourself,” said Lew, her eyes dancing. “This makes everyone’s life a whole lot easier.”

“I hope it means you’ll go to the Dental Society’s annual party with me on the twenty-sixth? Remember, I invited you last month.”

“I’ll try, Doc,” said Lew, jumping up from her chair, “but no promises.”

“I need to RSVP today …”

Lew paused in the doorway. “You know I’m not a fan of social gatherings.”

“I want you to meet some old friends of mine.”

“Not yet, Doc. I’ve got—” Lew waved her hands in frustration.

“It’s okay, don’t worry about it. I’ll take Mallory.” Darn, why did he always say the wrong thing. She’d been so happy and then … dammit.

“You
missed Dr. Pecore by about five minutes,” said Carrie McBride as she handed the morgue register to Osborne for his signature. The young nurse was the daughter of a former patient of his from Sugar Camp. Very tall, tanned, and quite slim, she looked all of twelve years old, though he knew she had to be in her early twenties.

“You have three in there—they just delivered the woman. Dr. Pecore’s paperwork is still on the counter. He’s not done yet. He got a phone call and slammed out of here like he was mad at me or something.”

“He’s … not done?” said Osborne, catching himself. He wasn’t sure when people would be informed of the firing.

“Sometimes I wonder,” said the girl. “That man’s so sloppy the way he leaves stuff around. Speaking of which,” she pointed to a large cardboard box near the nurses’ station, “you won’t believe the clothes that came off those two men. One had a snowmobile suit that must have cost a thousand dollars.”

“No. A thousand dollars?” said Osborne. “That’s outrageous, Carrie. How can you spend that kind of money on a parka and snow pants?”

“Dr. Osborne, it’s exactly what my boyfriend wants—rigged for cell phones and stuff like those portable CD players. Great for ice fishing. Dr. Pecore shoved it in a box and left it here. I don’t know what he thinks I’m s’posed to do with it. You might want to check it out. You don’t see stuff that expensive up here very often, y’know.”

“I’ll look it over and take it by the police department when I’m finished here,” said Osborne, handing the register back to her. “Chief Ferris will want to see the clothing, and Pecore knows that. He must have other things on his mind. Thank you, Carrie, you’ve been a big help.”

Carrie gave him a tight little smile, obviously happy to have undermined, even in a small way, the man who had treated her so rudely.

He hated the morgue. The smell. It wasn’t a bad smell, just a smell that pierced his sinuses and stayed in his head too long. As always, the moment he entered he had the urge to leave. He set out to work as fast as possible.

The first victim, Peter Shebuski, was in his late twenties. His mouth was in good shape, teeth cleaned recently. Osborne guessed he was married with a wife who booked regular appointments with the dental hygienist. Eleven cavities filled and evidence of orthodontia. This was a man raised by parents who believed in good dental care. He would be mourned. Osborne paused, dropping his head for a moment, before continuing.

Victim number two, John Lobermeier, was interesting. He’d had his teeth whitened, causing them to look peculiar against the death pallor of the gums. Osborne guessed him to be about the same age as the first victim. Less careful with dental care of the kind not obvious to onlookers—this fellow would be needing some periodontal work for gum disease if he didn’t start flossing. Osborne caught himself. Talk about a moot issue.

Ah, the young woman. He took a look at Pecore’s paperwork. The cause of death was a puncture wound to the back. A Phillips screwdriver was Pecore’s opinion. It had pierced the heart, likely causing death instantly. Little bleeding, all internal. That would explain why there was no blood in the snow. Otherwise, Pecore stated, the lividity of the blood in the corpse indicated the victim had been killed elsewhere and moved. That came as no surprise.

Osborne laid back the sheet to expose the victim’s head. Her eyes were half open, cloudy as a winter sky. He drew down the chin. What had resisted when he had touched her out on the lake was now pliant. Her bite appeared natural and good. Ray was right—she would have had a very nice smile.

He tipped the head back gently, gloved fingers bracing the lower jaw as he peered into the mouth. What he saw didn’t register at first. When it did, he stood up, took a deep breath, then adjusted the overhead spot for the best possible illumination.

The tongue had been neatly severed. A pristine cut. In all his years of practicing dentistry in Loon Lake, Osborne knew only two types of people who used knifes that worked so cleanly. One was a fisherman with a talent like Ray’s for the perfect fillet, the other a surgeon. This was not the work of an amateur. He doubted if even Bruce or any of his cronies would find an identifiable mark from this blade.

The girl had exceptionally good teeth. One cavity from years ago. Two wisdom teeth in place, two extracted. One lateral incisor on the upper left slightly crooked. Regular cleanings and flossing. But no easily recognizable dental work. That was disappointing.

He charted the configuration of her teeth with lateral and anterior views, then sketched a diagram of the jaw and facial structure as meticulously as he could. He made a note to ask the new coroner for photos. At the very least he would pass those around at the society meetings next week. A full day of panels before the evening dinner party would give him a chance to run them by most of the attending dentists. With luck, someone might find her mouth familiar.

Once Osborne was satisfied with his exam, he gave Pecore’s notes on the first two victims a quick scan. Curious. Pecore had noted that the woman’s body appeared to have been wiped down with an antiseptic of some sort. He found no stray hairs, nothing—”unnaturally clean” were the words he used. Now that was a good catch on Pecore’s part, thought Osborne. The man wasn’t a total loss.

Osborne returned the paperwork to the counter where he’d found it. Lew would need to double-check those results with whomever the new coroner might be. Just as he was about to leave the room, he paused. He went back to the drawer holding the woman’s body and pulled it out. He wanted a close look at the hands, those fingernails that had caught Mallory’s eye.

Ah. Under the bright light, he could see why his daughter had called them holiday nails. Ten tiny Christmas trees glittered silver against the dark blue sky painted on the slender fingers.

Leaving the morgue, Osborne hurried down the hall. He was desperate for a breath of fresh air before he followed Carrie’s suggestion to examine the clothes.

“I’ll give you a hand,” she said when he returned. Together they tugged at the garments, which were heavy under normal conditions and more so due to the fact they had only half-dried since the bodies were pulled from the water.

Pecore’s notes had stated that he believed the clothing had been removed from the victims initially, then replaced with care. Whoever the killer was, he speculated, they had not planned for the victims to be found until sometime in the spring when nature would have roughened the edges of the cuts severing the legs.

Something he didn’t write down but Osborne knew to be true: Enough snowmobilers would be trapped under ice until spring that Pecore, by his standards, would be too overworked to do detailed exams. When the ice goes out in the northwoods, every year an average of four or more missing people surface.

One set of clothing held no surprises—the first victim had worn a standard snowmobile parka and pants. But the other outfit was quite unlike anything that Osborne had seen before. Someone, probably Bruce, had tagged it with the name matching the victim whose teeth had been whitened.

“Jeff and I looked at one of these at Ralph’s the other day,” said Carrie, noting the confusion on Osborne’s face. “Want me to tell you what I know about it?”

“Sure. I don’t know where to begin with this thing,” said Osborne, pulling at the arms of the parka as he tried straightening it out, “and I’d just as soon not ask Ralph.”

He detested Ralph Kendall, the British-born owner of Ralph’s Sporting Goods. The man was pretentious enough about fly fishing equipment without giving him this to lord over Osborne as well. Even though he was married, Ralph was always a little too obsequious around Lew. Add to that the fact that the word over morning coffee at McDonald’s was that he’d been spotted more than once at a Friday fish fry in Boulder Junction with a woman who bore no resemblance to his wife. No, Osborne did not need to give that razzbonya any advantage.

“Jeff’s a geek, see,” said the young nurse as she shook out the snow pants. “He calls these ‘mobile pants’ because they have pockets for your cell phone here, a Blackberry or Palm there. See how they line the pockets and all the Velcro? Say you fall in the water—this keeps all your equipment nice and dry. Jeff dumped his snowmobile in Boom Lake last winter, y’know. Went in up to his neck,” said Carrie, demonstrating, “so that’s real important. And see on the parka …” she took the jacket out of Osborne’s hands, “see how you can carry a minidisc player right here—then all you have to do is hit the ‘back’ button on your sleeve if you want to replay a song.

“And Dr. Osborne,” she set the parka down to pick up the pants again, “you’ve got all these secret channels sewn in for the wires. Jeff wants to be able to carry his MP3 player and a digital camera just like this guy.” Carrie set the pants down carefully. “Burton is the company that makes these, and Ralph will special order for you.”

“You think this one came from Ralph’s?”

“Oh no, this is from the cities,” said Carrie. “I asked the family when they came in to ID the body.” Osborne raised his eyebrows. “I asked
very carefully
,” said Carrie. “With respect, Dr. Osborne.” As she folded the high-tech suit back into the box, she paused. “I just wonder …”

Osborne waited. “Wonder what?”

“Well—where did all his stuff go? You don’t wear this unless you’re fully loaded, y’know.”

“We have his Palm Pilot, Carrie.”

“Yeah, there should have been more stuff, I think. Digital camera. At least a cell phone. A guy like this doesn’t go anywhere without his cell phone.”