Picture Me Dead (24 page)

“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.

A
shley 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.

She hadn't run, though. She had done the sketches, and they were good.
She
was good, and she should have been pleased by what she had accomplished. But as she drove away from the morgue—desperate for a shower and fresh clothing before picking up Karen and Jan—she grew angry with herself for not feeling a greater sense of achievement. The hell with him.

It hurt to feel that after last night. No. That had been nothing more than a moment's insanity, almost like coming up for a gulp of air after being under water too long. He certainly felt nothing toward her. It was almost as if he still
disliked
her.

She pulled into the parking lot, grateful that her own space was available, still so deep in thought that she hardly noticed her surroundings.

“Hey, Ashley, congratulations!”

Startled, she looked up. She'd seen the single man seated at one of the outside tables—before. Probably in his mid-thirties, he had a stocky build, dark hair and a pleasant, squarish face. She was sure he could see her mind working as she tried to remember just how she knew him. He'd been in before, of course. But she'd also seen him with Dilessio, she realized. He was Jake's partner.

“Thanks,” she told him.

She walked over to the table. He grinned. “I'm Martin Moore, by way of an official introduction.”

She grinned. “Nice to meet you—officially. Actually, I think I remember you from here, as well. Jack Black and water on Saturday nights, right?”

He leaned back, amused. “Good memory. I'm not here all that often. Guess I'll be around more now, with Jake having a slip here.”

“Great.” She tried to keep her smile in place.

“Lord, has my pain in the ass partner been around here already?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No…it's just that…”

“I heard you sketched our Jane Doe this afternoon. Good work, I hear. Everyone has high hopes that someone out there will identify her once the likeness appears in the papers.”

“News travels quickly,” she said.

“Oh, not that quickly.” As she arched a brow, he told her, “I'm here to meet Jake. He told me. I would have been there, but I ate something yesterday that did my stomach in.”

“I'm sorry. Hope your dinner went down okay.”

“It did. You have a sweet—and rather attractive—mother hen in there. She recommended bread, broth and a grilled chicken breast. I'm feeling better already.”

“Sharon Dupre,” Ashley told him. “Nick's girlfriend. She makes wonderful cookies, too.”

“It's a great place. I can see why it's always been so popular. Comfortable atmosphere, near the water and a lot of your uncle's laid-back personality.”

“I've always liked it.”

“That's good to hear. A lot of young people…they can't wait to move on. Have their own place, you know.”

Ashley shrugged. “My parents have been dead since I was very young. I've had a wing of the place to myself since I was ten. Nick and I get along great. I was never a trouble-prone teenager, and he was never a down-your-throat guardian. I love where I live.”

“You like the water, too, huh?”

“Love it.”

“Old Jake couldn't be dragged away from it,” Marty said. Then he laughed. “You sure he hasn't been a pain?”

“No. All right, a little bit—but just to me.”

Marty grew serious for a moment, studying her. “He may be trying to help Nick with the guardian bit.”

“Why me? It's not like I'm the only woman in law enforcement.”

Marty shrugged with rueful knowledge, forming his words carefully. “Before me, Jake had a woman partner, did you know?”

“I had no idea.”

“She was a good cop.”

“And…?”

“She died.”

“Oh, God! How?”

“Her car went into a canal. It was almost five years ago. Right after a series of three really nasty homicides.”

Ashley nodded. “I heard about the case when Murray asked me to come down to the morgue today.”

Marty nodded. “Jake never believed Nancy Lassiter went into that canal on her own. He was sure she knew something about the murders and was killed because of it. She died of a blunt trauma to the head, which was consistent with the way she would have been thrown against the windshield. She wasn't wearing her seat belt.”

“I'm so sorry. That's terrible.”

Marty hesitated. He winced, then said, “Maybe I shouldn't be telling you this, because we just met. But there's obviously some tension between you and Jake. You live here, and you'll probably wind up working a lot with him, so I'll dish up some past history. Nancy Lassiter was married. Her husband comes around here now and then, too. There was a lot of friction in the marriage, and Brian—Nancy's husband—was certain she was sleeping with Jake. They
were
close. Jake never gets on a soapbox about the past, but…I guess lots of people in the department thought their relationship was a little
too
close. Anyway, despite all evidence to the contrary, Jake will never accept the fact that Nancy killed herself. He feels a lot of guilt over it for not forcing her to share the information she'd found and she got herself killed because of it. Anyway, the point I'm making here is, you're Nick's niece. Maybe he's afraid you'll get into trouble, too, because you're so determined to prove yourself.”

She shook her head. “He ought to be pleased, then. I've taken a step back. I'm going right into civilian employ. I won't become a cop for a long time, not until I've worked a while, then go back into the academy and finish up.”

“Did he know what you were doing today?”

“
I
didn't know what I was doing today—until I was on the way to the morgue.”

“Don't worry. It will all shake out.”

“Yes, I'm sure it will. And it's a huge force. I'm sure there are lots of cops out there who have to work together and aren't always so terribly fond of each other.”

“Sure. And hey, I haven't seen the drawings yet, but I hear that they're beyond good. I'll get to see them soon, though. I'm meeting Jake here in—” He glanced at his watch. “—about five minutes.”

“Good. I hope you're happy when you see them. I'm going to run. I have to shower and pick up some friends to go visit another friend in the hospital.”

“The kid who was hit on the highway?”

“Yes. You know about it?”

“I dropped Jake off at the hospital the other night. I hear you think there's something fishy about the accident.”

“I do.”

“Well, be careful, then.”

She smiled. She decided she liked Marty a lot. He didn't try to give the same-old, same-old speech about drugs.

“See you, then. And thanks.”

She waved and hurried off, crossing the terrace, hopping the rail and hurrying across the grass to her dockside door. She glanced at her own watch, then stripped down, throwing things helter-skelter as she headed for the shower. Once the hot water was pouring down over her, she found herself just standing still, savoring the warmth that seeped into her body. It had been a long day. A triumph, some would say. Except, on a professional level, she knew she was going to have to find a way to stop seeing the image of the dead woman lying on the gurney. This was something she had chosen, something she wanted to do, and she couldn't let this haunt her.

She just felt…fractured inside. Attracted to someone with the kind of almost ridiculous passion and urgency she hadn't felt since…ever. It was akin to a high school crush, but she wasn't in school. She'd been crazy if she'd thought she could indulge her senses in one night and walk away unscathed. Insane. She'd been drawn to him ever since they'd had the run-in with the coffee.

She forced herself to turn the water off, towel dry furiously and get dressed. She decided to go through the restaurant quickly and let Nick know she was home, that she was leaving, and that she had a million things to tell him about her day, but not until later.

As she walked through the restaurant, she saw that Katie, a long-time server and more or less assistant manager was behind the bar. She waved to Ashley, looking relieved to see her. “Hey, can you help on the floor?”

“Oh, Katie,” she said with dismay. She liked the woman a lot. Of Irish descent, she had dark eyes, dark hair and beautiful creamy skin. She had a gift for laughter—and for getting things done. Somewhere around forty, she had lost her husband, a firefighter, over ten years ago, and raised a family of five on her own by working for Nick. Her children, once they had become teenagers, had come in now and then to bus tables. “Katie, I'm sorry, but I really can't. I'm picking people up to go to the hospital. I have a friend—”

“I know, I know, that's where Nick and Sharon have gone,” Katie said with a sigh. “There was no one here—no one at all—and I told them that if they felt like going down to see your friend's folks, they should do it. And now, it's getting busy.”

Sandy was sitting at the bar. “Keep your apron on, Katie. I'll get the food out.”

“Sandy, you're a customer,” Katie said firmly.

“I'm not a customer—I'm a fixture,” he said with a grin. “Get out of here, Ashley. And mind you, I expect payment for this.”

“Of course.”

“I don't mean money. I want to hear about your new career.”

She looked at him, startled.

“Nick has cops for customers, remember?” he said, grinning.

She gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I'll pay you off big-time. I'll talk your ears off,” she assured him. Katie gave her a wave. She left then, choosing to go through the office and the house to the parking lot, rather than risk seeing Jake Dilessio out on the terrace with his partner.

Karen was outside waiting for her when she got to her friend's house.

“I know, I'm late.”

“Just by a few minutes,” Karen said. “Not late at all for normal people, but since you've got such a talent for being on time…”

“I think I'm beginning to fall off on that punctuality thing,” Ashley murmured.

“Hey, you have the right. What a week, huh? I called the hospital a little while ago. They won't give much information over the phone, but it seems Stu is holding his own, anyway.”

“Yes, he's hanging in there.”

“So tell me, did you get some rest and relaxation this afternoon?” Karen demanded.

“No. I went on my first assignment.”

“You're kidding!”

“No. Let's get Jan, and then I'll tell you all about it.”

They had to beep a few times; then Jan came running out to the car, apologizing, telling them that she'd been on the phone, pretending she was her own publicity agent, trying to get a promotion together for a concert. They all laughed when she treated them to her “publicity agent voice.” Then Karen told her that Ashley had already had her first assignment, and Ashley explained how she'd spent her afternoon.

“Ugh!” Jan announced from the back.

“What do you mean, ugh?” Karen demanded. “Yesterday she was a nobody. Today she's a working forensic artist.”