Youre
too busy.
She felt resentment return like nighttime and stood, anxious to get home.
His cell phone rang, and he motioned her down. Ill be right back. The caller ID said it was from upstate. He moved toward the bar.
Manny sat in his chair and rummaged through his jacket pockets. There were car keys, house keys, a quarter and a penny, a roll of Tums, and a letter from a woman that her conscience didnt let her read.
Maybe he does spend time with people who still have a pulse.
She retreated to her own seat, wondering if she should have tried to work things out with Alex, whom she had dated for a year. He was a banker with a self-involvement that often left her a bystander, but kind nevertheless. He had wanted to marry her, but he had also wanted her to leave the trial work to others, so that was that.
Jake returned. He tried a smile, but it was obvious that he was troubled.
Whats wrong? she asked. You look freaked out.
Ive been called upstate to do an autopsy. Theres no medical examiner, and the family asked for me.
Turner, she thought, and felt a spasm of foreboding. Who died?
Dr. Harrigans housekeeper, he said soberly, gazing at the wall.
* * *
Dinners on me, Manny said, reaching for her credit card. Patrice is my client; protocol dictates I pay.
His own card materialized. My mother taught me never to let a lady pay for dinner.
She
dictates who pays.
Charming. Fashion-challenged, but a courtier.
My turn next time, she said feebly, not sure that, after the Vuitton bag, there was room for another hundred-dollar charge on her account.
If there is a next time.
He paid. They stood.
Ill escort you home, he said, then head out to Turner.
Now?
Her family sounded desperate. His voice was weary. Corpses dont seem to care about time. And the sooner you get to them, the more you can find.
I dont want him to leave.
The thought, unbidden and unexpected, stunned her. Ill drive, she said.
He struggled to put on his jacket. One hand seemed to be stuck in the sleeve. He stared at her. What are you talking about?
Turner. Im coming with you.
Impossible.
Really? Try to get rid of me.
He thought for some moments. She waited for his answer, surprised by her own anxiousness. Okay.
Is he humoring me or does he actually want me with him? No matter.
Good. Well take my car.
* * *
A Porsche! For a woman who lost the Carramia case, isnt it a bit extravagant? They were in the parking garage near the restaurant. She didnt tell him the car was previously owned.
I bought it before Carramia. I do win, and sometimes win big, from time to time, she said. And besides, clothes and cars arent extravagances. She decided not to explain her mothers philosophy.
He held out his hand for the keys. She looked at it. Youve got to be kidding.
I should drive.
You may have failed to notice, she said, but this is my car. Besides, youre in no condition to drive. You had two glasses of wine.
He rubbed his temple; she was giving him a headache. Two hours ago. Im a male weighing a hundred and ninety-five pounds who just ate a full meal. Would you like me to explain the metabolism rate of alcohol in the human body?
God, no!
Fine. Then give me the keys. Weve got to drive up there, do the post, then come back to the city. Theres no sticking to the speed limit.
She gave him the keys. He slid into the drivers seat. Wheres the damn ignition?
She held back a laugh. To the left of the steering wheel, exactly where it belongs in a Porsche Cabriolet, in homage to its racing-car roots.
He looked down. Shit. Its got three pedals.
The laugh exploded. Of course. Its a
Porsche.
He got out of the car and handed her the keys. I dont drive a stick, he said.
She thought of a dozen nasty comebacks but didnt share them.
What man under eighty can only drive an automatic?
They zoomed out of the garage, crosstown, then stopped in front of a building. Whats the matter? he asked. Dont know how to drive a stick?
She glared at him. I cant leave my baby alone all night. Watch the car.
Baby? he yelled after her, but she was already gone.
He waited in the car while she went up to her apartment. Had she ever mentioned a baby? He pictured himself trying to help a crazy woman buckle a childs car seat into the Porsche. Was she seriously intending to bring an infant to a postmortem? Why did I agree to let her come? he asked himself, but he did not attempt an analysis.
She returned, carrying a bundle and a tote bag. What took you so long? he asked.
Mycroft needed a walk around the block. She took her place at the wheel and deposited the bundle in his lap.
It moved. A poodle!
Shes certifiable.
Just one year old. I cant leave him for most of the night. He likes to be held.
Youve got to be
And could you roll down your window? Mycroft likes fresh air.
She passed him the tote Prada filled to bursting. He tried to find space on the floor for both it and his feet, knowing which shed insist had preference.
What the hell have you got in here?
Some catch-up reading to do while you hack up the body. Most of it is for Mycroft: his security blanket, toys, bowl, Evian, and bully stick; his fleece, in case it gets cold; his favorite little red pillow. You know the basics.
You carry a bottle of spring water for your dog? Jake and Mycroft eyed each other. The animals coat was shiny and neatly clipped, but his lower jaw jutted out oddly, a tooth skewing to one side. Hell of an underbite, he said. And the hair around his mouth makes him look like he just ate a doughnut.
Hes too young for an orthodontist. But Ill have you know Mycrofts an entrepreneur. His groomer named a perfume after him: Mycroft Millefleurs, Parfum for the Precious Pooch. She looked directly at him. All men should be so lucky.
They reached Baxter Community Hospital in under two hours, which Jake filled by telling her about Pete Harrigan and the cancer that took his life. When they arrived, Jake went right to the morgue, leaving Mycroft in the car with his favorite chew toy and a bowl of spring water and depositing Manny in the adjacent waiting room, intended for families brought to identify their loved ones. It was a depressing little room, with flickering fluorescent lights and no windows. Manny felt her excitement disappear, replaced by the grim reality of death and sorrow. She wondered how a man like Jake could spend his life facing it. What tragedies had he seen? How did he defend himself against them? Death from old age usually requires no autopsy, she knew. So the deaths Jake contemplated were homicides, suicides, accidents lives cut short. She had seen a few dead bodies in her work and often felt she was their champion. But to
handle
them, to dwell on them? Unthinkable.
Manny?
She nearly jumped from her couch. Jake! You scared me. Finished so soon?
Havent started. Theres no diener.
Diener?
Autopsy assistant. Moves the body, sews it up when the MEs finished, helps with the stuff in between. The skin under his eyes was gray with fatigue. I just got off the phone with the coroner in the next county over. Hes running things here since Pete . . . since theres no Baxter County ME. He said the regular dieners out of town and they cant track down the backup man.
How long till they find him?
He gave her a small smile. She hoped it was meant to be charming.
Actually
She knew what was coming next.
MANNY HAD NEVER been to a live autopsy. It was the fitting end for a day in which she was dressed to kill. She was head-to-toe Chanel, even her scarf. The outfit was so chic Coco herself would die for it again. She had never considered herself a girlie girl. Since her parents had only one child, her Italian father had raised her like a son. She had learned to fish, throw dice and a football, and fix her own electrical outlets. She liked martial arts, James Bond, and Saturday afternoon monster flicks. When she was little, her father had taught her to play in the sandbox with the boys; now she competed in a rather larger arena.
Theresa Alessiss daughter found Theresa lying dead on the kitchen floor and called an ambulance, Jake explained. The paramedics tried CPR. Useless. They telecommunicated with the emergency-room doctor, who pronounced her dead, and brought the body here. Nobodys touched her since. If this were the city, the diener wouldve taken her out of the body bag, removed her clothes, and prepared her for autopsy. Here, shes still in the body bag. Since we dont know what happened to her, we have to do the examination carefully.
He led her through the morgue door, which swung shut behind them.
Oh my God!
The autopsy room was far smaller than the one Jake was used to, but it had the same look. A metal table stood in its center, the foot end over a sink and a black body bag on top of it, one that was clearly inhabited. Two white body bags, equally occupied, lay on stretchers against the wall.
Whats the matter? Jake asked.
There are dead people in those bags, just lying around.
He gave her a look. Its a morgue.
And that smell!
Formaldehyde used to preserve biological specimens.
Its awful. Is it safe?
Some people think it can cause cancer. Ive been breathing it for twenty years, and it hasnt done me any harm yet.
But have you tried to have children?
Another look. Very funny. Lets check on the body. He grasped the zipper pull of the black body bag, which bore a heavy paper tag that read ALESSIS, THERESA, along with an identification number. Right corpse. Time for us to get changed.
How come those other bodies are in white bags? Manny asked.
Whites used in hospitals up here. The bodies are probably waiting to be shipped to a funeral home. They wont be autopsied. Come with me.
They left the room and went a few doors down the hall to a small locker room, where he handed her a set of green surgical scrubs. Put these on. We can change behind the lockers. I wont peek if you wont.
She eyed them, shapeless things that looked like pajamas from a prison camp. No way.
Trust me, he said. Youll be glad you did.
Cant I just put something over my suit, like an apron?
You dont want to do that.
Dont tell me what I want to do.
Petulant. Unbecoming. Who cares? Anything to delay going back into that room.
Fine. He handed her what looked like a white plastic kimono, with cropped sleeves and a hem that went to her ankles. One size fits all, he said.
She rolled up her $2,000 sleeves so they wouldnt appear beneath the plastic and then donned her armor. He wound the plastic belt around her waist, tying it snugly at the back. The gesture felt oddly intimate.
Manny, are you there? He waved his hand in front of her face. Youre supposed to faint when we cut the body open, not before.
Sorry. I was thinking about She stopped in the nick of time.
He gave her a pair of blue paper booties. Wear these, unless you dont mind having those shoes spattered with blood and other body fluids.
Blood? Body fluids?
Her slingbacks twin four-inch-high works of art in multicolored red suede with contrasting purple and red-checked pony-skin heels deserved better.
You dont want to go tramping blood and bacteria over your living room rug, he added, eyes twinkling.
