Page 13 of Sharp Force
“Graden mentioned that Dana Diletti’s producer has beencalling, and he’s very unhappy,” Maggie explains. “Imagine what this could do to the hospital’s reputation.”
“Who leaked information about our cases to Dana Diletti?”
“Nothing we can do about it, of course. Freedom of the press.” Maggie won’t answer my question directly. “Some people are going to grandstand whenever possible. Especially if it makes them appear a crime crusader. All to win votes.”
She’s implying that Bose Flagler is the source, and that wouldn’t surprise me. Marino recently spotted him and Dana Diletti having dinner at the Old Hat Bar in Old Town Alexandria.
It’s Flagler’s modus operandi to insert himself into high-profile cases. He’ll do anything for publicity and would love a scandalous story about old murders on Mercy Island.
“Maggie, I’ve got to go.” I tie a silk scarf around my neck.
She comes closer, handing me the small gift-wrapped box. “A little something for the holidays.” She offers another condescending smile.
“I’m sorry I don’t have anything for you.” I’m just as disingenuous.
I didn’t give her olive oil from Sicily when she showed up uninvited to my office Christmas luncheon. I have nothing for Elvin Reddy either, not even a card. Their Department of Emergency Prevention occupies the top floor of my building, and I never visit.
“How nice that you and Benton are off to England and France,” Maggie adds in her loaded way. “The advantages of marrying somebody with means. I imagine you’ll be staying in lovely hotels, everything top-drawer.”
She’s not going to leave until I open her gift. I rip the paper with impatient fingers while trying not to seem openly hostile. I don’t visibly react to the small French phrasebook while anger simmers beneath my skin.
“How thoughtful.” I smile, balling up the gift paper, free throwing into the nearest trash can.
“I know you speak Italian. But French is quite tricky.” Maggie’s eyes fasten on me triumphantly. “I wouldn’t want you to embarrass yourself.”
CHAPTER 5
I listen to the tap-tap of her Chanel boots fading down the corridor. Then the elevator dings, and Maggie Cutbush is gone, thank God. I pick up my Kevlar briefcase, a gift from Lucy, and not particularly fashionable, boxy black, somewhat masculine.
One wouldn’t guess from looking that it’s water resistant, also bullet- and fireproof while able to deflect high-energy weapons. When opened like a shield, it’s gotten me out of a pinch or two, and I sling the strap over my shoulder. Grabbing my trash bag of dirty laundry, I try to calm down from my unpleasant encounter with Maggie.
Her agenda couldn’t be more obvious. She’s in the business of trading favors and assumes she can pressure me to accommodate. I’m supposed to worry about my findings causing an inconvenience for a psychiatric hospital, the governor, no telling who else. Maggie’s yet to learn that we’re not wired the same.
I take a final look around my office since I won’t be back for two weeks. Making sure to lock my credenza, I collect records the police turned over to me when Rowdy O’Leary’s body was delivered. Giving my potted trees and plants another quick misting, I promise them that Shannon will be here while I’m gone.
“She’ll keep you company, making sure you have plenty ofsunshine and water,” I’m saying out loud, the spray bottle hissing, nobody around to hear me talking to my plants. “And I know you like music.”
I turn on the radio, finding the classical station I leave on when gone. Tchaikovsky’sNutcracker Suiteis playing softly as I walk out the door, locking it. I’m alone in the corridor, the lights on a timer and dimmed after hours. Avoiding the elevator as is my habit, I wonder how many steps I’ve put in today.
Not nearly enough, the tile floors hard on my back and knees. It feels good to move, my boots sounding on the fire exit’s concrete steps. I push my way through the metal door, following the morgue corridor. The anthropology lab is dark, a few tiny dancing skeletons glowing on the walls.
It’s 6:45 and Rowdy O’Leary has been signed out, the body on the way to a funeral home crematorium. His family will wake up in the morning knowing he’s been turned to ashes, and nothing so terrible should happen on Christmas. It shouldn’t happen ever.
As I near the autopsy suite, I hear Willie Nelson. Fabian has turned on the radio again only louder, “Winter Wonderland” booming. The floor is wet from mopping, deodorizer cloying. Rowdy O’Leary’s personal effects continue drying on the paper-covered tables, but I don’t smell the foul odor now.
I pause in the doorway as Fabian places a catch-and-release trap under one of the autopsy tables.
“No sign of our mouse, I guess.” I raise my voice above the music, placing the bag of dirty laundry on a countertop.
“No luck yet, but we’re using a different bait this time,” Fabian says, exotic-looking as always.
His long black hair is pinned up under a surgical cap, his black scrubs spangled with skulls wearing Santa hats. Tall and willowywith delicate features and elegant hands, Fabian Etienne is divine inside and out, to hear my secretary gush.
Best of all, he’s sensitive and kindhearted. He’s also our resident wildlife rescuer. Fabian is who we summon when uninvited visitors enter our building while the bay door is open.
We get bats, birds, an occasional squirrel or opossum, and all sorts of insects depending on the season. Many of our guests will build nests if we don’t relocate them as humanely as possible.
“As fate would have it, Faye brought in some fun snack stuff for our sleepover,” Fabian is saying, the blue plastic trap shaped like a tiny wind tunnel. “We’re trying Boursin on a Ritz cracker for bait in here, the anthro lab, also the anatomical division and elsewhere.”
