Page 7 of One
I don’t get why.
“How is it even possible that Linda doesn’t know about it?” Uri interjects. Linda is an ex-CIA agent. Something sliding by her is near impossible. I know because she taught everyone in this room every single James-Bond-like tactic and method there is.
“She’s been busy with a job. Her times away have been more frequent,” Gabe explains, leaning his hip on Rami’s desk.
‘CIA agents never really retire,’ she’s said on more than one occasion.
“Tomorrow is Friday. I can follow Meg and find out what this is all about,” I say.
“Or we could ask her?” Sari tries again. I sometimes wonder if his straight approach is bold or just naive.
I look at my brothers. I know they all care, even Uri. Me? Contrary to popular belief, people suffering from psychopathy can experience emotions. But we do have a blunted emotional response if our attention is directed toward something else. In essence, I feel emotions, but have a reduced ability to process them. I can identify them, thanks to Meg’s teaching. And also ignore them, if I feel they might interfere with attaining personal goals. One of which is finding out what’s going on with Meg.
“She’ll just Pinocchio her way through it again. Stalking sounds more reasonable,” Rami says, eliciting a few snorts. “All in favor?”
I raise my hand. Sari is the only one with his arms down. But it’s five against him.
“I’ll come with you,” Rague tells me.
“Uri and I have a serial rapist to castrate tomorrow night,” Rami lets me know. “But I can take a break if you need me.” He mimes a phone with his fingers. “I’ll connect Serena to the baseline. You can use her as well.”
I nod, feeling a small excitement building inside me. For the first time in a long time, it’s not linked to blood.
“Whose turn is it to help me get rid of the donor’s body?” Rague asks.
We all point to Uri.
“Fuck.”
Chapter 2
MICHAEL
Lincoln Park evening air. It has a unique scent to it. Earth, water and must, with a hint of baked bread and sweet tomato sauce coming from the pizza place on the corner. Underneath it all, car exhaust fumes. It smells like comfort for some weird reason. Being out always does.
My mind goes back to the morgue and the two refrigerated corpses I locked into the cold chambers. One young guy, early twenties, whose life has been taken violently, and one elderly man who died while sleeping placidly in a hospital bed. Death comes the same for everybody, but the way we go can be so very different.
I think again about the young guy. I don’t usually consult for the police, but the Chicago P.D.’s forensic hematologist got food poisoning a couple of months ago. As the Grand View Hospital coroner, I was asked to temporarily take his place for the afternoon. Fortunately, only one body arrived on my table. Unfortunately, the young boy was the first victim of a serial murder case. For continuity purposes, they asked me to perform the autopsies on the next victims; that, and the fact that they’re overworked. Chicago is a violent city.
Paul Philman, the last man brutally assaulted, is the fourth body they’ve found. He was older, in his late twenties. But just like the other victims, he had blue eyes, light brown hair, and a lean body. He was also strangled with a metal cord.
The detectives have a coldblooded murderer on their hands. And I have to focus on Mr. Coleman, the elderly man who quietly died in the hospital. I need to return his personal belongings to the family.
I push my hands into my brown Harrington jacket and check both ways before crossing the street. I take a big breath as I enter Marnie’s to fully enjoy the aroma of bitter, black coffee and cavity-sweet cakes. Nearing one of the old stools at the counter, I smile at Berta.
“Doc is finally here. You’re late tonight.” She waggles her eyebrows suggestively at me. The dirty gossip-bee. For the mug of smoky caffeine she’s pouring in front of me, I’ll tell her anything she wants to know. It doesn’t mean it’ll be interesting.
“I wish. Had a pile of paperwork to fill.” I show her with my hand how high it was.
“Must be hard to write while shooing all the admirers away.” She winks. I have to admit that my blonde hair, light eyes, and fit body do attract men’s attention. But mymacabrejob and distrustful inclinations—which, apparently, make me come across as lofty—turn that interest away quickly.
“I’m a multitasker.” My dry humor ignites a low chuckle from the nearest booth. I turn to face Meg. Her black and grey strands are held back in a tight bun at her nape as usual. Her dark eyes sparkle with mirth and sharpness. She’s a forensic psychiatric—or crime shrink—I bumped into at Grand View one morning. We started talking over the uneatable banana pie at the hospital cafeteria and discovered a common addiction to cakes and old crime TV series. That’s how we kind of fell into our evening meetings at Marnie’s.
I moved to Chicago only a few months ago. Don’t have any friends apart from my medical colleagues, and I feel quite comfortable talking with her.
“What’s our poison tonight?” she asks me, pointing at the cakes in the window display. We always take two different desserts and share them. And tonight, it’s my turn to choose. I walk to the cracked booth, place my coffee on the table’s resin surface and slide in front of her. The vinyl against my khaki pants makes a rumbling, fart-like sound, but we both ignore it.
I grab the pie menu and then suggest, “How about blueberry cheesecake and sour cherry cake?”
