Barbara sees me and waves me into the room. A tall blond woman is standing beside her looking picture-perfect and utterly radiant in a tight-fitting pencil skirt, tailored blouse, and peep-toe pumps. As I take in the sleek hair, the deftly applied makeup and the long-legged, stylish grace, something about her strikes a familiar chord. A second later it hits me.
“Chris!”
“Hey, girlfriend,” Chris greets back. “Good to see you again.” Chris, despite the feminine good looks, is actually a transvestite. I met him a few weeks ago at a trendy bar outside of town while investigating the Karen Owenby case. I found myself then feeling much as I do now—envious as hell and amazed that a man can look that good as a woman, not to mention that much better than me.
“I took your advice and met with your stylist here,” Chris says. “You were right. Her talents are magical.”
Barbara smiles at me and says, “Thanks for the referral.”
“My pleasure.”
“Oh, the pleasure is all mine,” Chris says, admiring himself in a mirror hanging on the wall. “And the ambience here is so . . . so . . . delicious.”
That’s not how I would describe it, but hey . . . different strokes and all that.
“And it’s like a two-for-one deal,” Chris goes on. “Barbara helped me pick out all my funeral accessories, everything from the coffin and satin pillow down to the music and flowers.” He pauses and sighs delicately. “I’m going to be a knockout as a corpse.” He walks over to a counter, picks up a large ring-binder notebook, and starts flipping through it. I see several color head-shots of women on the pages. Chris settles on one—an adorable Audrey Hepburn–style cut—and hands me the book.
“I’m considering trying this one next time,” he says. “What do you think?”
“I think it will look stunning on you,” I tell him honestly, noticing as I do that the eyes on the model in the picture are closed. I flip through a couple more pages and realize that all of the models are corpses—fine-looking corpses, mind you, but dead nonetheless. I make a mental note not to use the word permanent around Barbara because I’m not sure it means the same thing here that it does in other salons.
With one last wistful glance in the mirror, Chris picks up his purse, bids us both good-bye, and sashays out of the room.
Barbara turns her attention to me and takes a moment to survey my hair and make-up. “Looks like you ran into some trouble,” she says.
“You have no idea,” I say, rolling my eyes. “First I fell into a pile of decomp goo and then I had to ride back from the scene on the flatbed of a truck. Today I wrecked my car and managed to get cottage cheese, strawberry jelly, and blood in my hair. Oh, and I have a couple of stitches up here.” I touch the area and wince, surprised at how tender it is. The lidocaine used to numb the area has worn off. “I’m a mess, Barbara. Can you help?”
“Lie down,” she says, gesturing toward an empty stretcher. “Let me see what I can do.”
Though it took some coaxing to get me to lie on a stretcher for dead people the first time I came here, I eventually got past my heebie-jeebies. I’m glad I did, because Barbara is truly a miracle worker. Just shy of an hour after my arrival I arise from my stretcher like a two-bit actor in a Bela Lugosi movie. My hair has been shampooed, conditioned, trimmed and blown dry. My face has been washed, treated with some kind of herbal stuff, and adorned with make-up. I feel renewed, refreshed, and attractive again.
After thanking Barbara, I write her a check and say good-bye, then venture upstairs to look for Bjorn. I find him and Irene in one of the sitting rooms, holding hands. Judging from the red smear on Bjorn’s cheek and the further spread of Irene’s lipstick, I’m guessing they were doing more than hand-holding. Pretty fast moves, if you ask me, but then there is that age thing.
I manage to tear Bjorn away from Irene, but not before hearing that they have a date planned for two nights hence to play bingo at the senior center.
I slip behind the wheel of Bjorn’s van and as soon as he’s seated inside I say, “Looks like you two hit it off, eh?”
He smiles and gazes off into the distance. “A gentleman never kisses and tells,” he says. Then he looks over at me and his smile fades. “Who are you again?”
Chapter 22
Within a few minutes of leaving the funeral home we pull up in front of the police station. I tell Bjorn I won’t be long and hint that he might want to wait in the van, but he’s having none of it.
“I’m coming in,” he says. “I need something to eat and maybe they’ll have some snacks or something.”
I can’t believe he’s still hungry after scarfing down two huge slices of Dairy Airs cheesecake and who knows how many cookies with Irene.
“And I’m sure they have a bathroom in there, don’t they?” he goes on. “ ’Cause my bag is feeling kinda full.”
Resigned to having Bjorn as my sidekick, I head into the station with him in tow. Sitting behind the glassed-in reception area is the day dispatcher, a woman named Stephanie whom I know well. She greets me warmly and says hi to Bjorn as well, who nods and asks, “Do you have any vending machines here?”
“In the squad room,” Stephanie says, hitting a buzzer that opens the door to the inner sanctum. As soon as we step through she hands me a cell phone and says, “Here you go. It’s a bit sticky with something and I meant to clean it off for you but didn’t get to it yet. It seems to be working okay, though. How did you know I had it?”
“I didn’t,” I say, taking it. “How did you get it?”
“One of the guys found it in your car when they towed it to the impound lot.”
“Thanks.” It is indeed sticky and I grab a tissue from a box on Stephanie’s desk and try to wipe it down. Instead, all I manage to do is cover it with fuzz.
“So if you didn’t know about the phone,” Stephanie asks, “what brings you here?”
“I need you to run a license plate for me.”
“I need to eat something,” Bjorn adds. “And empty my piss bag.”
Stephanie’s eyes grow big at that and she wheels her chair a few inches back.
“I’ll help him,” I assure her. “While I do that, can you look up this plate for me?” I take a pen and paper from her desk and write down “HOT 44D” and “cherry-red convertible” on it. “I don’t know the make of the car but it shouldn’t be too hard to figure out.”
Stephanie nods, takes the paper, and turns to her desk while I steer Bjorn into the back. We stop in the restroom, a unisex room with one toilet, one urinal, and a sink. The urinal height is perfect for Bjorn’s catheter bag and it doesn’t take me long to empty and recap it. I stop at the sink, wet a paper towel, and use it to clean off my phone. A minute later we are on our way to the squad room and as soon as we enter, Bjorn makes a beeline for the refrigerator. On the door is a set of those magnetic poetry words and several lines of them have been put together. One reads HAVE CAR AND GUN DON’T LIKE TO RUN. Below it, with TASER handwritten on a blank magnet is LET’S PLAY TASER TAG. Just above the door handle is another one: EAT IF YOU DARE.
“I wouldn’t eat anything out of there if I were you,” I warn Bjorn. “God knows how long some of that stuff has been in there.”
He ignores me and opens it anyway. I’m surprised to see that it’s relatively empty; someone must have gotten ambitious and cleaned it out recently. Its only contents are a half pint of cream, a couple of sodas, a package of hemorrhoid suppositories, and a box of bullets.
Bjorn and I scratch our heads over the contents for a moment before he grabs a can of Mountain Dew and closes the door. It’s not the best choice; the caffeine in the Mountain Dew is a diuretic, meaning his leg bag will be refilling in no time, but I let it go. He then turns to the snack machine and fishes some change out of his pocket.
“Damned inflation,” he grumbles. “I remember when you could buy stuff out of these machines for a dime.” He proffers his hand and shows me that he has one quarter, one nickel, three pennies, and a lint-
covered cherry Lifesaver. “I don’t think I have enough,” he says mournfully.
I fish out my wallet. “Here,” I tell him, handing him a dollar bill. He puts his change back in his pocket, pops the linty Lifesaver in his mouth, and takes the money. The dollar is enough for two purchases and Bjorn opts for a bag of nacho cheese-flavored tortilla chips and a package of Oreos.
Back at the front desk, Stephanie starts to fill me in but is waylaid when her radio to the 911 center goes off.
“Officer needs assistance at the medical examiner’s office, 400 E. Sixth Street. Code 10-103f and 103m.”
“What the hell?” I say. I stand and listen as Stephanie responds and then dispatches all available officers on duty to the site. “What’s 103f and 103m?”
“The 103 is code for a disturbance, the f means there’s a fight, and the m means there might be a mental patient involved.”
A mental patient at my office? I briefly wonder if it might be Arnie but quickly dismiss the idea. He’s a bit off the radar but I’m pretty sure he’s not insane.
Steph’s phone rings and I wait impatiently while she answers it. As soon as she hangs up she says, “That was one of the officers over at your office calling to fill me in. Apparently there is some kind of family squabble going on with the Heinrichs’ offspring and it’s getting kind of dicey.”
Great. The spoiled rich kids. Just what I need.
“Oh, and here’s the report on that tag you wanted,” she adds, handing me a piece of paper. “The car belongs to a lady over in Smithville.”
I mutter a curse under my breath. Smithville is a half hour away and not within Bjorn’s jurisdiction. Apparently reading my mind, Bjorn says through a mouthful of Oreo crumbs, “Hey, I don’t mind if you do the driving.”
“What about your dispatcher?” I ask him.
He shrugs, swallows, and wipes some excess crumbs off his lips with the back of his hand. “I’ll take a few days off and we can use my car. But you’ll have to pay for the gas.”
I nod and say, “That seems fair. Shall we plan it for tomorrow then?”
Bjorn nods; at the moment his mouth is too full to talk. But as soon as he swallows he looks at me with a puzzled expression and says, “Who are you again?”
Chapter 23
As we pull up to the main entrance of the ME’s office, I see that the street is crowded with TV vans and reporters. Clearly the Heinrich tragedy has piqued the public’s interest, not surprising given their wealth and social status. I have no doubt their story will be a feature in newscasts for the next several days, and fodder for magazine articles for weeks to come. When I spy Alison amidst the crowd I have to smile, knowing she must love all this attention. This is the second time in a month she’s had insider status on a huge national story. With any luck some big-city news station will offer her a plum position, getting her out of my hair and away from Hurley.
Not wanting to run the media gauntlet, I pull the cab around back and park in the secured garage. When Bjorn and I finally make our way to the front lobby, we find it packed with people: two regular-duty cops, Hurley, Cass, Izzy, and six other people, five of whom are yelling and gesturing at someone else. There aren’t any media people that I can see, but a few of them are peering through the glass in the front doors, trying to see what’s going on. Fortunately for us, the glass is tinted, making it easy to see out but impossible to see in.
I take a moment to admire the extremely well-fitting jeans Hurley is wearing, and wish for a moment that I was Barbara Eden and could nod all these other people out of here. Then, reluctantly, I shift my focus to the rest of the room.
Standing in front of Cass’s desk are three women. Two of them are Barbie doll twins: personal-trainer thin, artificial D-cups, dyed-to-blond perfection, dressed in designer clothes, artificially tanned, skillfully made up, and adorned in jewelry that costs more than I make in a year. They are screaming at a third woman: a mousy, wallflower type dressed in shabby chic and clutching a pocketbook the size of a small suitcase. The odds may be two to one, but there is a fierce light in the mousy woman’s eyes that makes me think she could easily prevail.
On the adjacent wall is a uniformed police officer who is doing his best to keep two men apart. One of the men, a lanky blond guy with a dark tan and a sun-etched face, is dressed as if he’s ready to hop on a sailboat. The other is heavy-set, balding, and wearing a suit and tie, though the jacket has a worn-to-death sheen to it. I suspect his shirt was at one time white, but several faint stains have blurred the original color beyond recognition. As the officer does his best to keep the two men from coming to blows, they glare at one another with obvious venom—their faces suffused red with anger and their fists clenched tight. If the cop between them fails, I’m putting my money on Mr. Frayed Suit since Sailor Boy has a spoiled, soft look about him and is only half the other man’s size. I am about to award Sailor Boy a couple of grudging points for moxie when I realize it’s more likely he’s being driven by drunken stupidity. He has the bloodshot eyes and slightly bulbous nose of a long-term drinker.
Holding center stage in the middle of the room is Hurley and another man. In stark contrast to the other groupings, these two appear to be carrying on a reasoned and calm conversation. The third man, who is as tall as Hurley and built with a sinewy strength, has dark blond hair, brown eyes, and an air of calm self-assurance. He is dressed in casual slacks and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing a pair of sexy looking tanned and muscular forearms. After a few seconds of study, I gauge his age to be somewhere around my own—in his mid-to-late thirties—and guess that he and Ms. Mousy are the oldest ones in this group.
Bjorn, who is standing beside me taking it all in, says, “Is there a vending machine in this place?”
I’m beginning to think Bjorn might be infected with a tapeworm but decide not to say anything. If I do, I know he’ll have me handling his poo as well as his pee and I don’t want to go there. So I fish in my purse, hand him some change, and direct him down a hallway off the lobby. “Halfway down that hall,” I tell him. “By the bathrooms.”
“Oh, good,” he says, taking the money. “That will work out well because I need to go lay some cable.”
I shoot him a puzzled look. “Lay some cable?”
“Yeah, you know, punch a dook?”
I stare at him, confused.
“Pinch a loaf?” he says.
With that one I finally catch on, but before I can indicate so, he throws his hands up in the air and yells, “I need to take a shit. Okay?”
The entire room falls into a sudden, awkward silence and everyone turns to look at me and Bjorn. We stare back for a few beats and then Bjorn turns and shuffles off down the hallway. Though it seems his outburst provided a distraction, rather than calming the crowd, it gives one of them an opening for an attack.
Ms. Mousy takes her suitcase-sized purse and smacks the crap out of the closest Barbie doll twin, who shrieks and lunges at the woman with her hands extended like claws—albeit well-manicured claws flawlessly painted in Mojave Desert Red. I half expect the other Barbie doll to join in but instead she grabs her twin and pulls her off Ms. Mousy.
“Let’s take a breather, shall we?” the second, saner twin says to the other two women. “We’re all adults here. Why don’t we try to behave so?” Her voice is smooth, silky, and very sexy. I see Hurley staring at her with keen interest and feel a sudden pang of jealousy.
“I agree,” says the man standing by Hurley. “Clearly we’ve been drawn together under some less-than-ideal circumstances. Let’s try to do the best we can with it and honor the dignity of our respective parents, shall we?”
Like the woman I assume is his sister, this guy’s voice is luscious: mellifluous, rich, and a bit sultry. There is also the faintest hint of an underlying British accent, suggesting he spent some time there. Between the voice and his demeanor, he manages to gain control of the room, at least for the moment. All eyes are on him. Mine are on him, up and down
him, and all around him. Two can play at this infatuation game and this guy is worth a goggle or three.
As if sensing my ogling he turns and looks at me, making me blush.
“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” he says, walking toward me with one hand extended. “I’m Aaron Heinrich.”
“Mattie Winston, Deputy Coroner,” I return, taking his hand. We exchange a brief shake, but as I’m about to let go he tightens his grip ever so slightly and smiles at me. “You’re far too pretty to be doing this kind of work,” he says. Coming from anyone else it would have sounded stupid and sleazy but he manages to make it sound sexy and flattering. I blush deeper and say a silent prayer of thanks to Barbara.
“I’m . . . um . . . not sure one’s looks . . . um . . . matter with this job,” I stammer. “But thank you.” From the corner of my eye I can see Hurley scowling at us.
“Well, Mattie Winston,” Aaron goes on. “Perhaps you can lend a voice of sanity to our proceedings here today. As you may have guessed, we are the Heinrich and Conklin families.” He gestures toward the Barbie twins and says, “These are my sisters, Katrina and Grace, and this gentleman over here”—he shifts his attention to my left and nods at Sailor Boy—“is my brother, Easton.”
Sailor Boy winks at me. I nod politely toward the twin Barbies but make no effort to approach them since Aaron still has a warm but firm grasp on my hand.
“These other two people,” Aaron continues, “are our stepsiblings, Sarah and Tom.”
Both stepsiblings look mad enough to spit fire and I fear that neither of them will be easy to deal with. I’ve already seen Sarah attack one of the Barbies with her purse, and if it wasn’t for the cop standing between Easton and Tom, I’m pretty sure Easton would be out cold by now.
The Heinrich sibs are a little harder to gauge. Easton has a clueless look about him that makes me think he’s the youngest and easiest going. The twins, however, are a toss-up. The sister named Grace, who ironically is the one showing the least of it at the moment, looks like she wants to kill someone. Based on the way she is glaring at Sarah, I’m guessing she’s visualizing a big bull’s-eye on the other woman’s forehead.
Scared Stiff Page 13
