Sin & Bone: A Medical Thriller (The Gina Mazzio Series Book 2)

by Bette Golden Lamb

  She jammed the key into the door, stepped inside, and stopped in her tracks. Harry sat on the sofa staring at her. He dominated the half-lit room.

  “Bottom line, I can’t live without you, beautiful.” His face was all eyes, like a vast ocean, blue-green and watery.

  “Is that a fact?” She turned away from him, slipped out of her raincoat, and draped it across the back of a bar stool in the kitchen; it left a puddle of dripping water.

  He crossed the room and slipped an arm around her waist. “I shouldn’t have walked out.”

  “Damn straight.”

  ”Try to understand. I was crushed. I’ve waited a year to marry you, Gina Mazzio. You know how much I love you.”

  “A helluva way to show it.” Relief and anger fought for her attention, but the right words wouldn’t come.

  “Where have you been, anyway? I’ve been worried about you.”

  She planted both fists on her hips. “Did you think I would sit around here and mope, pine over you? Is that what you thought?”

  “Of course not. It’s just that I was concerned.”

  She reached into the fridge, pulled out a container of yogurt, flipped it open, and stuffed her mouth with it.

  “If you must know, I was out having a drink.”

  Harry barely nodded.

  “One of the drug reps.” She licked the spoon before setting it down. “Kind of cute, a little on the young side, but who cares. I’m not going to marry him – or anyone else.”

  “That hurts.”

  “Really? Funny, I thought it was just the opposite -- you not believing in me and walking out when I‘m trying to deal with some maniac.”

  “Please, Gina.”

  “And what’s this shit about being worried about me? And did you really say you were concerned?” She raised a hand, cutting off a retort. “You weren’t worried Friday when I talked to that nutcase.” She thunked her head with a palm. “Oh, I forgot. You weren’t concerned because it was only a crank call.”

  “Gina, I’m sorry. All I could think about was that we were finally going to get married.”

  She snatched up the spoon again and pushed another glob of yogurt into her mouth. “Not good enough, Harry Lucke.”

  “All I can do is apologize.”

  “You can do more than that. You can leave … leave me alone.”

  “Gina.”

  “I don’t want to marry you,” she said. “You or anyone. Relationships are too complicated for my simple mind, too messy for my need of orderliness.”

  He reached out and pulled her to him. “Don’t make up your mind right now. Please!”

  She held back an angry response, squeezed her eyes shut to stem the tears. “Leave me alone, Harry.” She pushed him away.

  “Please, Gina.”

  “Just go.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow. Maybe we can talk then.”

  She bit down on her lip to keep from screaming at him.

  “Don’t count on it.”

  * * *

  Gina had just entered her bedroom when she heard her computer chime the arrival of an e-mail. She hurried to her desk and clicked to see who was sending her a message.

  It was from her brother, Vinny, stationed in Afghanistan. She hadn’t heard from him for a week and her hands shook as she read his letter:

  Hey, Big Sis,

  It’s me, the big shot (did I misspell that?) from the hellhole.

  As you can see, I haven’t flamed out yet. Some bitchin’ moments, but looks like I’m still gonna kick your butt at handball again.

  Been worried about you. Not like you to carry a grudge. Almost two years and you still haven’t buried the hatchet with Mom and Dad? I know they should have stood up for you, not try to push you back to Dominick, for any reason. But we both know they’re religious, hung up on that old-fashioned, stand-by-your-man crap and we also know that shithead ex- of yours belongs six feet under, but I’m still staying away from telling them about your plans to tie the knot with Harry – I’m not pissing grease on a bonfire.

  Crazy part, your ex-father-in-law still thinks you’ll make up with Dominick. And get this. So does Dominick! The jerk plugs me with e-mail, begging me for your address, begging me to sway you. Man! Get a life! Does this guy even have a clue about what he did? All that asshole sees is his “possession” walking out the door. Maybe we ought to fit you for a burkha? No, no. Don’t hit me! But the fool still refers to you as his pretty wife. I know you’re not a dog, but pretty? Ha! From this distance, I can call you anything. I mean ANYTHING.

  Kidding aside, I only communicate with him to know what’s on his mind. The fact he’s out of prison now means I gotta know what he’s up to. You’re the biggest reason I wish I was back in the good old USA. Wonder if I’d like living in Frisco?

  You can’t hide from Mom and Dad forever. Gonna have to cut the folks some kind of slack. At least drop a line. It’s almost Christmas.

  Enough about you. Let’s talk about me. Been thinking (just like you asked me to) about what I want to do after I get home. IF I GET HOME. Now don’t go all snively on me. Just talkin’.

  Guess I’m confused. You’d think having bombs tossed at me, bodies flying all around, something radical like this nightmare would set me on some kind of righteous path. But, you know, sis? I don’t seem to give a damn about a future. Only getting back in one piece. That and beating your silly ass at handball.

  Don’t make me hurt you. Write to Mom and Dad. At least they’re now in the 21st century in some things. They’re sending e-mails. Can you believe it?

  And for chrissakes, don’t beat on Harry too much. Give the guy a break.

  Love,

  Vinny the terrible.

  Gina plucked a tissue from a nearby box and dabbed at the tears spattered on the keyboard.

  “Men! Who needs the bums? All they do is mess up your life.”

  She wandered into the small kitchen and pulled out a can of Chef Boyardee spaghetti and meatballs. She grimly remembered how she’d had Harry over on one of their first dates. She’d prepared homemade pasta but brought out this very can to break the ice.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Harry had blurted, laughing so hard she thought he’d burst.

  “Whaddayamean,” she said in her best, straight-faced Bronxese.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I guess the promised home cooked meal made me think real I-T-A-L-I-A-N, not vintage hospital cafeteria. But what do I know?”

  They’d both roared when she pulled the hidden plates of food from the oven.

  Now, Gina opened the can and dumped the contents into a saucepan. When it was barely warm, she picked up a fork and started eating directly from the pan.

  She stared at a picture of Harry on the refrigerator door. It was under a magnet, along with a picture of her brother in uniform.

  She forced a forkful of the canned pasta mixture into her mouth and chewed slowly.

  ₪ CHAPTER 17

  Jacob St. George clawed at his head, yanked out clumps of hair, watched as the strands slipped through his fingers to the wooden floor.

  Where the hell is he? Hiller will be here first thing in the morning.

  He unlocked the big walk-in cooler, strained hard to pull open the heavy door. His flesh was searing from flashes of white-hot lightening that struck randomly at his neck, eyes, and gut.

  He rubbed hard between his legs. His groin throbbed in rhythm with his pounding heart.

  Boom! Boom! Boom!

  He stood at the entrance to the cooler and looked at the wrapped bundles. He’d always held back some of the moveable inventory from Hiller, but now it was very low. His eyes took in a heap packages in the back, smaller packages, almost round. That pile had really grown over the past month.

  No! He can’t have those. They’re mine, only for me.

  He ripped off his grubby shirt, dug his nails into the already flayed skin that itched endlessly. He had to make it stop. No matter how many women he took, it was never enough. Ne
ver enough to make it stop!

  He stumbled to the kitchen-lunchroom area. This was where his brat would come after school and do his homework.

  Where are you? When I say I want more, that’s what I mean, more!

  MORE.

  The monitor clock on the wall began to chime the hour. Time was running out. The hands of doom were sitting on his shoulder, like a monkey picking at his neck.

  The cancer was stealing his life.

  Jacob dropped heavily into a gray, vinyl-padded chair. He was exhausted from alternating between bouts of manic energy and deep depression.

  He stared at the white marble kitchen tabletop. Spotless. He slid his fingers across the smooth surface.

  Back and forth, back and forth.

  Only three hours sleep and he was wide-awake and searching for answers. He lay his head down as though it were a delicate piece of china, studied the table surface, then his fingers.

  Not even the hint of a smear marred the white expanse. Not the slightest indication that neither he nor anyone else had ever touched it.

  Nothing there.

  Nothing.

  Did he even exist?

  That thought moved him into action. He sat up, yanked at his hair again.

  Watched the strands float to the floor.

  His eyes throbbed, were as dry and gritty as a desert. Like the emptiness that came after a dust storm, one that cancelled any sign, any evidence of being.

  He picked at his eyelids. Poked at his eyes. Not a drop of moisture was released.

  The nothingness accelerated – he couldn’t even feel his toes.

  He grabbed for the small, round hand mirror he’d begun carrying everywhere; it teetered on the edge of the table. How many times did he check his image each day?

  Every single day a part of his face disappeared, like a generous section of pie had been doled out to some unknown person.

  Yesterday, his chin vanished.

  He threw the mirror to the floor. A jagged crack sliced across the center.

  “Seven years bad luck!” he screamed.

  A harsh, mocking laugh rippled through the silence of the room, a crescendo that ended on a high, hysterical note.

  * * *

  Walter Cooke parked his car in a Tenderloin public parking garage, then walked through the tough the shoddy neighborhood with eyes in the back of his head. In almost every doorway there was some pathetic creature either sleeping or begging for money. The surrounding smells assaulted him, came close to making him lose his early lobster dinner.

  Cooke knocked lightly on the back door of the mortuary. It was a very dark night and habit kept him looking over his shoulder even though he doubted anyone had followed him – most people tend to shy away from mortuaries, considered them bad luck.

  He’d been around the block a few times in his sixty years and knew most people acted as if they would never die. And they stayed away from anything that smacked of death … especially mortuaries. Death was for someone else, not them.

  He was getting drenched. What had started out as a light rain was now a thundering downpour.

  While he waited outside the mortuary, he tapped a foot on the asphalt to the rhythm of some crazy tune he’d long forgotten the name of but couldn’t get out of his head. His sneaker made tiny squishing sounds on the wet pavement with each tap. He forced himself to stop focusing on the nervous, incessant music in his head.

  This was only the second time he’d worked at Auston’s Funeral Home. He briefly questioned his sanity for taking on a job in the Tenderloin, particularly at night and in this kind of weather. But the owner paid better than most, and next week he was scheduled for his annual trip to Tahiti.

  The mortuary’s security guy finally opened the door.

  “Whadda you want?” He was big and stupid.

  “He’s expecting me.”

  “Yeah?” He peered out. “I guess I remember you.” But he still didn’t open the door all the way.

  Cooke was losing patience. He’d left his umbrella in the car because it was windy and he was now soaking wet. His feet sloshed in his drenched socks and sneakers.

  “So, are you going to let me in or what?”

  Before the moron could answer, the door swung open and Charlie Auston stood there wearing a soiled morgue apron.

  “Where the hell you been?” Auston shouted. “I expected you half an hour ago.”

  “Weather!” He snapped a nod at the guy holding door. “And I’ve been trying to get past your security goon for the past ten minutes.”

  Auston spun on his heel and motioned for Cooke to follow him down a painted concrete hallway. Cooke was relieved to finally be out of the foul weather.

  No carpeting, paneled walls, or soft music playing in the working part of the enterprise. Instead, embalming fluid and the familiar odors of death assaulted his senses.

  Cooke shucked off his drenched coat and hung it on a hook next to a line of rubber aprons. He took one, slipped the loop over his head, and fastened the ties behind his back. The floor was still wet from a recent hosing to get rid of someone’s errant tissue.

  The naked body of a 30-to-40-year-old woman lay face up on the drainage table. Someone had slit her throat long before she’d arrived at the mortuary. She laid there, bloodless, white as bleached bone.

  Poor woman!

  Cooke let the thought drift away as he slipped on a double pair of surgical gloves. A deja vous moment placed him back in medical school ready to dissect his first cadaver. He may have failed his written exams, but he sure-as-hell was a whiz with a scalpel.

  The older he got, the more satisfied he became. He was making more money than he would have as a practicing doctor, and without the messy emotional involvement.

  As he worked, he thought about his upscale condo, the trips to Europe, the gorgeous women he’d landed in his bed. All that, and he would never have to worry about patients taking him to court and saying unkind things. He grinned at this take on an on old mortician’s joke.

  Auston watched as Cooke made careful incisions and began removing organs, which were immediately fast-frozen.

  “You won’t be able to save this,” Cooke said as he tossed a cirrhotic liver into a basin. “Big time boozer. Whoever slit her throat did her a favor. Probably would have conked out on her own within a year.”

  Auston never looked up. Just continued packaging everything Cooke passed over to him.

  “You’ve got to think positively, Walter,” Auston said. “Seeing the destruction of the human body as a result of poor living habits is very instructive.”

  Cooke ignored the comment. He couldn’t have cared less about other peoples’ lifestyles, nor did he know or care to know anything about the final recipients of Auston’s organs, limbs, bones, and other body parts. He simply assumed it was probably a broker or go-between who distributed the bits and pieces to private research labs and medical schools. This setup wasn’t for fresh transplants.

  Still, it was only the second time he’d been here. Who knew what the mortuary owner was up to? One thing was certain – nothing would be wasted, from collagen right down to fingernails and toenails.

  An intact corpse meant a hefty wad of cash for everyone concerned, and even more so when the deceased was relatively young.

  “Reconstruction or cremation?” Cooke asked, nodding at a bin of PVC pipe sitting in the corner. He was evaluating the various lengths Auston might want to use to replace long bones if there was to be an open casket.

  “This one’s scheduled for the burner.”

  “Got it!” He continued working, assumed Auston would fill the funerary urn with ashes from another source so the bereaved wouldn’t be suspicious as to whether things were on the up and up. Again, that was none of his business.

  By morning, Cooke was exhausted, but he consoled himself by remembering that the three corpses he’d dissected that night were for research, the good of humanity … and cash.

  * * *

  Charlie Auston
smiled widely after he let Walter Cooke out the mortuary’s back door; the jerk had done a great job again. Cooke was a snobby idiot, thought he was the only one who could dice and slice a corpse with such finesse. He was a to-notch skin and bone man or, considering the circumstances, sin and bone might be more appropriate.

  Auston scratched his ear.

  Yeah, well, maybe so, but he still has the personality of a dead fish.

  Auston’s legs were watery with fatigue. It had been a long night and he really needed to crash, but he was way too stimulated from assisting Cooke. Having downed cup after cup of hi-octane coffee, his adrenaline was pumping wildly. He went to his office, sat back in his chair, and plopped his feet on the edge of the desk.

  He examined the inventory list centered in front of him. The monthly totals jumped out from the page. He took the pencil he’d stuck between his teeth – the favored one with all the tooth marks down to the graphite – and pointed at the columns as he absorbed the numbers.

  Damn, looks like I’m short. Yeah, I am short.

  He did some figuring in his head. He had legitimate contracts with three medical schools to process donated bodies, which had always been a nice side business. But since he’d thrown in with Milty Hiller things were getting very complicated, although he was making a lot more money. He’d had to raid some of the legitimate corpses in order to supply Hiller, whose demands had increased month after month. Auston was painfully aware that he had to fill those quotas first.

  He could feel the stress building in his neck – soon he would have a friggin’ headache. He tried to relax, stared at the picture of his wife, holding their granddaughter. Each time he looked at the snapshot, he was amazed by how much the two of them looked alike. His gaze zeroed in on his wife’s soft, kind eyes. But he’d seen those eyes turn to stone, especially when she didn’t get what she wanted, when she wanted it. Then, instead of “love” or “honey,”’ it was “ex-con” or “loser.”