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

by Bette Golden Lamb

  And how many times after some nasty disagreement had she warned that if he ever stepped out on her, or went back to prison, it was all over?

  Like that was something he really wanted to do?

  Well, yeah, he wouldn’t mind a little extra pussy now and then, if he dared, but he wasn’t ever going back to the joint. The nickel he’d done in San Quentin for pushing drugs had messed up his head, to say nothing about his body. He wasn’t going back there, no matter what.

  He looked out the back window and watched daylight spread across the buildings, thanked his lucky stars that his Pops had been an undertaker. Man, he’d hated it when he was a kid, but now he realized how lucky he’d been to fall into this setup: a dead dad leaving his only child a great business.

  And then he’d run into Milty, an old buddy from his cellblock who was a big time black-market broker of body parts. Actually, Milty had found him. And it sure shot him in the right direction financially when the mug pointed out the piles of dough to be made. Auston knew when to jump right into a good deal. Hell, what did he have to lose? Stiffs were stiffs.

  He turned back to the desk and looked at the photograph again.

  Funny, nothing about the mortuary bothered her, and there was only the occasional complaint about the smell of the juice. In the beginning, he’d told her straight out: No matter how you try to cover it up, there’s nothing to be done about the stink of embalming fluid. “It is what it is. It don’t smell good, and that’s that.” After a while, she stopped complaining. She did have her good points.

  He remembered when he was fresh out of the can, they’d met on-line. He’d fallen for the first available piece of ass after a five-year drought.

  He visualized their summer home hanging over the ocean on the Mendocino coast, their fancy little estate in Belvedere, a nest egg of two mil invested in blue chip stocks, and a lot of cold, hard cash in the safe deposit box.

  Unfortunately, she not only knew about his assets, she knew where everything was stashed. If he were ever caught, she’d sure as shit find a way to pocket it all after turning her back on him. She was that kind of woman.

  Like, weren’t they all?

  He checked the telltale figures one more time. The money was still good, but for some reason it was getting harder and harder to justify what he was doing. It just didn’t feel right anymore. Maybe he should quit the illegal stuff. But what was it Milty had reminded him on numerous occasions: “It’s a rough business, Charlie, and once you’re in it, you’re in it. There’s no getting out … alive.”

  * * *

  On the way to his car, Walter Cooke thought he recognized a guy coming down the sidewalk toward him. He started to say “Hi,” then thought better of it. He felt safer not speaking to anyone in the Tenderloin.

  After the guy was several paces away, the name came to him: Milton Hiller.

  What’s Milton Hiller doing around here this time of night? Could he be dealing with Auston?

  Hiller had approached him once about doing some cutting, but when he’d checked up on it, he’d found out it involved stolen cadavers. He’d declined. Since then, he’d heard various stories about Milty. None of them good.

  Cooke stopped and went through the motions of patting his pockets, both jacket and pants, as if he’d forgotten something. Without turning his head all the way, he barely caught a glimpse of Hiller entering the alley that led to the back door of Auston’s Funeral Home. He retraced his steps and reached the alley just as Milty went through the same back door Cooke had just used.

  Not good!

  Cooke drove home, got several hours sleep and when he woke up, he called the police.

  “Detective Yee?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Walter Cooke. You talked to me a couple of months back, wanted to know if I had any information on the illegal trafficking of cadavers.”

  “Do you have something for me?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s just that something happened last night that caused me to be more than a little suspicious.”

  “And that was?”

  He told her what he knew about Milty Hiller, and what had happened at Auston’s Funeral Home.

  “Milty Hiller, huh?” Yee said. “Tell me again about the funeral home. Auston’s, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anything else you can add?”

  “That’s as much as I know, Detective Yee.”

  “Hmmm. Tell me, Mr. Cooke, would you be willing to work with us in putting an end to this sort of operation?”

  “This is as far as I go.”

  “Yeah, well, give it some thought. I’ll get back to you in a day or so, okay?”

  ₪ CHAPTER 18

  When Arina Diaz finished her shift, she raced out of Ridgewood. Just walking through the door energized her, gave her a sense of freedom that lifted her spirits.

  She’d been having sleeping problems, hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in more than two months. Most mornings she could barely drag herself out of bed.

  Even the drab bus stop enclosure seemed inviting as she grabbed a seat on a long bench where two other hospital staffers were waiting. She watched traffic zip by for a while, then closed her eyes and let out a deep sigh as she focused on her feet. They were killing her.

  She tried to see through the acrylic sheets that surrounded her, but some idiot had smeared white graffiti over most of the panels. It now looked more like an out-of-place country shed.

  Her mood changed as she thought about returning to her lonely apartment. Being independent wasn’t always what it was cracked up to be. When she lived with her parents there were always people around for company, ready to discuss anything that was bothering her. That was especially true of her mother. They could argue over the least little thing, yet she was still her best friend.

  It was funny how people said the two of them looked more like sisters than mother and daughter; they even dyed their hair the same bright red and wore each other’s clothes.

  Arina missed not being with her mother, especially after working all day and dragging herself to an apartment that was filled with screaming silence.

  All in the name of independence.

  In the midst of thinking about Jorge and how he’d turned into nothing but a big pain in the ass, Katie Rifka from Labor/Delivery dropped down next to her.

  “Hey, why didn’t you wait for me?” Rifka said.

  “Sorry! Couldn’t spend one more minute in that place. I was so pooped all I could think of was cutting out before the Supe started pushing me to put in another extra two hours. I’d all ready done more than enough, thank you very much.”

  “That’s what you get for volunteering for extra time in the birthing rooms,” Rifka said. “Now you know why no one wants that gig.”

  “I thought it would be fun.”

  “Spoken like a cock-eyed Girl Scout, or the new girl on the block.”

  “Well, we both know I’m not a Girl Scout.”

  “Dumb, though. The last time the birthing room was laid on me,” Rifka said, “there were twin eight-year-olds running around while the grandmother sat there with a blissful look on her face crocheting. She totally, I mean totally, ignored the friggin’ brats.”

  “I can see how that would be frustrating.”

  “I don’t dig the birthing room concept in the first place,” Rifka said. “Why on earth would anyone in their right mind want to have their whole family around while they give birth?”

  “Katie, you don’t understand. Family is everything.”

  “All I know is if I’d spent nine months watching my belly grow like a weather balloon, I’d want a little peace and quiet before I had to take the screaming kid home.”

  “Maybe labor’s not a walk in the park, but hell, we both know everything’s a trade off,” Arina said.

  “For me,” Rifka said, “the trade off is keeping the birthing room quiet so that mommy and the over worked staff can function and survive. If that means stuffing everyone und
er twelve in the linen closet and pumping them full of Stadol, I’m all for it.”

  Arina laughed. “You’re way too cynical. And normally I’d argue the point with you, but after the day I’ve had, I don’t have the energy.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  “I don’t know … maybe if people weren’t so self-absorbed, so–“

  “–rude. Unappreciative. Uncaring,” Rifka finished for her. “And remember, along with that trio comes, no good deed goes unpunished.” She paused for a moment and then laughed. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Arina, don’t listen to me. We both know I’m a real kvetch. I could go on for hours.”

  A bus pulled up and stopped, the doors hissed open.

  “Lucky you. Saved by the bus.” She stood, but Arina remained seated. “Hey, aren’t you coming?”

  “You go ahead. I think I’m going to veg for a while. Maybe I’ll go shopping. Cheer myself up.”

  Rifka waved goodbye as she stepped into the bus. “See you later.”

  * * *

  The bus stop enclosure emptied two or three times while Arina sat there. It was good to be in the fresh air even if it was chilly and looked like rain again. She began to relax a bit, but still couldn’t decide what she was going to do with the rest of her day.

  Screw today. What am I going to do with the rest of my life?

  Her feet stopped aching and she was about to head for her empty apartment when a sleek, foreign-looking car pulled up to the curb. The passenger window slid down and the driver leaned over to look out at her.

  “Need a lift, nurse?”

  Arina studied the man. She’d seen him around the hospital – handsome, way too handsome.

  “Thanks, but I don’t ride with strangers.”

  He gave her a wide smile, looked at her with innocent, sea green eyes. “Hey, come on. I’ve seen you in L&D lots of times. Don’t you remember me?”

  “What if I do?” She unclipped her hair, ran a hand through it – it felt greasy. She stared at the man, the car, and wished again that she wasn’t wearing her grubby scrubs. It might have given her the confidence she needed if she had on a pretty dress. Worst of all, she knew her deodorant was definitely failing.

  “Then I’m not a stranger, am I?”

  Arina was excited by the direct way he looked at her. It wasn’t sexual, but it was probing. She wrapped her mind around the idea of getting into the sleek car and began to feel safe with the idea. Then she placed him: one of the drug detail men.

  Maybe it’s what I need. A real distraction instead of just hanging out, drinking wine, watching television, and waiting for Jorge.

  She did some mental gymnastics, decided what appealed to her most was the possibility of not having to spend the evening alone.

  He revved the engine. She gave him another glance, stood, smoothed her raincoat, and walked slowly to the car.

  The door swung open. She hesitated. Then the honk of an impatient driver made the decision for her. She slid in and for a moment was enveloped by the musky aroma of lush car leather.

  “Would you like to stop for a drink before I take you to where you’re going?” the drug rep said. “I’ve had a long day and I’ll bet yours wasn’t a piece of cake either.”

  “You’ll never know.” She belted herself in and hunkered down into the seat. She leaned back against the headrest, her eyes closed in pleasure.

  * * *

  The waiter had just brought each of them an espresso, then offered dessert.

  “Not for me,” Arina said. “I’m absolutely stuffed.”

  St. George noticed she continued to look around self-consciously as she had for most of the meal. He’d watched her try to hide her nurse’s scrubs under the raincoat that she kept draped around her shoulders. She was obviously worried that she was underdressed for the restaurant.

  He ordered chocolate-covered biscotti. She behaved as most women do, turning down a dessert they really wanted. He took a sip of the dark, heavily flavored coffee.

  “That was a great meal, wasn’t it?” he said, “Now aren’t you glad I talked you into dinner?” He reached across the table and lightly placed a hand on hers. She didn’t pull away.

  The waiter returned, set down a silver tray of three biscotti. She lightly touched one of the sweets, then picked it up and took a tiny bite.

  “You would order the one thing I can’t resist.”

  St. George looked into her eyes. He could tell that the bottle of wine they’d shared was having its effect on her; her lips were relaxed into a lop-sided droop, and she was having trouble keeping her eyelids open.

  He continued to fake-sip the same half glass he’d started with.

  What a waste, He regretted having ordered a 2006 Palacios Remondo Placet Rioja and bypassing the less expensive 2005 vintage. She’d downed the fine wine it like cheap Chianti.

  “What a wonderful evening,” he said, pouring the rest of the rich, full wine into her glass, slipping in a roofie at the same time.

  “Yes, wonderful.” Her fingers softly caressed the stem of her wine glass.

  ₪ CHAPTER 19

  The rain started as they left the restaurant. St. George helped Arina into the Jag and she immediately curled into the leather seat. In the short time it took him to get settled and start the car, she was sound asleep.

  He drove around aimlessly for several minutes before heading for the butcher shop … and Father.

  As the engine purred to silence, he turned to look at the sleeping nurse. Her mouth was open, drool dribbling out, sliding down the side of her chin.

  He felt sad for her.

  Shouldn’t trust just any man, Arina.

  He took a deep breath; let it out slowly, slowly.

  Maybe Father is right: I am a wimp.

  From his teens, he’d been ready to run the moment Father expressed displeasure with him. A certain tone in Father’s voice, a specific glint in the eye would send him flying out the door. He’d learned to run fast, very fast because Father was quick and devious. Once he tried to stand his ground, tried to fight back, and lost two teeth from a jaw-crunching fist.

  Jacob St. George’s taunts – wimp, candy-ass, worthless asshole – assaulted him day-in, day-out. The epithet that hurt the most, though, was “son of a whore.” Denigrating Mother sent him into a deep depression that lasted for days.

  Eddie looked at Arina Diaz again, ran a finger down her neck, across and around her breasts.

  She didn’t move.

  Drugs made people so pliable, so easy to deal with. He’d learned that while supplementing a partial college scholarship with a small, but highly profitable marijuana operation.

  The sub-rosa notoriety of being the candy man, the man-with-the-cure, sat well on his shoulders, provided him with a sense of importance he hadn’t felt since Mother had left for parts unknown.

  He was still the man with the cures, the chemical fixes.

  St. George unbelted the nurse before he got out of the car. He looked around the secluded parking area, made sure no one was watching, and opened the passenger door. Arina slumped halfway out of the car before he could catch her and scoop her up in his arms. She was like a limp rag, a heavy limp rag.

  He tried to get her to stand, but had to half-drag, half-carry her into the shop. He hoisted her onto a long, stainless steel receiving table and began to wheeze.

  Even with his inhaler, it took a minute or two for his chest to open up. He put his head down, held onto the table, and waited for his heart to stop roaring in his ears.

  “Wha … who … .where,” Arina mumbled.

  Her voice was raspy, like dry rattling leaves. The aroma of stale wine oozed from her mouth, her skin and inundated the cold air. Bile crawled up his throat.

  She sputtered something unintelligible. St. George placed an ear against her lips, listened carefully. The guttural sounds still made no sense.

  Father appeared, limped up to Eddie and punched him on the shoulder, hard, viciously.
<
br />   “What are you listening for little man? Think the bitch is going to tell you something wonderful, like you’re a real man?”

  Eddie straightened and gazed into the dark, unblinking eyes of Father.

  “What do you see, little Eddie? If you’ve got something to say, say it!”

  The nurse interrupted with more mumbles.

  Eddie’s hands flew to cover his eyes; spikes of heat stabbed within his chest, hot rivers of sweat gushed from every pore.

  Arina’s long, red hair fell across her fluttering eyes as Jacob lashed out with a boning knife at the buttons on her raincoat, cut them away, and parted the belt with a single quick slash.

  He continued to use the knife to slice through her scrubs, bra, and lacy black panties. He tugged and pulled at the destroyed garments until they were free of her, then tossed them on the floor.

  He ran a finger down between her breasts, across her belly button, and stopped at the edge of her pubic hair.

  “God damn it, you moron! Can’t you tell a dye job from the real thing?” He ran his fingers through the curly black hair. “A fucking fake red head.”

  Eddie’s arms were covered in goose bumps, a huge wheeze burst from his throat. He clutched at his chest, couldn’t breathe. The trap door in his lungs sprang shut. He groped for the inhaler.

  As his eyes cleared, he watched Father snatch the nurse from the receiving table and carry her unsteadily across the room. Jacob’s legs trembled from the weight as he dumped her onto the large wood cutting block.

  Father grunted with effort, crawled up onto the table, and lifted her legs up to and over his shoulders. He unzipped his fly and plunged into her, again and again.

  “Mommy!” she shouted. “Mommy!”

  Father stopped, stared at her unfocused eyes. Her arms reached out, pushed against his shoulders.

  “Mommmmmmmeee!” She used her small fists to pound against his face.

  Father squeezed her wrists together with one meaty hand, grabbed a knife with the other, and slashed across her neck. Blood sprayed into the air and splattered down into the sawdust.