Betrayed: A Rosato & DiNunzio Novel (Rosato & Associates Book 13)

by Lisa Scottoline

  “Let’s see, it’s Saturday night, so I bet the autopsy would be Sunday or Monday. They would release the body, probably on Tuesday, to the funeral home that would be picked out by whoever claims it.”

  Judy thought ahead. “That might be my aunt, but I will do the arranging.”

  “If she claims the body, she would be responsible for the expenses at the morgue. If the body were unclaimed, then it would be cremated at the county’s expense.” Officer Hoffman took a step closer. “You didn’t hear this from me, but we have a real problem with the undocumented bodies. The families know that if the body is unclaimed, we’ll cremate it at taxpayer expense, so they wait to claim the body, let the county cremate it, then claim it.”

  Judy’s thoughts were stuck on Iris. “What if she didn’t die of natural causes? What if there’s something suspicious about the death?” She gestured at the guys in ties. “Can I talk to the detective on the case?”

  “Sure, I’ll go get him. Stay here.” Officer Hoffman turned and jogged off toward the group, and Judy opened the car door and leaned in to her aunt.

  “I’m so sorry, Aunt Barb. How are you?”

  “It’s just so sad.” Aunt Barb had stopped crying, but her eyes were filmed and bloodshot, and her knit cap tilted askew. She slumped in her too-big parka, wiping her eyes with a balled-up Kleenex.

  “Do you feel up to seeing the detective on her case? Officer Hoffman went to get him, and I can talk with him alone or with you.”

  “Let’s do it, it’s important.” Her aunt dabbed at her eyes again. “I’ll stay in the car, though. I feel tired.”

  “Of course.” Judy straightened up, left the passenger door open, and turned around to see Officer Hoffman approaching them with a man about six feet tall, with a bulky build, short hair, wire-rimmed aviator glasses, and crow’s-feet that placed him in his mid-forties. She put on a professional smile, which was another thing she hadn’t learned in law school.

  Officer Hoffman gestured at the detective. “Ms. Carrier, this is Detective Raymond Boone. He’s assigned to the case, and I’ll take my leave now. Nice meeting you and your aunt.”

  “Thanks.” Judy waved to him as he left, and Detective Boone extended a hammy hand.

  “Ms. Carrier, I’m pleased to meet you. Thank you for coming out to make the identification.”

  “Thanks for your help.” Judy accepted his handshake, firm enough to make her glad she worked out. “This is my aunt, Barb Moyer, who knew Iris. Iris’s last name was Juarez.”

  Detective Boone looked down at her aunt with a sympathetic frown. “Ms. Moyer, I’m very sorry for your loss. I’m glad you asked to see me and I would’ve contacted you myself in a day or two, at your home.”

  Aunt Barb sniffled. “Detective, I want you to do everything possible to find out what happened here because Iris was a wonderful person, and my dearest friend, and she deserves everything that you can do for her.”

  “I certainly will.” Detective Boone nodded, setting his mouth. He slipped his hand inside his dark sport coat and extracted a ballpoint pen and a skinny notepad like Officer Hoffman carried. “Now, tell me about yourself and how you know the decedent.”

  Aunt Barb cleared her throat. “I’m a landscape architect and I live in Kennett Square on Vaughn Road. Iris was my best friend, and she worked for me, as a gardener and as a companion, for the past three years or so.”

  Detective Boone flipped open the cardboard cover of his pad, clicked on his pen, and started taking notes. He looked over at Judy, blinking behind his aviator glasses, which were smudged. “Ms. Carrier, how do you know Ms. Juarez?”

  “I just met her today at my aunt’s house.”

  Aunt Barb interjected, “Iris was leaving for her shift at Mike’s Exotics. She works the three-to-eleven. She came by this morning to bring me some cookies since my family is here for a visit.”

  Judy noted that Aunt Barb wasn’t telling him about her cancer and respected that she wanted to keep it private. She let her aunt take the lead, since she had the information.

  Detective Boone made another note. “Address and phone?”

  Her aunt gave the phone number, then answered, “Point Breeze Avenue, Point Breeze Apartments, 1-C. Do you have her phone? She got a call today that concerned her, and I’m curious about it.”

  “I’ll see if the phone was bagged yet.”

  “She seemed fine when I saw her today and she never mentioned anything about heart trouble. She’s very healthy.”

  “Do you know who her family doctor is, if she had one?” Detective Boone cocked his head.

  “I don’t think she had one. She used the LCD, but she never went unless I nagged her.”

  Detective Boone made another note. “Officer Hoffman tells me that you’re the emergency contact, and that Ms. Juarez didn’t have close family or friends in the area besides you. Is that correct?”

  “She didn’t have family, but she did have a good friend, Daniella Gamboa. Somebody will have to notify her, about this. I never met her but Iris talked about her. They used to work together at Mike’s Exotics, but Iris told me Daniella doesn’t work there anymore.”

  “Do you have contact info for Ms. Gamboa, like an address or phone?”

  “No.”

  “We’ll find Ms. Gamboa.” Detective Boone made a note. “We’ll conduct our investigation in the next few days, and we’ll keep you informed.” He turned to Judy. “Officer Hoffman mentioned to me that you’re an attorney in Philadelphia, so I expect you’ll be an asset.”

  Judy tried to believe him, but nobody liked a Philadelphia lawyer, least of all a detective. “Thank you. I know that Officer Hoffman said that the case appears to be a natural death, and I’m sure that’s true, but—”

  “The manner of death does appear to be natural, because of the condition of the body and the circumstances in which the body was found.” Detective Boone gestured at the Honda. “The facts suggest she had a heart attack while she was driving.”

  “Which facts suggest that, specifically?”

  “Several. As is typical, her body slumped forward and took pressure off the gas pedal, then the car drifted off the road into a hay roll. The engine was running when we found the car. The fuel tank was almost out of gas. The air bag did not deploy. This was a low-speed collision, there’s no injury or seatbelt marks that we could find.”

  Judy took it in. “Well, my aunt had some questions, like the phone, and also that Iris should have been at work.”

  Aunt Barb added, “She never misses work and is very diligent, so I can’t for the life of me understand why she wasn’t there.”

  “I see.” Detective Boone made a note. “I will be sure to follow-up with the folks at Mike’s Exotics.”

  “You know the place?” Judy asked.

  “Of course.” Detective Boone smiled crookedly. “East Grove isn’t Philly.”

  Judy continued, “Plus, my aunt made the point that it doesn’t make sense that Iris was on this road, at all. Apparently, it’s not on the way home from work.”

  Aunt Barb chimed in, “This is way out of her way. There’s nothing around here. I can’t imagine what she was doing here, can you?”

  Detective Boone scribbled in his pad. “She could’ve been going somewhere other than home, obviously. If she began to experience symptoms of heart attack or a stroke, such as confusion or disorientation, she wouldn’t know where she was driving. But that would be just speculation.”

  Judy didn’t know enough to agree or disagree with him. “My aunt also made the point that her window was open, and Iris didn’t like to drive with the windows open because it messed up her hair.”

  Aunt Barb nodded. “That’s true, and besides which, she only had a T-shirt on, not even a sweater. Women our age don’t do that. We’re always cold.”

  Detective Boone looked up from his pad. “We can’t assume that she died in the evening hours. We don’t have the time of death yet. It’s certainly possible that she passed in the daytime. It
was a sunny day, so she could have had the window open.”

  “But people would have seen her and called the police.”

  “Unlikely. This road isn’t well-traveled, and they might not have realized she was dead.”

  “Detective Boone, there was one last detail that concerned me, which was that I noticed that Iris had a few broken nails.”

  Aunt Barb looked up. “She did?”

  “Yes, they hadn’t been broken earlier today, when I saw her.” Judy didn’t know how much more of this conversation her aunt could take. “I noticed because her nail polish was unusual, red with rhinestones. I’m not sure what it means, but I wanted to mention that to you.”

  Aunt Barb bit her lip. “Iris took great care of her hands and nails. She loved to do her nails. She wore gloves when she gardened because of them.”

  Detective Boone flipped his pad closed. “I wouldn’t want to speculate on the significance of someone’s breaking their nails. We have four pathologists in this county, and one of them will perform an autopsy, run toxicology tests, and do whatever else they think is indicated.”

  Aunt Barb gasped, horrified. “Wait. What? You’re going to do an autopsy on Iris?”

  “Yes.” Detective Boone pursed his lips, and his jowls fell into sober lines. “I know it’s, uh, distasteful, but it’s standard procedure in a case like this.”

  “Oh no.” Aunt Barb covered her face with her hands, and Judy put her hand on her aunt’s shoulder, looking at Detective Boone.

  “Thanks for your time. I think I’ll take my aunt home now.”

  “Sure, sorry about your loss.” Detective Boone gave a short wave, then turned away, and Judy walked around the VW, climbed into the driver’s seat, and looked over at her aunt.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks.” Aunt Barb gave her nose a final blow. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “I agree.” Judy put on her shoulder harness, twisted the key in the ignition, released the brake, and hit the gas, turning the car around to put the coroner’s van behind them. “I go straight, right?”

  “Yes, and I’ll tell you when to turn left.”

  “But we went straight to get here, didn’t we?” Judy glanced over.

  “I know, but we’re not going home yet.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Where are we going?” Judy asked, worried.

  “Mike’s Exotics, where Iris worked. I want to see if she went in today. I want to find out what happened.”

  “Do you really feel up to that, right now?”

  “Yes, and I don’t want to let it wait.” Aunt Barb stowed her Kleenex in her pocket and straightened in the passenger seat. “She would still be on shift, so they should be there. I want to talk to her boss. His name is Julio, and I met him once when I dropped her off, because her car was in the shop.” Aunt Barb pointed to the left. “This is the turn, up ahead.”

  “But you’re tired. Maybe we should go home.” Judy spotted the break in the cornfield on the left, but there was no street sign.

  “No, I’m fine, and what’s the point of putting it off?”

  “You could sleep and get your feet under you, emotionally. You just got blindsided in the worst possible way.”

  “But I only have the weekend. The mastectomy is Monday.”

  “We can go tomorrow.”

  “Julio might not be on the job tomorrow and he’s the one I want to talk to. I won’t sleep if I don’t understand what happened to her.” Aunt Barb turned her face to the window, but there was nothing to see in the dark.

  “What is it you think happened?” Judy turned left onto another long country road. Bugs flew from the gloom into their headlights, making tink tink sounds when they hit the glass.

  “I don’t know. I only know that what I’m hearing doesn’t make sense. She didn’t have any heart issues.”

  “What’s the LCD you keep mentioning?”

  “It’s the health service in Kennett Square, that the undocumented use.”

  “So it can’t be the best medical care, can it? She could have had heart issues and not known it.”

  “But she was strong, and able, and hard-working. And what about the car window? And the nails? And that phone call, the way she acted afterwards?”

  “Those are strange little details, but they don’t necessarily mean anything.” Judy regretted having brought any of it up. “It’s not as if there was any sign of foul play.”

  “I know that. I’m not saying that.”

  “Then what are you saying?” Judy asked, her tone gentle as they drove into the dark.

  “I’m just saying that if I can ask a few more questions, so that I have answers when I put my head down on the pillow tonight, I think it makes sense to do so.”

  “I agree, but I think Detective Boone will follow up. It’s police business, and he seemed pretty good.”

  “I think he will, too, but I’m not about to sit on my hands. Besides, since when do you care if something is police business? That never stopped you or Mary.”

  “Except that she’s getting married.” Judy thought back to the day, when she’d felt like Debbie Downer at the bridal shop. “Our days of excellent adventures might be over. She’s a partner now, too.”

  “Don’t worry, you two are thick as thieves. By the way, how are you and Frank doing?”

  “Great, fine.” Judy usually confided in her aunt, but didn’t want to burden her any further, with so much already on her plate.

  “Thinking about getting married?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Take your time, there’s no rush. Sometimes when your friends get married, it puts pressure, but it shouldn’t.” Aunt Barb paused, musing. “Though I hated it when your mother got married before me. Everybody knows I’m nicer.”

  Judy smiled as they passed a dark barn with a tall blue silo. “But she’s older than you. She would have hated it if you got married before her, wouldn’t she have?”

  “Honey, let me tell you. Marriage was not on that girl’s mind. She liked the bad boys in high school. You wouldn’t know it to look at her now, but she’s where you get your wild side.”

  Judy chuckled, then thought of her mother, waiting for them at home. “Aunt Barb, how long do you expect this will take? I’m trying to decide if we should let her know we’ll be late.”

  “Good point, I’ll text her.” Aunt Barb reached for her purse and got the phone.

  “What are you going to say?”

  “I’ll tell her we’re running late and not to worry, is all.” Aunt Barb texted away, as the light from the phone screen shone upward, illuminating her laugh lines, which bracketed a sly smile. “I can get you out of anything, even ballet lessons. Remember?”

  “Of course.” Judy chuckled at the memory, from when she was only six years old. Her mother had decided that her tomboy daughter needed some civilizing and signed her up for ballet lessons, but Judy hated every minute of them. She’d begged to quit after the first recital, in which she starred as a dancing poodle in tiara-kid makeup, a pink tutu, and a puffy pink tail. Her mother had relented and let her quit only because Aunt Barb had prevailed upon her to let Judy take drawing lessons instead, which had led to her lifelong love of art and painting.

  Aunt Barb looked over. “I still remember the song from the recital. Isn’t that crazy?”

  “I remember it, too.” Judy decided to sing it, to cheer her aunt up. “‘We are little dancing poodles, and we are here to say…’”

  Aunt Barb joined in, “‘We come from France, to do our dance…’”

  “‘But we only do ballet!’” they sang together, then laughed. Judy’s throat thickened. She loved her aunt and couldn’t imagine losing her, not now or ever. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

  “Are you kidding? I still have PTSD.”

  Judy chuckled, then turned right and left, following her aunt’s directions through corn and soybean fields and past horses grazing in rolling pastures, their outlines indistinct in the da
rkness and their whinnying cutting through the night air. The fields gave way to farmhouses and barns, then to trailers and smaller homes, until they spotted a small cast-iron sign that read, WELCOME TO EAST GROVE. The town was of colonial vintage like Kennett Square, and quaint brick and clapboard houses lined the road, their wooden porches just steps from the curb. Judy headed for the outskirts of town, past a check-cashing storefront and a shabby Mexican tacqueria.

  Finally they came upon a long, low series of square buildings, only one story high, mere cinderblock boxes attached in a row, like railroad cars. They had no windows, so there was no way to tell if anyone was inside, and the only light came from flickering fixtures on the roofs of the buildings, which cast jittery cones of light on the worn asphalt lot.

  “Here’s Mike’s.” Aunt Barb gestured at a driveway that had no sign, except for PRIVATE PROPERTY, NO THRU TRAFFIC. “That’s the parking lot.”

  “Why no sign?” Judy steered into the lot, where there were a few old cars parked in a row.

  “Everybody knows where Mike’s is, he’s one of the tiny, independent growers. He owns about ten other growers, all independent. He produces exotics.”

  “What’s ‘exotics’?” Judy turned off the ignition and put on the emergency brake, looking through the windshield and noticing for the first time that the buildings had large numbers painted on the cinderblock, in black. The building on the end, closest to them, was number seven.

  “Fancier mushrooms. Portabella, mitake, shitake, cremini. But he hires the undocumented.”

  “How does he get away with it? What about Immigration?”

  “The way the system works is that Immigration stages a raid only if there’s a significant number of complaints, in relation to the size of the workforce. Bottom line, nobody complains.” Aunt Barb picked up her water bottle and took a sip of water. “Immigration isn’t the real problem, anyway, the IRS is. If a grower submits a list of social security numbers and they’re not good, it takes the IRS three months to figure that out. So in three months, after the grower gets the IRS notice, he fires the employees and they go to another grower, or another location of the same grower, like Mike’s.”