Another step, and now he was sure someone was there, crouched not twenty feet from him.
He took one more step, and the shadow sprung up and ran for the exit. Jenner hesitated a couple of seconds, then ran after the shape, the big knife in his right hand. He heard the autopsy room door swing open, the sound of a man sprinting full-tilt down the corridor.
He pounded the light switch at the doorway, and the autopsy room lit up brilliantly, dazzling white and spotless.
Jenner pushed out into the hall and hit the corridor switch; the hallway lights flared on in time for him to glimpse a man run around the corner at the far end. Barely a glimpse, but he’d seen enough to recognize the light brown of a standard Douglas County cop uniform.
He stood in the hallway, wondering if he should confront Anders about his spy immediately. And then it occurred to him that this might be something much more sinister.
He jumped at the buzzing on his thigh.
He flipped open his cell and read “DavidSpenceMD”—the senior coroner’s pathologist in New Orleans. Spence was a good forensic pathologist working in a tough system. Whenever they were at a forensic meeting together, they’d make the time to have dinner, or at least a drink.
“David?”
“Hey, Jenner. You okay? You sound out of breath.”
Jenner leaned against the wall. “Yeah, I’m fine. The ringer took me by surprise.”
His heart still pounding, he looked at the knife in his hand, then stared down the corridor to the door to the municipal building through which the cop had disappeared.
Spence said, “I was calling to see how you were holding up, son. I’m real sorry about Marty and Bobbie—he was one of the good guys. I know you were close.”
“Thanks, David. It’s been rough here. Not much progress, and I can’t take a step without someone shoving a TV camera in my face.”
Spence chuckled. “It was a bit like that here after Katrina…” He paused. “How was the memorial? I bet there were a lot of folks there.”
Jenner hesitated, then said, “Yes, a lot of people came out for that.”
He made his way back to the dictation room to sit. There was something going on—Spence wouldn’t call just to console him.
Spence said, “Well, there’s something else.” He paused. “You probably figured that.”
“What’s up, David?”
“You know I’m on the board of the National Association of Medical Examiners, right? I tell you, that thing is a damn spear in my side…Well, this week, the jungle drums have been pounding.”
“Oh?” It didn’t surprise him—of course they’d be talking about him again; Jenner had been too busy to think about professional politics.
“There’s eleven of us—I think you know most of us. Jerry Carson from Nevada, Blake from Rhode Island. A bunch of guys. Barbie Koppel from Houston.”
“Yep. Some good people there.”
“Sure. Some real old-timers, too.”
Jenner grinned. “I wasn’t going to say anything.” He was calm again.
“Probably a good plan, Jenner—there’s trouble afoot.”
“I figured.” He leaned back in the chair. “What have I done now?”
“It’s the same old stuff. Steve Whittaker has a few pals on the board. He wants you out of NAME. He’s got them convinced what you did this winter was cowboy stuff—breaking and entering at the morgue, getting a cop killed, another cop on the critical list.”
“No news there.”
“You seen that American Crime stuff?”
Jenner felt his skin start to crawl.
“Yes.”
“Okay, well you know, then. That woman has some kind of major hard-on for you, boy. It’s not going away. You see that latest thing? Not your finest hour.”
“Which latest thing?”
“You calling her a bitch.”
So that was out, then.
“Haven’t seen that one yet. It’s true, though.”
“Yeah, well, of course it’s true—we all saw it. Now there’s a whole e-mail gossip orgy going on. Next week, we’re going to vote on whether or not to revoke your membership.”
“Huh.”
“It’s not looking good. Whittaker’s crew want to take you down, and they may have the votes. On your side, you got me, your little buddy in San Diego—the blonde with the…uh, curves?”
“Candy Webster.”
“Yeah. Me, her, a couple others. But the numbers don’t look good.”
Jenner was silent.
“Your biggest hope is people abstaining because they don’t have the facts yet, so now would be a good time for you to stay out of trouble, you hear? Keep your nose clean, and for God’s sake, steer clear of Amanda Tucker.”
CHAPTER 78
Hold still just a sec, Amanda. I’m going to tape the mic inside the shirt; when he’s talking, don’t move or you’ll drown him out with fabric noise.”
Amanda stood in front of the mirror, hands on hips, while Gene, her soundman, busied himself with her shirt. Sitting on her bed, George, the segment producer, was still on the phone, arguing with Travel about their flight home the next morning.
Gene leaned back. “Yep, you can’t see it. Turn to your left?”
She turned, and the two of them looked at her ass in the mirror.
“You think it looks bulky? Maybe I shouldn’t wear a pencil skirt.”
He shook his head. “Nuh-uh! It’s flat! That’s one flat, beautiful ass you’ve got there, Amanda. Besides, I don’t believe you even own anything that isn’t a pencil skirt.”
Watching her reflection, Amanda bent, straightened, then pushed her butt out. Then she jiggled from side to side a little.
The transmitter was the size of a pack of cigarettes: even if Gene couldn’t see it, she could.
Still, her ass was looking pretty good. And her jacket would cover the bulge.
“Okay. Thanks, Gene.”
“‘Okay’? I’m a fucking miracle worker! I just used a micro shotgun mic to convert a wireless assembly into a bug! I’m a fuckin’ genius! This is FBI shit!”
“Okay, Special Agent Hoover. Let’s test it.”
Gene slipped his headphones on and plugged them into his digital MiniDisc recorder. He plugged the mic receiver into the recorder, checked the levels, nodded at Amanda, and stepped out into the hall.
There was some scraping of cloth, then Amanda’s voice saying, “Hi, Doctor Jenner, you handsome ratings star, you…”
Then George’s voice, surprisingly clear: “Amanda, I’m on the phone—keep interrupting me and you’ll be flying coach.”
Gene walked back into the room. “Perfect. Stick close to him, and keep your chest pointed in his direction; this ought to work perfectly. Turn on the recorder before you go into his room—check that the red light is lit up. There’s a couple hours of recording time at this speed. You got brand-new batteries, a new blank MiniDisc. Just stay within twenty feet of your handbag, or the signal won’t reach the recorder. Turn for me?”
Amanda turned. She yelped as he slipped two fingers down the back of her waistband and fiddled with the transmitter box.
“George! Gene is molesting me!”
The producer, still on his cell, rolled his eyes and moved into the bathroom.
Gene stepped back, nodded with satisfaction.
“Yep. I really am just that good…”
“Well, thanks, MacGyver. We’ll share credit when I get my Emmy.”
He looked at her. “Hey, has the Current Event Network ever won an Emmy?”
There was a second’s pause, then they both roared with laughter.
CHAPTER 79
Jenner didn’t see Maggie’s text at first. It wasn’t until he pulled out his iPhone to call Rudge back that he saw the notification.
please stop calling. this isn’t working for me. i told you not to get attached.
He read it twice, then deleted it.
He would call Rudge in the morning.
/> CHAPTER 80
Rudge checked the clock on his kitchen wall: he’d made it home with minutes to spare.
He was exhausted. He hung his jacket on the hook, slipped off his shoulder holster and laid it on the countertop.
He rolled the foot-long Chicken & Bacon Ranch sandwich out of the Subway wrapper and put it on a plate, then opened the bag of Lay’s potato chips and spilled them out alongside it. He took the pickle jar and a can of Bud from the fridge, and then set his dinner on the table next to his chair.
Tonight, he would limit himself. He’d started the day hungover, and it had been rough.
So tonight: beer only.
But the thought of just beer by itself was a sorry thought indeed; he’d had a rough day, and he deserved something with a little more heat.
Rudge’s sink was filled with plates and glasses; he selected three Dolly Parton shot glasses (a campy gift from his brother Mikey after a Dollywood trip) and lined them up on the side table. He splashed an ounce or so of Jack Daniels into each, then screwed the top tight and shut the bottle back in the cabinet.
He lined up the remotes on the table next to the plates, then kicked off his shoes, unbuttoned and dropped his pants. The Velcro fasteners on his ankle holster opened with a satisfying rip; he let the holster and the little silver .32 revolver slide onto the carpet. He checked that the chair was pointing directly at the TV, then pulled the lever, easing the recliner back into position. Finally, he calibrated the height of the footrest.
Rudge sat down, sighing heavily, and hoisted his sock-clad feet up onto the rest.
He lifted six inches worth of cold cuts and feathery bread to his face, tore off a giant bite, and chewed contentedly. He swallowed, took a sip of cold beer, then picked up the first shot and downed it, chasing it with a huge gulp of beer. He put the can back down, sighed again, and chomped into his sandwich.
The overloaded sandwich needed support, so he used the remotes one by one with his free hand. The Warner Bros. shield logo in black-and-white silently filled the screen, then the sound kicked in, a tinny shrill of brass and strings over rolling tom-toms as a map of Africa appeared. Then the star credits—Bogart, Bergman, Henreid—and finally, splashed across the whole continent, Casablanca…
David Rudge wriggled his butt deeper into the recliner, pressed back, and sighed again.
CHAPTER 81
Amanda Tucker was waiting for Jenner at his cabin, standing on the porch by herself, shielding her eyes from his headlights as he parked.
Jenner got out of his car and looked angrily around the parking lot. There was no camera crew, no network van filled with technicians hunched over broadcasting components and screens.
He stood by the car. She gave him a little wave.
“What do you want?”
“Good evening, Dr. Jenner.” She smiled warmly.
“What do you want?”
Amanda shook her head, still smiling. “A truce, doctor. I want to call a truce.”
“No, thanks. You want to get off my porch now?”
Jenner stepped up onto the deck. She took a polite step back so he could open the door.
She said, “I’ve decided it’s time we buried the hatchet. I think we might be able to help each other here.”
He jiggled the key in the lock, then turned to her. “I’m not interested in helping you, and I don’t think for a second you give a rat’s ass about helping me. What’s the matter, ratings slipping? Your viewers bored with watching you gnaw away at me?”
Amanda threw back her head and laughed. “Dr. Jenner! Gnaw—how poetic!” She shook her head merrily. “No, no, they still love hearing all about you. But I’ve been thinking that we’ve only presented one side of you. I’m sure you have some…opinions about how we’ve covered your story; I just thought you might like a chance to set the record straight.”
She was still smiling, but she seemed serious enough.
He opened the screen door. “I don’t believe you.”
Amanda shrugged. “Doctor, I can promise you my audience would be fascinated to hear your side.”
“You do know I’m out of the picture now, right? You got me fired.”
“That’s unfair, and we both know it. The segment producer put together a bio clip of things that you’d done—that was you in all of it, wasn’t it?”
“You’ve spun me into whatever you wanted—Anders had no choice but to fire me.”
“Well, then, you’ve nothing to lose, do you? Come on my show and say that!” She pursed her lips, then looked him in the eye. “Also…I think the sheriff finds me very…appealing. If you’d talk with us, I’d be willing to speak with him for you.”
Jenner opened the cabin door; the dog wheezed out of the cabin and began to smell him. When Jenner pushed him back down, he trotted over to Amanda Tucker and poked her with his nose.
She laughed and pushed him away. “Oh my gosh! He’s filthy!”
Jenner saw dark streaks across the front of Amanda’s skirt. The dog sat at her feet like a happy keg of beer, looking up at her, tail stump thumping the floorboards.
“I’m sorry. He must have got into something.”
He peered in through the door and saw dark paw prints smeared across the linoleum; in the center of the floor lay a chewed plastic squeeze bottle of chocolate syrup.
“Chocolate syrup.”
Amanda seized her opportunity. “Doctor, this is an Eileen Fisher linen suit. I need to get the fabric damp before it stains.”
Jenner nodded reluctantly and held the door open for her. He set the catch on the screen door so it stayed open, turned to the dog, and said, “You! Out!”
The dog trooped placidly back out of the cabin, tail still bobbing.
Amanda was standing by the shallow sink, splashing water on her skirt.
Sweet Jesus, he thought. Amanda Tucker, here in my living room…
CHAPTER 82
Onscreen, Dooley Wilson was at the piano in Rick’s bar, singing “Knock on Wood.” Rudge poured out three more shots and popped the tab on a fresh Bud.
The scene made him uncomfortable—the happy Negro and his orchestra, entertaining the well-dressed European sophisticates with jazz, all smiles and natural rhythms. Was it straight-up racist, simple and plain, or a fair representation of life back then? Both, maybe. Black jazz musicians probably played to similar crowds in Europe today—one of Mikey’s old boyfriends had moved to Paris, where he played in a Josephine Baker show that ran for more than two years.
Basically, Rudge figured, Europeans liked black music.
He slammed the shot and chased it with the Bud.
Humphrey Bogart was about to slip the letters of transit into Dooley’s piano when the screen suddenly froze. The buffer held the frame for about three seconds, and then the screen went black; neon green letters at the top read SEARCHING FOR SIGNAL.
Fuck!
Rudge knew exactly what it was—when they’d set up his system, the installer had spliced cables to connect the rooftop satellite dish to the TV; sometimes, a brisk breeze separated the splice near the front door.
It’d take him a second to fix. He cursed. It was late enough and dark enough—and he was drunk enough—not to put on pants. He heaved himself out of the chair and went to the door. He flicked the switch to the porch light several times; nothing happened.
Weird. That bulb was pretty new. An electrical fault? But the lights were still on in his living room, and his house was small enough that there weren’t many separate electrical zones.
Rudge stepped out onto the porch and looked up, curious. The white wire from the rooftop cable feed dangled freely; the cable tacked along the porch ceiling had been torn out and now lay across the floorboards.
God, he was a fool. For a second, Rudge wondered if he would’ve made the same mistake had he been sober.
CHAPTER 83
Amanda Tucker stood at the sink, holding up the hem of her soiled skirt.
“Got any club soda?”
&
nbsp; Jenner shook his head. “Sorry.”
“Any spot remover?”
“I have some detergent.”
He poured some Tide into a cup, and added water.
As they fussed with the skirt, the dog waddled back in through the door and heaved himself up onto the couch. He rested his paws up on the back of the sofa to watch what was going on at the counter; he was tracking chocolate everywhere again.
Jenner said, “I’m going to shut the dog out. I’ll be right back.”
There was a crash of breaking glass, and something compact and heavy skidded across the floor. Amanda gasped.
It was a length of metal pipe about eight inches long. The dog bumped down from the couch and began to amble toward it, sniffing.
Christ.
Jenner threw open the refrigerator, yanked Amanda against him, and pivoted in behind the door. There was a yelp of complaint, then the explosion roared into them, a huge tidal wave of instant and intense pain, the door smashing into him, slamming him on top of her.
When Jenner opened his eyes, there was no sound. The curtains were burning, the orange drapes lapped by listless flames. His arms were on fire, a stinging, pinching burn, like thousands of rubber bands twisting and pulling against the hairs. There was no sound, but there was smoke.
He wasn’t on top of Amanda. He turned; she was sitting up against a floor cabinet, shouting at him silently. He turned and looked at the fridge; the battered door canted off its top hinge, orange juice and milk drizzling to the floor from punctured cartons. The door swung toward him, bristling with nails, the white enameled surface pocked by bolts and screws.
Jenner looked at Amanda again. She was crying now. Her legs were bloody, but he couldn’t see any injury.
Jenner pushed himself up against the interior of the fridge, half-slipping on the juice-slick floor, knocking a head of lettuce off the shelf into his lap. He sat up, and looked at himself. He was okay, he thought. His legs were working, arms working.
A Hard Death Page 23
