“I’m heading out your way. The state fire investigator just called. They found a body at the explosion site.”
A body. Lillian Farabee. Zoe squeezed her eyes shut, which failed to block the mental image. “Do you need me to meet you there?”
“No, I think I can handle it.” There was a vague note of sarcasm in his voice. “However, I do want you to assist with the autopsy first thing in the morning.”
Crap. Zoe’s mind spun through her library of stored excuses. She wasn’t on duty. She didn’t have to give any riding lessons. She didn’t have to take the cats to the vet. She had no dog to eat her homework.
Franklin Marshall must have heard the hesitation in her voice. “We had a deal. You haven’t paid up yet.”
She was well aware of the “deal” she’d made with him a month ago when she was desperate to gain fast access to some old records. He’d “promoted” her in order to give her the credentials she needed. In return, she’d agreed to assist him on six autopsies, a chore she made every effort to avoid. The sight of dead bodies didn’t bother her. The smell, on the other hand...
“Zoe?”
“What time?”
“Eight o’clock. Sharp.”
She sighed. “I’ll be there.”
Franklin muttered something as Zoe hung up, but the paper on the floor caught her eye.
Mrs. Kroll had lifted her head. “Something wrong?”
Zoe didn’t feel up to explaining. “I have to go to work early tomorrow.” She bent down and picked up the paper.
“What have you got there?” Mrs. Kroll asked.
The business card. Dave Evans, land developer. His voice echoed in Zoe’s memory. “Keep the card all the same. You never know. I’ve already purchased several of your neighbors’ properties. And I pay top dollar. The Krolls won’t find a better deal anywhere.”
No. There had to be another, better solution. “Nothing. I’ll look in on you when I get done in the barn.” Zoe jammed the card back in her pocket.
Five
The morning breeze wafting through Pete’s kitchen window carried a fading remnant of the nighttime’s coolness, but already promised another miserable sultry summer day.
In a perfect world, the heat might keep folks from committing crimes—too steamy to move. In reality, tempers flared when the thermometer crept higher. Hot heads combined with hot temperatures made extra work for the police.
Showered and shaved, but still bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, Pete was pouring fresh coffee into a huge ceramic mug when someone pounded on his aluminum storm door. He turned to answer, but Sylvia Bassi didn’t wait for an invitation.
“You look like hell.” She tossed her oversized purse onto a chair by the door and crossed to the table.
“Good morning to you, too.” Pete held up the pot. “Join me?”
“Of course.” Sylvia, who could pass for the Pillsbury Doughboy’s grandmother, had spent years as Vance Township’s police secretary before circumstances drove her from the job and into a position on the township board of supervisors. Both jobs offered her abundant opportunity to keep Pete in line, and he adored her for it.
He filled a second cup and carried both to the table where Sylvia eased into her usual seat. “You’re up early this morning,” he said, and sipped the steaming brew.
“My phone woke me at six a.m. What’s your excuse?”
“I’m always up early. You know that.”
“Yeah, but you don’t usually look like something from one of those zombie movies the kids like. Can I assume the mess up at the new housing plan has something to do with the bags under your eyes?”
Pete nodded. “No sooner did I sit down to write my reports last night than the call came in they’d found a body. I spent half of the night watching the fire investigators remove her and the rest of the night helping Franklin Marshall process the body before he took her to the morgue.”
Sylvia raised an eyebrow. “Her?”
“Her. Him. We don’t know for sure yet. The body was burned too badly to be identified. Marshall and Doc will do the autopsy this morning.”
“You going?”
“To the autopsy?” Pete stared at the steam rising from his mug and pondered the question. “I was thinking about it.”
Sylvia huffed a laugh. “Thinking about it? Right. Pete Adams, who are you trying to kid? You’ll be there.”
He feigned scratching his lip to cover his smile. She knew him too well.
“If the explosion was an accident, the death was accidental, too, so there’s been no crime.” She gave him a questioning look. “Has there?”
“Not officially. Not yet,” he added. “Except for the criminal trespass issue.”
“That’s what the phone call I got this morning was about.” Sylvia ran a stubby finger around the rim of the cup. “Well, and the explosion, of course. Howard Rankin is in an uproar. How can something like this happen in our township?” She mimicked the gruff voice of the township board’s president.
“Something like what exactly?”
“Squatters. According to Howard ‘this isn’t the Wild West.’” She once again slipped into the impersonation and added air quotes.
Pete recalled Holt Farabee’s tortured face as he spoke about his wife the previous day. “What did you tell Howard?”
Sylvia slapped the table with her palm and thrust out her ample chest. “I told him to go get bucked.”
Pete choked on his coffee. “Sylvia,” he pretended to chide.
She beamed proudly. “He deserved it. You know darned well I like Howard, but he can be an insensitive jackass sometimes.”
“You can assure him I plan to talk to someone at the bank about it today.”
“After you get done at the morgue.” Sylvia grinned knowingly as she picked up her cup, cradling it in her hands.
“If I go to the morgue. I have to check in at my office first. See what kind of cases night shift left me.”
She rolled her eyes. “How long did we work together? I know better. You always have to have your nose in every aspect of an investigation. Including the autopsy.” She sipped the coffee. “Besides, Zoe might be there.”
There was that. Zoe had somehow gotten herself bound into assisting Marshall. Made a deal with the devil as she put it, although Pete hadn’t been privy to the details of the bargain. Maybe he’d ask her about it at dinner later. Autopsies always made such romantic mealtime conversation.
“Hello?” Sylvia’s singsong voice brought Pete out of his daydream.
“What?”
Sylvia climbed to her feet. “I said let me know what you find out.” She shuffled across the room and deposited her empty mug in the sink.
“I’m not the only nosy one around here. Admit it. You miss working for me, don’t you?”
Sylvia headed toward the door, but veered back to the table and stood next to him. “I do miss being in the thick of things. Knowing what’s going on as soon as it happens.” She patted his shoulder. “But now that I’m on the board of supervisors, technically you work for me. That part outweighs being one step removed from the front lines.” With an evil chuckle, which contradicted her sweet, grandmotherly appearance, she made her exit, snagging her purse from the chair on her way out.
Pete smiled to himself and glanced at the clock on the wall. The smile faded as he contemplated the morning ahead. He did intend to drive to the county morgue, but contrary to what Sylvia believed, he hoped Zoe wasn’t there. He didn’t think this particular autopsy was one she should be involved in.
Zoe sat on the hallway floor outside the morgue, the cool polished block wall soothing against her back. She’d almost made it all the way through the autopsy. Almost.
She’d survived watching the techs wheel the stainless steel gurney from th
e cooler into the autopsy suite. She’d cringed when they unsealed the body bag and removed the severely burnt body. The mentholated ointment she dabbed under her nose did little to camouflage the odor and nothing to block out memories of another body burned beyond recognition.
Zoe hung in there when Franklin Marshall—cruel son of a bitch that he’d suddenly become—thrust a camera into her hands and insisted she photograph the body. He also gave her the job of collecting trace evidence, of which there was precious little, considering conditions. Combing the victim’s singed hair nearly did Zoe in.
She even endured the initial “Y” incision. But she lost it when one of the techs cranked up the electric bone saw, adding a whole other element to the array of odors circulating the room. Choking, she bailed out, stripping off the disposable biohazard gown and tossing it in the red bin on her way out.
As Zoe inhaled the fresher air from the hallway, she drew her knees in and hugged them. Would she ever be able to fully participate in an autopsy? Did she really want to?
The soft slap of footsteps drew her gaze down the hall in time to see Pete round the bend and head toward her.
Great. She really did not want him to see her like this. “Zoe? What happened?”
She covered her face with her hands, massaging her forehead and the ache building there. “I wimped out.”
Pete squatted next to her. “You?” he said, a smile in his voice.
“Blood doesn’t bother me. Guts? Brains? No problem.” She rested her arms on her knees. “I can even deal with maggots and flies.”
“I know.”
“But the damned smell.”
“I know.”
She turned her head to study Pete with his weather worn face—he’d probably been one of those pretty boys twenty or thirty years ago—long before she’d met him. But at forty-six, ten years her senior, he wore his age well. Rugged. Some gray mixing with his brown hair. A twinkle in his pale blue eyes. And she knew he’d continue to grow more handsome with the years. She’d met his father.
“What?” he asked, the smile in his voice turned to suspicion. “Do I have something in my teeth?”
She choked back a laugh. “No. How’s Harry?”
A dark cloud shadowed Pete’s face. He climbed to his feet with a grunt. “Pop’s the same. Maybe a little worse for wear.”
“Let me know the next time you go visit him. I’d like to tag along.”
“He’d enjoy that. If he’s having a good day. Last time I drove out there I don’t think he knew who I was.”
The sadness in Pete’s voice matched the ache in her heart. Damned Alzheimer’s. “Doesn’t matter. I’d still like to see him. He saved my life, after all.”
“For which I’ll be eternally grateful.” Pete reached a hand toward her.
She took it and let him help her up. They stood toe to toe, face to face, her focus locked onto his lips. His breath, warm on her skin, smelled of coffee. He leaned closer, and she lifted her face toward his…just as the door to the morgue swung open.
They both took big steps away from each other. Marshall breezed into the hallway, nodded to Pete, and handed Zoe a bottle of water. “How are you doing?” Marshall asked her.
For a moment, she thought he’d caught her and Pete in their almost-embrace. Her neck warmed. “What?” Her voice squeaked.
The coroner tipped his head toward the morgue door. “You looked a little green around the gills in there.”
“Oh.” The autopsy. She swallowed. “Well, I didn’t throw up.”
“Good. That’s always a start.”
She unscrewed the cap on the water bottle. “For what?”
“A career in the coroner’s office,” Marshall said matter-of-factly.
She froze with the water halfway to her lips. A career? In the coroner’s office?
Before she had a chance to comment, Pete broke in. “What did you find out?”
“Come inside and we’ll talk.” Marshall turned and motioned for them to follow.
The morgue office was sparse, little more than a cubicle with a door. The gray metal desk showed signs of abuse. The chairs had sturdy steel frames, but tears in the vinyl seats revealed the yellow foam stuffing. Marshall slid into a creaking swivel chair behind the desk and tapped the crumb-covered keyboard.
“Dental records confirm the victim is Lillian Farabee. No surprise there. In fact, there weren’t any surprises. Injuries are consistent with what would be sustained in a natural gas explosion. Head trauma, assorted fractures, lacerations, and contusions.”
“Cause of death?” Pete asked.
“Undetermined until we get the lab results back. Several of her injuries could have been fatal, one skull fracture in particular. But she could have died from smoke inhalation, too. With the condition of the body, it’s pretty hard to tell. The lab should tell us something more definitive.”
Zoe recapped the water bottle. “So manner of death is undetermined, as well?”
Marshall looked up from the computer screen. “For now. If I were a gambling man, which I am not, I’d bet on accidental. But it’s too early in the game to make those kinds of determinations.”
“Right.” Pete nodded thoughtfully. “Let me know as soon as you get the lab results.”
“Of course.”
Pete turned to Zoe, directing her to the door. She noted his frown.
“What are you thinking?” she asked once they were alone again in the hall.
“A few things.” Before he could elaborate, a rift of music burst from his pocket. Zoe watched as he dug out his phone, frowned at the screen, silenced the music, and stuffed the cell phone back where he’d found it.
“You could have taken that,” she said.
He shook his head. “Nothing important.”
“So what were you going to say about the case?”
“First I have to see Holt Farabee and break the news about his wife.”
“I don’t think he’ll be surprised. He already seemed to know she was dead.”
“Yeah. But it doesn’t make giving the news any easier.”
“Or receiving it.” Zoe thought about the daughter. “How old did he say his little girl was?”
“Ten.”
Crap. Only two years older than Zoe had been when she’d lost her dad. “Mind if I come with you?”
“All right. But we’ll have to take two vehicles. I have an appointment with a loan officer at the Monongahela National Bank at eleven.”
“A loan officer? You borrowing money?”
A grin replaced the frown on Pete’s face. “I’m a bad risk. I’m looking into this business about the Farabees staying in a house they’d been evicted from. For a month.”
“The poor guy’s just lost his wife, and you’re gonna charge him with squatting?”
“It’s criminal trespass. And I’m not charging him with anything yet. That’s why we investigate these things.”
“Okay. I’ll take my truck. After we talk to Farabee, I’ll head home.” She sniffed the sleeve of her shirt and winced. “I need to wash off the stink of autopsy before our date.”
“Are we still on for tonight?”
“Unless you want to cancel.”
The corner of Pete’s mouth slanted upward. “Not a chance. Farabee’s staying at the Sleep EZ Motel over by the Interstate. I’ll meet you there.”
The Sleep EZ? Poor guy. But it was the daughter who broke Zoe’s heart. Losing a parent and her home—and stuck in a cheap motel. Not the kind of life a ten-year-old girl should have to deal with.
Six
The skinny, sallow kid working the front desk at the Sleep EZ Motel acted like he had caterpillars crawling up his back the moment he looked up from his smartphone and spotted Pete and his uniform. The kid, wh
ose name badge identified him as Gerald, shot a nervous glance at the computer in front of him. Pete wondered how many illegal activities were going on behind the motel’s assorted doors and which of the occupants had paid Gerald extra to give them a quick heads-up if the heat came calling.
“I need the room number for Holt Farabee.” Pete doubted it would be that easy.
Gerald’s bloodshot eyes bugged from their sockets. “Um. I don’t think I can give you it, dude. Not without a—whachamacallit—warrant?”
“Look, Gerald. I’m not here to arrest anyone, so relax.”
The kid’s shoulders released a notch. “I still can’t give you a room number, dude.”
“Okay, dude. Can you call Mr. Farabee and tell him Chief Pete Adams is here and needs to talk to him?”
“Um.” The kid appeared on the verge of spraining something if he had to think any harder. “I…um…guess I could do that.”
When Gerald continued to stare, motionless, Pete pointed at the grungy phone sitting next to the computer keyboard.
The clerk’s eyes widened as he apparently realized Pete had not only wondered if it was possible, but also wanted him to do it. “Oh. Okay.”
Unlike the standard Sleep EZ resident, Holt Farabee gave Gerald permission to reveal his room number to Pete.
Zoe had waited outside the motel office, stating she’d had all the offensive odors she could stomach for one day. She fell into step beside Pete as he headed down the row of closed doors and drawn curtains toward the room Gerald had indicated. Near the end, one of the doors opened and Farabee stepped outside without closing it. He wore the same jeans from yesterday, still stained from the mud, although it appeared he’d made an effort to wash them—probably in the motel room’s sink. From inside, a TV blared a canned laugh track.
“Chief?” Farabee extended a hand, which Pete shook. The man’s gaze darted from Pete to Zoe as if searching for some sign the news might be good.
Annette Dashofy - Zoe Chambers 03 - Bridges Burned Page 5
