Final Words

by Teri Thackston

  “No problem. It’s the nature of both our jobs. We’d better learn to deal with it.” Disappointment and relief tangled inside her. “I’ll pack all this up and carry it back to the office with me.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “It’s only a couple of blocks up the road. A short walk.”

  Jason rose to his knees, reached out and hooked one hand behind her neck. Emma’s heart tripped as he leaned close enough for her to feel the heat rising off his skin.

  “I want to hear what you were going to say,” he said. “I’m coming back to your office as soon as Charlie and I are done.”

  Emma nodded. She wanted to hear what she’d been going to say too. “All right.”

  Jason’s gaze shifted down to her lips. Slowly, he leaned closer. His mouth covered hers for just an instant, just a taste, before he pulled back with a shuddering breath. “I’d better not start something I don’t have time to finish. And I do mean to finish, Emma.”

  His voice was low and rough and it sent a thrill shooting up her spine.

  “We’ll talk later,” he said and then, releasing her, he stood up and backed away.

  Emma sat still, watching him until he reached his Mustang and got in it. That thrill was still tingling her spine as his tires slung gravel and he drove away. She knew she’d feel this sensation for the rest of the day.

  Jason glanced in his rearview mirror as he pulled out of the park. She still sat on that blanket, staring after him. He wondered if she could still taste him the way he tasted her.

  He tucked in his lower lip and ran his tongue over it. Yeah, she’d tasted like his pizza but spicier. And yet, at the same time, sweeter. That was a contradiction he meant to explore.

  Tonight, if she’d let him. And tomorrow night and the night after that…

  Damn it, what had she been about to say when his phone had interrupted her?

  * * * * *

  Weary from long hours in the lab, Emma returned to her office late that evening. Her head hurt from the tug-of-war that had been going on in her mind since her lunch with Jason. Studying Graham Jones’ blood work had her wondering if Paul might have killed anyone else. When she should have been focusing on the epithelial samples of a burn victim, she remembered the heat of Jason’s hand against the back of her neck.

  Dropping into her chair, she closed her eyes. Torn between remembering that chilling look in Paul’s eyes that morning and the sexy look in Jason’s eyes that afternoon, she tried to force her thoughts along the more pleasant of the two paths. It wasn’t difficult.

  Jason.

  His mouth, his eyes, his body. His heart.

  Emma sighed and relaxed into her chair. She might not have known what she’d been about to say to him that afternoon but she was getting a pretty good idea now. Her thoughts were running along the line of commitment to a man her friends had warned her was no different from her ex-husband. A man who appeared to feel deeply and to form bonds so strong that even death couldn’t sever them. His sister, his friends…

  “Tyrone was one of Paul’s patients,” she murmured. Opening her eyes, she sat forward and switched on her computer.

  Because of his violent death, Tyrone Sharpe’s body would have passed through the ME’s office. She should find the results of his post mortem on the shared system drive. Emma hadn’t questioned Jason about his friend’s death this afternoon because he was obviously still upset by it. But maybe she could learn something about Paul from Detective Sharpe’s case without involving Jason.

  She searched the records from the past year and quickly found what she was looking for. To her surprise, Tyrone Sharpe had died on the day of her hit-and-run. The report read, “Cause of death was a single gunshot wound to the heart.” Emma scanned downward. “Ballistics—thirty-eight caliber. Lab—cocaine.”

  After reading the drug levels, she sat back and wondered if Jason knew about his friend’s drug problem. He’d said that Tyrone had emotional problems. But according to the autopsy report, he had a serious drug problem as well. The night he’d died, Tyrone had inhaled enough cocaine to keep him flying for hours if he had survived the gunshot wound. A man who took hits like that couldn’t have kept it a secret from anyone close to him.

  Hearing the scuff of a shoe against the floor, Emma looked up. A woman slouched in the doorway. Cobalt blue eyes gleamed above an oily smile as she watched Emma, one finger toying with a lock of lustrous black hair that hung to the tips of her impressive breasts. Emma recognized her as the woman who’d been hanging on Jason in the Marquis Restaurant.

  “So you’re the lady coroner,” the woman said.

  Emma stood up. “I’m Emma St. Clair. Can I help you?”

  “I’m Layne Simmons. A friend of Jason’s.”

  Emma nodded. “You’re a police detective from Houston. Yes, Jason mentioned you were in town.”

  “I’m surprised he would mention me to you. Jason usually gets a bit preoccupied when he’s busy with a lady.” Her gaze raked Emma’s body again, the blue eyes sharp with dislike. “He doesn’t usually talk about old lovers with his new ones.”

  Emma understood why Jason wasn’t interested in the woman. She had a mean personality. “Can I do something for you, Detective Simmons?”

  “I hear you can do things for Jason.”

  Emma straightened her spine. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I drove by his place the other morning and saw the two of you leaving. Looks like you spent the night. And today you had a cozy little picnic in the park.” Her lips twisted into a smirk. “Good thing I got shipped off to this backwater town or I’d never have found out about you two.”

  A chill tickled Emma’s back. “You’ve been following us?”

  Layne laughed. “That would be stalking now, wouldn’t it?”

  The odor of liquor drifted from Layne’s direction, bringing a deeper frown to Emma’s face. “Is there something specific you want to say to me, Detective?”

  “I just wanted to wish you luck. Apparently he prefers his women lean and cold-natured nowadays. That’s okay.” Layne ran one hand down her hip. “I’ve got more interesting men on my line, anyway.”

  Emma’s temper bristled but she kept it in check. She had no desire to engage in a verbal battle with a jealous woman who’d obviously spent her lunch hour drinking. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m rather busy.”

  “No problem. See you around.” Layne turned away, weaving slightly as she walked down the hall.

  Hugging her arms against a sudden chill, Emma stepped to her office door, closed it and turned the lock.

  * * * * *

  Jason eased into the chair beside his partner’s desk. The burglary suspect had been processed and this was the first time he’d had a chance to sit since lunch. “You remember that shrink Tyrone was seeing? Paul Sanders?”

  Charlie looked up from the list of used car dealers he’d been studying. “I remember.”

  “You heard anything about him? Good, bad or indifferent?”

  Charlie lifted one shoulder. “Not that I recall. Why?”

  “Emma’s been seeing him.”

  Grinning, Charlie put down his list. “She is confiding in you now? Didn’t I say she was the woman for you?”

  “Yeah, yeah, get over yourself.” Jason managed to suppress the smile that tickled one corner of his own mouth. “You know any other cops who’ve had sessions with Sanders?”

  Charlie sobered. “Lots of cops see counselors. Especially homicide cops. But they usually don’t spread the news around.”

  “Ty didn’t seem to get anything out of his sessions.”

  “Tyrone was a difficult case.”

  “I know.” Jason pushed a hand through his hair and wondered how difficult a case Emma might be. Not that it really mattered. He’d meant what he’d said that afternoon. If she was willing to give him a shot—and he thought that was where their conversation had been heading—then he was willing to give her a shot.

  Her mental issues he would learn
to deal with.

  * * * * *

  “Marta, it’s me.” Clutching her phone, Emma paced behind her desk. Outside her office window, dusk painted the sky a deep violet so intense it made her eyes ache. “Did you know a detective named Tyrone Sharpe who was killed a few months ago?”

  “Yes.” Keyboard clatter underscored Marta’s voice. “In fact, he was shot the morning before your accident. He died that evening. I remember because I had to deal with the media about it in the middle of worrying about you.”

  “Do you have any leads on who killed him?”

  “None and it’s a sore spot. Any time a cop goes down—”

  “There was nothing unusual about the case?”

  “Well…” Marta hesitated and Emma realized that her friend had stopped typing. “The DA’s office doesn’t like to slam the reputation of a man who was once a good cop.”

  “Once?”

  Marta hesitated again. “Tyrone was a heavy cocaine addict. I guess the job got to him. That happens to a lot of cops. He used the drug to deal with it.”

  Turning to her desk, Emma stared at the report on her computer screen. “According to his tox reports, he had recently inhaled a large amount of almost pure coke.”

  “That isn’t common knowledge. Edgar did the autopsy himself and he’s kept the results quiet.”

  “I’m sure the police department appreciated that.”

  “They did.” Marta’s tone changed, becoming more businesslike. “Why are you interested in Tyrone Sharpe? Did you open him up again? Did you find something new that I need to know about?”

  “Open him up again? How could I do that?”

  “His body was exhumed yesterday. He’s back at the morgue.”

  “What?” Emma jerked toward her computer.

  “Apparently the chief of detectives found some discrepancies between Sharpe’s first autopsy and the crime scene. He wanted Edgar to double-check a few things.”

  “Thanks, Marta.” Without saying goodbye, Emma hung up. Leaning over her keyboard, she pressed the down cursor and scanned near the end of the listing on her screen. Sure enough, Tyrone’s body had been returned to the morgue and was in drawer number seventeen in the cooler room.

  Excitement rippled through her. Paul Sanders had killed Graham Jones because he knew the boy would never be competent to stand trial and would never be punished for his crimes. If Paul believed that Tyrone had lost his usefulness as a police officer or that he would never be punished, either…

  At this point, only Tyrone’s spirit could tell her.

  Grabbing her card key, Emma headed downstairs.

  Chapter Eighteen

  No one questioned her when she walked into the cooler room. None of the attendants even blinked when she opened drawer seventeen and pulled out the tray. Talbot Williams, the man she asked to transfer the bagged body to a gurney, merely grunted and did as she asked. Within minutes, Emma had Tyrone Sharpe on her table in the autopsy suite. Talbot returned to the cooler room.

  Alone, she stood over the body. The murdered detective had been about Jason’s age but he looked older, harder. Despite the best efforts of the mortician and embalmer, stark lines revealed the hold cocaine had gotten over him in the last months of his life. And the incisions from the first autopsy—the ME who’d performed it had taken obvious care with his patient.

  Emma lifted her hands. After a brief hesitation, she placed them on the dead man’s cold arm. She lifted her eyes. Darkness lurked beyond the golden ring cast by the task light above the table. Shadows of furniture and stainless steel counters huddled in that darkness but she saw no sign of movement.

  She whispered, “Tyrone?”

  A chill shuddered down her spine at the sound of her own voice in that still, dark room. She took another breath and spoke a little louder. “Tyrone Sharpe?”

  “Yeah?”

  The answer was little more than a breath. But it was enough to draw her gaze to the vague figure at the foot of the table. The other apparitions had been transparent but they had looked real. Tyrone looked like what he was…a ghost.

  As another shudder ran through her, Emma forced herself to speak again. “I’m sorry you had to be brought back to the morgue, Tyrone. Please tell me who killed you.”

  “I can’t remember much about…anything.” He lifted a hand and ran it slowly down his face. “Does it really matter?”

  “It matters.” She moved down the table, closer to the spirit’s chill. “Did you ever counsel with Dr. Paul Sanders?”

  He nodded slowly. “Yeah. He didn’t think I’d beat the coke. Said I didn’t want to beat it. It made me do things…lose evidence, lose my temper.” A weary, eerie sigh eased out of him. “Lose my mind.”

  “Who killed you, Tyrone?”

  He watched her with dark, tired eyes. “That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? To tell you what happened to me?”

  “Emma?”

  At the sound of the flesh-and-blood voice, Emma whipped around. Jason stood in the doorway leading in from the prep room. The glow from the task light just reached him and she saw his eyes widen as he looked at the body on the table.

  His face went pale. “Good Lord, what are you doing?”

  Panic numbed her vocal chords. She had to tell him something, to explain what she was doing with his friend. But could she take this leap of trust and give up her complete secret to him?

  “Hey, buddy.” Tyrone’s spirit drifted toward Jason. Life sparked in the dark eyes. “Long time no see.”

  Unaware of the spirit, Jason looked back at Emma. “What are you doing?” he repeated, his voice hoarse.

  “Your boss wanted Tyrone’s body exhumed.” Her own voice came out only slightly deeper than a squeak. “To recheck some things.

  “It’s already been done. Your boss took care of it today.” He took a step toward her. “What are you doing?”

  Emma glanced from the man to the spirit and back again. She felt everything she’d been dreaming about earlier tonight slipping away. “I needed to know some things.”

  “Emma—” Jason’s voice caught. “Leave him be.”

  Tyrone’s spirit smiled faintly and drifted near the couple. “Tell him. Jason’s a good guy. He’ll help you.”

  “There’s no time.” Emma took a deep breath and went on with what she needed to do. “Tyrone, tell me who killed you.”

  Striding forward, Jason grabbed her arm. His eyes were wild now. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Tell him.” Tyrone drifted closer. “Tell him now.”

  Her pulse thundered in her ears. “I see the spirits of the people I work on.” As horror darkened Jason’s eyes, she began to talk faster. “I think Paul Sanders killed some of his patients, Jason. You told me about Tyrone counseling with Sanders so I checked his autopsy record. When I found out his body was here, I—”

  “For God’s sake, Emma!” Jason looked at her just the way she’d feared he would, as if she’d lost her mind. “Come with me. I’ll get you some help.”

  Across the table, Tyrone chuckled. “He always did believe only what he could see. Have you slept with him yet?”

  Emma glared at the apparition. “What?”

  “It’s a simple question. From what I heard, you’d remember if you did. The boy had quite a rep around the station.”

  “I know all about his reputation,” she replied. “And that’s none of your business.”

  Jason shook her arm. “Emma, snap out of it!”

  “Ask him where he got the scar,” Tyrone said. “Inside right thigh. Up high. Only those who’ve been intimate—or drunk—with him would know it was there.”

  She looked at Jason. “Tyrone told me to ask you about the scar on your right thigh. He says it’s in a place that only a lover…” she darted another glare at the amused apparition, “or a drinking buddy would ever see.”

  Jason’s face blanched further and a shudder coursed through him. Hands falling away, he backed off. “What did you say?”

&n
bsp; “Your scar,” she said again. “How did you get it?”

  “Never mind.” Tyrone stopped drifting as his form grew ever fainter. “I’ll tell you and you tell him. He was balancing on a picket fence one night after we’d tied one on.”

  Emma looked back at Jason. Standing between her and Tyrone, wide-eyed gaze fixed on her face, he seemed unaware of the trembling in his own body.

  Emma tucked her hands into the pockets of her lab coat. “He says you were climbing a fence one night after you’d been drinking together.”

  “Sweet Dr. St. Clair, tell it like I’m tellin’ it, please.” Tyrone heaved another great breath. “We’d gone off-duty but got called back in to check out a case of cow-tipping.”

  “You were checking out a case of cow-tipping,” Emma repeated.

  Jason stared at her, horror growing in his eyes.

  “He lost his balance and fell,” Tyrone said. “Straight down.”

  Emma winced. “You lost your balance and fell.”

  “Missed his jewels by half an inch,” Tyrone went on. “Bit further to the left and he could kiss any future kids goodbye.”

  “He says you hurt yourself on one of the pickets, just inches from your…”

  Jason’s eyes widened further and he stared at his friend’s body.

  Tyrone chuckled. “I laughed so hard I almost forgot to help him stop the bleeding.”

  “Tyrone laughed so hard he almost forgot to help you stop the bleeding.” Emma spoke more slowly, her voice growing dry.

  “He swore me to secrecy. Told me I’d better take this story to my grave.”

  “You made him promise to take the story to his grave.”

  “And I did,” Tyrone said.

  Emma swallowed. “And he did.”

  Jason began to sway on his feet. But before Emma could reach out to him, he leaned against the autopsy table and stared down at his dead friend. His body began to shake.

  Emma gave her full attention to Tyrone’s spirit. “Who killed you, Tyrone?”

  “I remember.” Tyrone’s voice grew breathier, his image hazier. “Paul Sanders. He came to the club that night. Told me I’d never be a decent cop again. That I’d be happier with the coke. Then he gave me a nice hit and when I was flying, he shot me. He made it real easy, Dr. St. Clair. I didn’t feel a thing.”