Page 28 of The Shadow Friends

“You have to consider that possibility.”

“But a waitress?” Alfond shook his head. “Why target her?”

“There’s something you haven’t found out, yet. Dig deeper,” said Wass as he himself reached into the chest cavity. Dig deeper. Out came the heart and lungs, which he weighed and sliced open. “Smoker,” he said, and looked at Jo.

She shrugged. “I don’t remember seeing any cigarettes in her purse.”

“Well, I can see the damage here, in her lungs. Maybe she quit.”

“If it was for her health,” said Alfond, “she shouldn’t have bothered.”

Wass continued to cut with swift efficiency, soon moving on to the abdomen, where his blade freed up liver and spleen, stomach and pancreas. On her last day of life, as Karen O’Brien had brushed her teeth and hair, as she’d washed her face, she could not have imagined this was how her week would end. That she’d be lying on a stainless steel table, her organs being sliced open, the most intimate parts of her body laid bare. Jo noticed Alfond glance at his watch, heard his impatient sigh. Clearly, he had places he’d rather be.

So did Jo. Anywhere but here.

Wass moved on to the worst part of the autopsy, the part that always disturbed Jo the most. He sliced open the scalp and peeled it forward. The face that once wore lipstick and mascara, that once smiled and scowled, the face that was once Karen O’Brien’s alone, collapsed like a rubber mask.

Wass fired up the bone saw to open the cranium.

Now Jo did turn away, unable to watch this next insult to Karen O’Brien’s body. As the saw whined, as bone dust flew, Jo focused on the weapon, which was lying on the steel specimen tray. She thought of what Ingrid Slocum had told her as they’d stood together in the employee parking lot, looking down at the body in the car trunk, at the blade buried in Karen O’Brien’s eye. It’s not for cutting or slashing. It’s for thrusting. She’d said it without hesitation, simply stating what she just happened to know. At the time, Ingrid’s ready familiarity with such a gruesome fact had struck Jo as chilling. Now, it suddenly occurred to her why Ingrid was so familiar with stilettos.

She’s seen one before.

Chapter 12

Ingrid Slocum was good at keeping secrets, as were the other members of the self-named Martini Club, and Jo had few illusions that any of them would be completely honest with her, even though they ought to trust her by now. Or did they trust her? It was hard to know where she stood with people who had spent their careers working in the shadows, concealing the true nature of their jobs. Jo used to think that espionage was a glamorous job, all tuxedoes and martinis and foreign travel, but after spending time with these people, she now understood what it really entailed: never being entirely honest, even with those you loved. Always wondering if that new acquaintance was a friend or an enemy operative. Watching every word you said, and questioning every word that other people said. No, Jo could not have lasted long in such a profession. Being a cop wasn’t easy, but at least she could be honest with those she cared about, those who mattered in her life.

How much honesty could she expect from these people, she wondered, as she sat in her car outside the Slocum residence after driving back from the autopsy. She saw that Declan Rose’s Volvo and Ben Diamond’s SUV were parked nearby, so tonight they must be having one of their usual boozy get-togethers, fueled by Lloyd Slocum’s always-excellent array of snacks. Maggie Bird would not be here, because she was in isolation at the hospital, but the other four might have answers for Jo.

If she could get them to talk.

She stepped out of her car and climbed the porch steps. Before she could even ring the bell, the door swung open and Lloyd said, “Good evening, Chief Thibodeau. We’re just about to start our second round. Can we offer you one?”

“A martini? No thank you.” She walked into the house, which was immaculate. The oak floor was polished to a fine gloss, the entrance hall table held a vase of fluffy white hydrangeas, artistically placed off center, and in a Chinese ceramic floor urn were two black umbrellas, readily at hand for the next rainstorm. Jo considered herself an organized person, but the Slocums took it to a whole new level, exactly what one would expect from a couple who’d excelled in their careers, kept their hedges clipped and their lawn regularly mowed. Jo followed Lloyd down the hallway to the back garden, which she’d never seen before. She was not surprised to see it was equally well kept, with a flagstone patio, ceramic pots containing a lush variety of herbs, and a privacy hedge to discourage prying eyes. There was a liquor cart, of course, and it contained everything a bartender might need to keep the guests well lubricated, which apparently had already been achieved. Despite the cool and misty evening, Ingrid and the men had chosen to gather outside, bundled up against the chill in sweaters and fleece.

“And here’s Jo,” Lloyd announced to his friends.

“We wondered when you’d show up,” said Ben.

“I didn’t know I was going to show up,” Jo said. She looked around at their martini glasses. “Another book club meeting?”

“No, tonight we have serious business,” said Declan. “And we don’t have Maggie here.”

“Do you know how she’s doing?”

Lloyd said, “She gave us access to her online patient portal, so we can see her lab results as they come in. So far, all her blood work is normal.”

“Thank God,” added Declan.

“That’s kind of, um, intimate, isn’t it?” said Jo. “Sharing private medical info?”

“If she can’t trust us, who can she trust?” said Lloyd.

Jo looked around at their somber faces. Yes, if anyone could be counted on to keep a secret, it would be these people. “How long will they keep her in quarantine?”

“They don’t know,” said Declan. “They’re still trying to understand Dr. Maslov’s blood work.” Declan stared down at his drink and said quietly: “It’s a waiting game.”

“And Maggie’s going to be fine,” said Ben, clapping Declan’s shoulder. “She’s Superwoman. You know that.”