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Watching her face, Morris gestured to the long, armless couch. “Why don’t you sit down? I can offer you passable coffee. Nothing as prime as you’re used to.”
“No, that’s okay.” But she thought, yes, let’s sit, have coffee. Let’s just not do this thing.
He took her hand. “Who’s dead? It’s one of us.” His fingers tightened on hers. “Peabody—”
“No. Peabody’s . . . no.” Only making it worse, she thought. “Morris, it’s Detective Coltraine.”
She could see by his face he didn’t understand, he didn’t connect his question with her answer. She did the only thing she could do. She plunged the knife in his heart.
“She was killed last night. She’s dead, Morris. She’s gone. I’m sorry.”
He released her hand, stepped back from her. As if, she knew, breaking contact would stop it. Just stop it all. “Ammy? You’re talking about Amaryllis?”
“Yes.”
“But—” He stopped himself for making the denial. She knew the first questions in his head—was she sure? Could there be a mistake? There must be a mistake. But he knew her, and didn’t waste the words. “How?”
“We’re going to sit down.”
“Tell me how.”
“She was murdered. It’s looking like her own weapon was used on her. Both her weapons are missing. We’re looking. Morris—”
“No. Not yet.” His face had gone blank and smooth, a mask carved from one of his own polished stones. “Just tell me what you know.”
“I don’t have much yet. She was found this morning, in the basement of her building, by a neighbor and his son. Her time of death was about twenty-three forty last night. There aren’t any signs of a struggle at the scene, or in her apartment. No visible wounds on her, but for the stunner burns on her throat. She had no ID on her, no jewelry, no bag, no badge, no weapon. She was fully dressed.”
She saw something flicker over his face at that, a ripple over the stone, and understood. Rape always made murder worse. “I haven’t looked at the security discs yet, because I needed to tell you. Peabody’s on scene.”
“I have to change. I have to change and go in. Go in and see to her.”
“No, you won’t. You tell me who you trust the most, who you want, and we’ll arrange for them to do the autopsy. You’re not doing it.”
“It’s not for you to say. I’m chief medical examiner.”
“I’m primary. And you and I both know that your relationship with the”—she swallowed the word victim—“with Detective Coltraine means you have to step back from this part. Take a minute, take as many minutes as you need to come down to that. You can’t work on her, Morris, for your own sake and for hers.”
“You think I’ll do nothing? That I’ll stand by and let someone else touch her?”
“I’m not asking you to do nothing. But I’m telling you you won’t do this.” When he turned, started for the stairs, she simply took his arm.
“I’ll stop you.” She spoke quietly, felt the muscles in his arm vibrate. “Take a swing at me, yell, throw something, whatever you need. But I’ll stop you. She’s mine now, too.”
The rage showed in his eyes, burned them black. She braced for a blow, she’d give him that. But the rage melted into grief. This time when he turned, she let him go.
He walked to the long, wide window that looked out on the buzz and vibrancy of Soho. He laid his hands on the shelf of the sill, leaned so his arms could hold some of the weight his legs couldn’t.
“Clipper.” Now his voice was as raw as his eyes had been. “Ty Clipper. I want him to take care of her.”
“I’ll see to it.”
“She wore, always wore a ring on the middle finger of her right hand. A square-cut pink tourmaline, flanked by small green tourmaline baguettes. A silver band. Her parents gave it to her on her twenty-first birthday.”
“Okay.”
“You said the basement of her building. She’d have no reason to go down there.”
“There are storage lockers.”
