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“Victor Georgiana?” I ask instead.
“In the wind. Didn’t open the store today. Hasn’t been seen since yesterday. Neighbor says she heard them arguing about eight o’clock last night, but that wasn’t uncommon for them, so she learned long ago to tune it out.”
“Ouch.” I sit back in my chair and grit my teeth. “Marina was likely crying out for help, but Victor has trained the neighbors to stop caring.”
“Seems that way. Neighbor can’t be sure what time the arguing stopped, but when she made a cup of tea around ten, it was quiet.”
“So Marina died sometime between eight and ten,” I confirm. “That tracks. Anyone know where Victor could be now?”
“Not so far. According to Gloria, the girl who works at the shop, he has no family in the area—his parents moved back to Andorra, Spain a couple of years ago. The sandwich shop was theirs first, but when they retired and Victor took over, they hopped a plane outta here. They haven’t returned our calls yet, but they are long removed from Copeland City. Gloria also told us that Marina’s father is deceased, and her mother lives in an assisted living home with late-stage Parkinson’s. We haven’t made contact with Mom yet, but Fletch or I will do that soon.”
“Fletchandyou,” I bite out. “Together. Whether he likes it or not.”
Knowing it’s past four and the bank will close at five on the dot, I hold my phone between my shoulder and ear and get to work finishing my report. I’ve already done a lot, but I add my final findings.
The exact incision that ended Marina’s life.
The order in which she received her injuries.
I document the small details, like how she’s twenty-eight, and never been pregnant. Her hips are still narrow, and her womb never occupied. I note her lab results: iron deficient—but really, most women are these days.
“Markers show degeneration of her basal ganglia,” I type and speak at the same time. “She, too, would have eventually suffered from Parkinson’s disease. Younger than her mother.”
“Small mercies,” Archer mumbles. “Now she’ll never have to know that fear.”
“Yeah. Being chased around her house by a knife-wielding psycho was a better way to go.”
I finish typing up my report, then I sign, send, and file a copy away for our records. “I’m packing up and heading out. And you…” I breathe. “Are on a manhunt, huh? Murderer on the loose.”
“Mmhm. I’ve been following Victor’s contacts down the line: friends, extended family, associates. He’s hiding somewhere, so we’ve gotta figure out the most likely place he’d go. No one else is popping, Mayet. Marina hasn’t had trouble with anyone: not with her friends, not with customers at the deli, not with parents of her students. No one has a bad thing to say about the woman, which means no suspects in any of her peripheries.”
I nod. “Leaves you with the husband.”
Shutting down my computer and pushing up to stand, I take my phone in my hand and make my way toward the coat rack by my office door. Hugging the phone between my shoulder and ear again, I switch my white coat for my outside coat—thin, ratty, and old—then I circle back and get my briefcase and keys.
“This is why women have trust issues, by the way.” I push through the door and peek along the hall to the autopsy room, in case Aubree’s still in there.
She’s not. So I spin and head toward the elevator.
“She marries her high school boyfriend,” I stop by the silver doors and smack the call button. “Works hard to get a degree. Becomes a sweet teacher. Probably cooked dinner last night, too. But then the dude just goes all slasher and kills her.”
“Yeah,” Archer drawls. “Because I’m not talking to my very own psycho.” He teases, though he lowers his voice.
God forbid Fletch overhears his estranged best friendjokingabout the very thing that has come between them.
I glance up and watch the numbers above the elevator change as the steel box makes its way from the second floor to the third. Then the fourth. Fifth. Finally, it stops on the ninth and opens to reveal a smiling Aubree.
“Oh good, you’re done?” She steps off the elevator and dashes to her desk, which is still strategically placed right outside my office. Peeling her white coat off and spinning so her purple shoes squeak on the tile, she grabs her phone and keys from her desk, and dashes back my way before the elevator has time to close.
“Marina is in the fridge on the second floor. We’re all set, so I’m coming shopping with you.” Then she looks at my phone. “Hi, Detective.”
She tugs me into the elevator and slaps the button for the ground floor. “Now that we’re in the Neutral Cube of Truth-Telling and Fantasy-Living,will someonepleasetell me what the hell is going on with you guys and Detective Fletcher? Because things are tense, and I don’t much like—”
“No,” I reply firmly, only for Archer’s voice to echo the same half a beat later. “We’re heading out of the building now, Detective Malone. I’ll be home around six.”
“Alright. I don’t know how long I’ll be, but I’ll keep you updated.”
“Thanks. Talk to you soon.”
