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“Okay.” She spins on her heels and dashes away to save Fifi. “Mrs. Andrews? If you come with me, I’ll get you some coffee.”
“What’s wrong?” Archer’s voice turns sharp in an instant. “Confirm or deny what?”
“A woman just arrived, shouting to get on my floor and wanting to see her dead husband. Archer…” I lower my voice and stride back into my office so the door shuts and privacy is a little easier to come by. “Her name is Diane Andrews. Her husband is Kyle Andrews. And she’s claiming to be the wife of the vic whose face you ran on the news today.”
“Shut the fuck up!” Fletch exclaims from somewhere on the other side of the line. The lights above the elevator stop on the lobby floor, and thedingof the doors opening echoes through our call. “Is Roger not Roger?”
“I don’t know!” I hiss. “But we have a frickin’ pickle to sort out.”
“We’ll be up in a sec,” Archer rumbles. “Hold on.”
He cuts our call and leaves me hanging, but the lights above the elevator move again, so I pocket my phone and pass through my office door.
Crossing the lobby-like space, I stop by the steel doors and tap the toe of my shoe for only a few moments before they open and reveal two detectives who, not so long ago, were acting like enemies. At odds over a massive difference of opinion re: myactivities.
“Detectives.” All business, I pivot before Archer can grab me, and move back into my office so they’re forced to follow.
I circle my desk and drop into my chair, massaging the bridge of my nose, while Archer and Fletch file into my office after me, Fletch shutting the glass door and closing us in for privacy.
“We have a mess,” I tell them. “A second woman claiming to be married to your vic.”
“You spoke with her?” Archer comes to stop in front of my desk and sets a voice recorder down between us. “What did you say?”
“No. We hardly spoke at all. She and Seraphina came up in the elevator together, and when they arrived, the woman—Diane—was crying and shouting. Aubree and I stepped out of this office to see what all the drama was about, and Diane said she saw her husband on the news. Once I realized which body she was referring to, I called you. Aubree’s helping Fifi move Diane to an autopsy room now, purely to get her into a secluded area, and they’ve been ordered not to talk to her.”
“Good.” Fletch perches his ass on the edge of my couch and links his fingers together. “Shit, guys. If John Doe is Kyle, then where the fuck is Roger?”
“How do we confirm he’s either of them?” Archer asks instead. “We have two women claiming one man, though with different names…. but we have no dental records, no eyes, and no fingerprints for the body. So how the hell do we make a formal ID?”
“DNA?” I study my husband as he lowers into the chair on the opposite side of my desk, and draw a deep breath to settle the thoughts sprinting through my mind. “Roger has children. So let’s see if we can get permission from Mrs. Wilson to take a sample from the kid, and cross-match him to his alleged father.”
A howling cry echoes all the way across the ninth floor and beats at my door. “What do we do with this woman?”
“We’ll see to it. Can we use your office?” Archer pushes up to stand and waits for me to do the same, and though I rise without too much pain, his eyes keep a close watch on my every expression. Every nuance.
He’s looking for a weakness in my armor; an excuse to wrap me up and send me home.
So I school my expression and hug my bound arm close. “You can use my office. But as the chief medical examiner in charge of this re-unidentified body, I’d like to sit in on the conversation. I won’t speak,” I clarify when he opens his mouth to argue. “I won’t interfere. But I want to listen. I’m intrigued, and it’s Sunday anyway.”
“Fuckin’ vigilante,” Fletch grumbles, part exasperation, part threat.
Angry, Archer snatches up the recorder he’d set out on my desk, hits the button to stop the tape, then turns to his partner and makes a show of hittingdelete. “Detective Fletcher,” he grits out savagely. “Could you go find Mrs. Andrews, please? Have her brought in here. We’ll speak to her first and find out what the fuck is going on. Then we’ll make contact with Mrs. Wilson and get that test.”
Smug and unapologetic, even whistling under his breath, Fletch drops his hands in his pockets and saunters toward my door. “Still sensitive about that, huh?”
“Ya think!?” Archer growls. “I tend to get a little testy when you put it on record like that.” Bringing his eyes back around and stopping on me, he exhales. “How long will a DNA test take?”
“An hour, once I get Doctor Raquel back in-house. She’s gonna be mad that I’m tugging her in on a Sunday,” I admit with a grin. “But I’m getting her a new tech, so she’ll do as she’s told, or she’ll miss out.”
“I’ll fetch Mrs. Andrews,” Fletch singsongs. Yanking the glass door open so the vacuum of air hisses through the gap he makes, he drops his hand back in his pocket and strolls away to collect ourpossiblewife-of-the-vic.
“How are you feeling?” Archer remains rooted firmly where he is, lest he come around and pull me into his arms inside our transparent box. “You’re hurting.”
“I’m not,” I lie. “I’m just a little… stiff.” If I could lift my shoulders and shrug, I would. That’s the signal my brain gives my body. But the ache in my arm says no, so I remain still and, instead, nibble on my bottom lip. “It feels like it’s been forever since we just watched a movie. Stayed in. Ate bad food and talked to no one.”
“Because you’ve been working all day and passing out at seven every night.”
His fingers twitch, itching to touch. To reach out and hold me. But I catch Mrs. Andrews and Fletch in my peripherals. They’re still an easy thirty seconds away, but visible.
