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She opened up her purse, and fished out her wallet as he fired up the engine. She pulled out the photos she’d showed to the mom. “It gave mebrividi,” she said. “Cold shivers. Just look. Exactly like my little Magda, and my little Bruno. Look at them.”
What else could he do? He braked. Looked. And looked again.
Holy…fucking…shit.They really did look like those kids.
And not just like.Exactlylike. Weird. He was gettingbrividihimself. He’d had plenty of opportunities to observe the kids, especially the boy. He peered more closely. One was an old formal color portrait. The little girl was solemn, unsmiling. The boy was an informal color photo, and exactly, in every detail, identical to the hellion from the pit, right down to the dimples in the fat cheeks, and thefuck you, you pathetic, pencil-dick chumpgleam in the kid’s eyes.
It was completely creepy.
Miles glanced into the old lady’s triumphant face. She’d caught the shock-and-awe vibe, and was very satisfied with herself.
He put the truck in gear. Babies, for the love of God. They all looked alike, right? Round heavy cheeks, bright sparkling eyes, pouty rosy lips, soft silky curls, cute button noses? The kids couldn’t have been that similar. Power of suggestion. He was spending too much time defending his childless state while shopping for Swippie Wippies soggy-wipes. The constant, grating stress had softened his brain.
Into the approximate consistency of baby shit.
* * *
Petrie glancedat his watch as he got himself logged into the medical examiner’s office. Trish was waiting for him, tapping her foot. As if she were the one who had dragged her ass all the way to Clackamas because of someone’s inexplicable whim.
“I’ll be late for lunch with my grandmother because of this,” he groused. “I was supposed to meet her at the London Grill at the Benson, and I’m not going to make it in time. Not even close. She’s going to make me pay for it. In blood.”
Trish clipped the visitor’s badge onto the lapel of his jacket and gazed at him, her big blue eyes limpid and absolutely pitiless. “Trust me,” she said. “It’s worth it. You have to see this, Sam.”
“Well, why couldn’t you just tell me about it on the phone? Why the mysterious build-up? Why make me schlep all the way over here from downtown?”
“It’s a visual thing,” she said without turning. “You’ll see.”
Trish led him through the office and into the rear area where the autopsies were done. She stopped at one of the examining tables and drew the cover off the cadaver, with an almost imperceptible flourish.
The attendant stopped at a bank of drawers, and drew one out.
Petrie took a look. And froze. Mouth hanging open.
“They called me in to take pictures,” Trish said. “That suicide on Wygant this morning, remember? He’d put the gun in his mouth. It took out the back of his skull, but it left his face intact.”
Petrie looked up. Trish’s face was somber, but her eyes had a glint of excitement. “It’s him, isn’t it?” she prompted.
He just stared down at the dead man’s face. It was Bruno Ranieri. His hair was an inch or so longer than it had been in the photo, but it was him, right down to the dimples. Trish indicated them with an electric blue fingernail. “Check out those bifid zigomaticus, huh?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Who caught this one?”
“Barlow,” she said.
“You tell him?”
“Not yet. Wasn’t sure. Wanted you to see it first.”
He looked into her eyes. “OK,” he said. “I’ll tell Barlow. I guess I have to call Rosa Ranieri to come ID him for us.”
He stood outside in the rain for a long time afterwards. Immobile, even with Grandmam waiting for him at the restaurant, staring at the slip of paper that held Rosa Ranieri’s contact info.
This was the part he hated. Telling a person that someone they loved had died, badly. He never got used to that. It never got easier.
He punched in one of the McCloud numbers, and waited. A young woman’s voice answered. “Hello, McCloud residence.”
“Hello, this is Detective Samuel Petrie, of the Portland Police Bureau,” he said. “I’d like to speak to Rosa Ranieri, please.”
CHAPTER13
