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A light laugh strums from Nikki as she scoops up her things. “Where are you staying, Baxter?”
“Pine Ridge Falls,” I say. “I grew up there, but right now I’m renting a place just down from the lake.”
“Whispering Woods Cabins?” Jack asks, lifting a brow.
“Yes,” I say, shocked at how well he guessed it. “Boy, you really are good at your job.”
“I’m not stalking you,” he says, deadpan. “I happen to live there myself.”
“Well, well.” Nikki laughs. “It looks as if you two already have lots in common.” She breezes past me. “We’ll talk soon. There are some things I’d love to catch you up on.” She takes off and Jack rises from his seat as well.
“What things?” he calls after her and nothing but laughter echoes through the hall. He gives Buddy a hearty scratch on the head and sighs. “See the things I’ve got to put up with?” He frowns my way. “All right, Special Agent Baxter. It’s you and me—we’ve got a hot date at the morgue.”
5
Special Agent Jack Stone
Fallon follows me for twenty minutes down winding roads as we head to the coroner’s office. I stole glances in the rearview mirror to make sure she was still there. But I’ll admit, I was tempted to shake her tail, my way of hazing her.
We arrive and I lead Fallon through the brightly lit corridors of the coroner’s office. Nothing but a labyrinth of stainless steel with the pervasive scent of antiseptic hanging heavy in the air. The walls are painted a ubiquitous shade of beige designed to soothe yet somehow feel more depressing, and each one is dotted with posters that extol the virtues of forensic pathology.
The buzz of the ventilation system murmurs in the background, and other than that the only sound is the squeak of our shoes until we hit the beehive of activity in the main office.
The place is teeming with bodies and buzzing with an undercurrent of energy as assistants scurry back and forth with a stack of papers in hand. I can appreciate their dedication, a commitment to uncovering the truths that the deceased can no longer voice themselves. That’s exactly where my dedication lies as well.
“So, where’s the dog?” I try to lighten the mood as we thread our way through the cavernous room. Fallon is stunning, but stunning women are a dime a dozen. Stunning women in this line of work, not so much. Although Nikki is a looker herself. But I have a strict leave my co-workers alone policy. I never said I was smart. “You two seemed pretty attached back at the office.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile there. “Buddy isn’t mine. He belongs to Robby—Rob, Sheriff Reed to you.”
“I see.” I tick my head as I say it. “And what about the boyfriend? Robby?” I shoot her a look as I use his informal moniker, but she doesn’t seem amused by my abuse of power. “Should we be expecting him?”
“No boyfriend,” she shoots back. “I’m not seeing Rob or anyone else. I’m here for work, not some soap opera subplot.”
“Soap opera subplots aren’t mandatory in a relationship, you know. I hear a compatible pairing can be useful for companionship.”
“I’d rather have the dog.”
I swallow down a laugh. “I’d rather have a dog, too, but I got stuck with a cat,” I mutter under my breath, but it’s true, nevertheless.
I leave out the part where I inherited the feline the day my mother had to report to prison. You know what they say, save some fun for later.
We make our way to the back, passing doors labeled Autopsy Room, Cold Storage, and Examination Room. That last one is where we find the coroner, Miller Thompson.
Miller is a good guy, mid-fifties, tall, beer belly, a swath of dark hair that’s quickly dissipating, and an overall friendly demeanor that reminds me of a football coach I once had in high school. He’s known for his expertise and knowledge—and we can’t forget his unique sense of humor, even if it leans to the grim side. But in a place like this, that’s the only side there is.
The room itself is filled with steel walls, mostly drawers filled with the deceased, and a few tables with sheets over bodies. The hum of the refrigeration unit fills the silence along with the faint sound of a phone ringing in the distance.
We find Miller hovering over a cadaver that’s been divided into pieces.
Her head has been placed just above her body, and you wouldn’t know she was decapitated, save for the two-inch gap that separates them. The woman is a brunette, medium-length hair matted on one side. Her skin is pale, gray to be exact, lips almost non-existent, and the whites of her eyes shine like tomatoes with a hazel iris lost in a sea of crimson. She has a slightly turned-up nose, gaunt cheeks, was pretty.
Her body lies naked, bearing the same pale gray cast as her skin. On the metal tray table next to her, there is an array of scalpels spread out on a bright blue towel.
A Y-incision is carved right down her torso, but Miller has already closed her up. I’m good with that. It’s not my favorite part. A magnifying glass lies near her head, and I’d expect nothing less since Miller does a great job of inspecting the minute details.
I glance back at Fallon to gauge her reaction. The first time I saw something gruesome like this my stomach did a revolution and the room swayed beneath my feet, but Fallon doesn’t seem to flinch. I’m guessing it’s not her first gruesome rodeo.
“Stone.” Miller nods my way, clad in a white coat already stained with blood and gore. He nods to Fallon. “Miller Thompson,” he says affably. “I’d shake your hand, but considering where it’s been, we can save that for another time.”
