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I don’t want to kill another man. I don’t want to risk another set of eyes haunting me when I’m trying to rest at night. But if Franklin can’t get a conviction, and Fentone walks free, I’ll do what needs to be done.
“She died approximately two to four hours ago,” I recite in monotone. “Evidence of vaginal penetration exists and will be documented in my final report. Her hands and nails will be swabbed for trace evidence, and as soon as she’s in-house, I’ll check every hair on her head until I find something that’ll stick to our perp.”
Turning away from the little girl, I study the cop’s slightly haggard eyes. “I suggest you ask your lieutenant for permission to have Fentone tailed. His alibis fall apart if you have a cop on his ass around the clock. Until then, he’ll continue to screw with your case and use his buddy as cover. Better yet, tail both guys. You only need to prove one of them is a liar for the rest to unravel.”
He smiles down at me as though endeared, like my words are a cute police roleplay I enjoy. “Yes, Doctor. I’ll keep my phone close and await the results from your lab.” Glancing away, he lifts his hand and circles it in a gesture for his crew:let’s go. “We’ll be in touch.”
“Yep.”
I turn to Aubree to ask her to order transport, but already, she has her phone pressed to her ear and the words flow from her lips.
Her initiative and ability to read my thoughts makes it impossible for me to remove her from the role of my quasi-partner and put her back on her own cases.
We’re not cops. We don’t need two medical examiners on one scene. Yet, I can’t let her go. I can’t send her away so we only see each other as we pass in the halls of the George Stanley building.
Somehow, I’ve become codependent on this woman I was so sure I’d be able to keep at an arm’s length.
“Thanks.” Hanging up, she meets my gaze and nods. “Transport’s on the way. We’ll move her inside and take care of her the way she deserves. Once Detective Franklin gets her identity, we can speak her real name, and I can feel less icky about sayingJane Doefor the record.”
“I hate calling them Jane and John.” Exhaling a sigh, I gaze across the city and spy the first rays of daylight breaking above the horizon.
The hills that home Copeland’s rich—those same hills that keep secret waterfalls which only lovers get to swim beneath—provide a breathtaking backdrop to the start of a new day. But my heart feels heavy anyway.
I can’t enjoy a sunrise when Archer’s in New York, and a new little girl is moving to my autopsy room for dissection.
“Have you talked to Tim?” I keep my voice down, my tone as neutral as I can manage. But when Aubree remains silent, I peek across and betray how desperately I cling to any news of what those men are doing today.
In response, Aubree only shakes her head. “Not a single word. At least you got a text.”
“I got a scribbled letter,” I correct her bitterly. “Scratched onto an old receipt.”
“Still.” She huddles into her coat now that we’re done and only awaiting transport. Technically, we could leave; we can select any cop on scene to watch the girl till she’s loaded up. Yet, neither of us suggests it. “A note is more than I got. As far as me and Tim go, I’m just a friend he says hi to when we pass in the street. He sure as hell doesn’t text me, and he doesn’t write letters to let me know he’s traveling.”
When I was called out this morning and stumbling through my dark apartment to get ready, I had a choice to make: wear my coat, thin as it is, or wear Archer’s. His is thick, but too long, too broad across the shoulders, and entirely too boxy for my frame.
Still, I cuddle into his black coat and turn my face to smell the collar. Because this is the closest I’ll come to a hug from him this week, and there isn’t a part of my soul that’s okay with his absence.
“I spoke to Archer last night before bed.”
“And?” Looking across when the transport van makes its way closer, Aubree’s typically bubbly self remains timid, quiet, as cops clear the way for the vehicle to back in. “What did he say?”
“That we have to put our fight in a box,” I growl. “Put it aside for now and just be there for each other. Then when he gets home, we can tear it open and duke it out.”
She considers my words for a moment, nibbling on her bottom lip as she thinks. “Are they in danger?”
“Aren’t they always?”Beep. Beep. Beep. The van comes closer. “They’re staying inside the freakin’ Malone Family mansion. They’re not a cop and a bartender right now, Aubs. They’re mafia. With that comes power, but also a massive friggin’ target on their backs.”
“So they’re in danger.”
Exhausted, she fakes a small smile and steps to the side when the driver slides out of the van and rushes to open the back doors.
Our driver today is a woman, five-ten, a hundred and seventy pounds, and though we rarely talk, she always works with respect for the dead, but with keen consideration for the time passing us by.
She’s fast, she’s capable, and she’s yet to piss me off. All positives, as far as I’m concerned.
“What exactly do they have to do before they come home again?” Aubree keeps her voice low, but her question is commanding. “Specifically.”
“Get their brother back?” I say it like a question, because beyond that, I have no damn clue. “Emilio Pastore has taken him, and now Felix wants them to present a united front to get him back.”
