“Wow, I wouldn’t take her job on a bet,” Kelley said.
Symansky smirked. “I’d take it for the pay jump. I got two kids using me like an ATM.”
Foster watched as Bigelow and an unhappy Lonergan walked back to their desks, Lonergan working up a mad she had no remedy for.
“Grant is so not going to be happy to see us again,” Li said as she grabbed her bag out of her bottom drawer. “This makes three in less than a week.” She wiggled into her jacket, grabbed her cell phone. “The pattern idea doesn’t look like it’s holding. This guy’s all over the place. Maybe Wicks is just a down-and-dirty mugging? Unrelated.”
Foster grabbed her things. “What kind of mugger carries a blanket around with him?”
Li groaned. “I really hate the weird ones.”
CHAPTER 41
Dr. Grant glared at Foster and Li over her autopsy table. What remained of Evelyn Wicks lay there, small and still, her slender neck gaping open, her eyelids at half-mast. There was no music blasting out of the speakers this time, their second indication, after Grant’s daggerlike glower, that things weren’t going to go well. It took less than five seconds for that to be confirmed.
“Nuh-uh. Don’t bother taking your coats off,” Grant said, her eyes as hard as Satan’s ore. Nothing made her angrier than violent, senseless death, Foster knew, especially when it involved the young. “The slaughter of innocents is an abomination,” Grant had once whispered to her as they’d stood over her son here. Foster had agreed with her then and now. And she hated this room, hated being back here, hated standing over bodies, young or old. Grant pointed to the gaping gash at Wicks’s throat. “Cause of death. Exsanguination.”
Li cleared her throat, lifted her eyes off her shoes to hold Grant’s. “Any physical evidence worthy of note?”
The beat Grant let pass was long, fraught with danger, and dripping with reproach. “Wouldn’t all of it be worthy of note?”
“Yes. Absolutely,” Li said. “I just meant—”
Grant cut her off, her eyes sliding to Foster. “Are you any closer to finding this fool?”
“Depends on your report,” Foster said. “On whether it helps or hurts us.”
Grant stared at her, then moved away from the table and plucked a folder off the counter. “Preliminary report. Still waiting for full tox, but I don’t think we’ll find anything there. Nothing under the fingernails. Like the others, no prints, no semen, no hairs, no saliva, no signs of habitual drug use, no needle marks. Also, no lipstick, but there was a dainty rose tattoo on the left ankle. Years old. This theft of life is not like the others, but it’s equally egregious.”
“And . . . the blood,” Foster said.
“No signs of Rea’s or Birch’s blood anywhere on her body or clothes. Clean cut, approached from the back. Quick and dirty.”
“Anything else?” Foster shoved her notebook into her pocket.
“You’re looking for a lefty,” Grant said. “The knife traveled right to left, leaving jagged edges.”
“No way of confirming that for Birch or Rea, though,” Li said.
“Gold star for you, Li. Anything else?”
Neither of them had another word to say.
Grant stood over Wicks. “Three’s your limit, ladies. Get out of my autopsy room.”
Li pushed through the front door and took a deep breath, Foster walking right behind her, fishing for the car keys. She had a headache, three bodies, and a mountain to climb. And it felt like a thousand-mile walk back to the car. She wondered if Li felt as defeated as she did, though she certainly didn’t look it. Foster slid into the car behind the wheel as Li eased in beside her.
“My God, she’s scary as hell,” Li said as she reached over to engage her seat belt. “I’d rather face off against a dozen bangers than walk into that woman’s autopsy room.” She ran a hand across the back of her neck and then presented her palm to Foster. “Look. Flop sweat. I am literally sweating like I just got caught swiping mascara off the shelf at CVS. Is it me, or is she literally blaming the two of us personally for these deaths?”
“I don’t think it’s us,” Foster said. “She’s as frustrated as we are.”
“You say.” Li slipped on her sunglasses, then glanced over at Foster. “I got definite hostility.” She reached over and turned on the heater. “And now I’m freezing. And it’s fifty degrees outside.” Li rubbed her hands together in front of the vents. “Did you know that about ninety percent of people are right handed? I am. I noticed you are. In the dark times, they thought lefties were witches or hexed by the devil. Might be on the mark in this case.”
“Where do you suggest we look for witches?”
Li settled in, flipping down the visor. “You don’t look for witches, Foster. They find you.”
CHAPTER 42
Amelia sat across the table from the good-looking stranger, smiling. Speed dating. Did people really do this? She sure as hell didn’t, yet here she was, intrigued by the novelty of it and not so much her prospects for a “magical” match. It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision to come. Something new to do in a bar at night. Her eyes trailed down to the name tag on his chest. Jason. It was likely fake, but she didn’t care.
“Not your scene?” Jason asked. Amelia looked at him, the hint of an appraisal in the glance. He wasn’t bad looking. Nice green eyes, sandy hair, and the dimple in his right cheek was cute.
“It’s . . . new,” she said, taking a sip from her wineglass, watching him over the rim. “Certainly, a way to get out and meet people. Mingle, as they like to say.”
“You don’t usually get out and meet people?”
“I do, but in the wild. The old-fashioned way. Like a person. This?” She scanned the room. Mostly women, a few brave average-looking men. The bar just a bar, not the least bit quaint or elegant. The owners had gone for publican snug. Not her style. “Seems a little forced.”
“I agree. What do you do, Amelia?”
There were those dimples again. “I’m an artist.” There was no reason for her to lie.
He sat back, sipped his ale from the bottle. “That’s impressive. What medium?”
“I’m a painter, primarily. But I also find beautiful things and transform them into things that are more beautiful.”
“You any good?” He was joking. She liked that. It showed confidence.
She stared at him with just a hint of amusement in her smile. “Very.”
“I’ll bet. You know, my cousin used to find old pieces of driftwood on the beach and whittle them into all kinds of things. He was pretty good at it too. You do stuff like that?”
“I have done, though it’s been ages since I’ve been to the beach. Anyway, enough about me. What do you do?”
“I’m an architect. I live in a suit and build things that will last a thousand years, barring nuclear Armageddon.”
Amelia’s eyes wandered just for a second to the other tables. Everyone looked like they were having fun, getting into the groove of things. At the next table sat a balding man in his forties who kept adjusting his blazer cuffs to make sure his Rolex showed. Amelia could tell the watch wasn’t working on the woman across from him. But she forced a smile, nodded a lot, and sipped her Manhattan. It was clear she’d done this before. When the bell rang, marking the five minutes, Mr. Rolex would be Amelia’s problem, and five minutes would feel like forever.