Page 7 of Sharp Force (Kay Scarpetta #29)

I listen to the tap-tap of her Chanel boots fading down the corridor. Then the elevator dings, and Maggie Cutbush is gone, thank God. I pick up my Kevlar briefcase, a gift from Lucy, and not particularly fashionable, boxy black, somewhat masculine.

One wouldn’t guess from looking that it’s water resistant, also bullet- and fireproof while able to deflect high-energy weapons.

When opened like a shield, it’s gotten me out of a pinch or two, and I sling the strap over my shoulder.

Grabbing my trash bag of dirty laundry, I try to calm down from my unpleasant encounter with Maggie.

Her agenda couldn’t be more obvious. She’s in the business of trading favors and assumes she can pressure me to accommodate.

I’m supposed to worry about my findings causing an inconvenience for a psychiatric hospital, the governor, no telling who else.

Maggie’s yet to learn that we’re not wired the same.

I take a final look around my office since I won’t be back for two weeks.

Making sure to lock my credenza, I collect records the police turned over to me when Rowdy O’Leary’s body was delivered.

Giving my potted trees and plants another quick misting, I promise them that Shannon will be here while I’m gone.

“She’ll keep you company, making sure you have plenty of sunshine and water,” I’m saying out loud, the spray bottle hissing, nobody around to hear me talking to my plants. “And I know you like music.”

I turn on the radio, finding the classical station I leave on when gone.

Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite is playing softly as I walk out the door, locking it.

I’m alone in the corridor, the lights on a timer and dimmed after hours.

Avoiding the elevator as is my habit, I wonder how many steps I’ve put in today.

Not nearly enough, the tile floors hard on my back and knees. It feels good to move, my boots sounding on the fire exit’s concrete steps. I push my way through the metal door, following the morgue corridor. The anthropology lab is dark, a few tiny dancing skeletons glowing on the walls.

It’s 6:45 and Rowdy O’Leary has been signed out, the body on the way to a funeral home crematorium. His family will wake up in the morning knowing he’s been turned to ashes, and nothing so terrible should happen on Christmas. It shouldn’t happen ever.

As I near the autopsy suite, I hear Willie Nelson. Fabian has turned on the radio again only louder, “Winter Wonderland” booming. The floor is wet from mopping, deodorizer cloying. Rowdy O’Leary’s personal effects continue drying on the paper-covered tables, but I don’t smell the foul odor now.

I pause in the doorway as Fabian places a catch-and-release trap under one of the autopsy tables.

“No sign of our mouse, I guess.” I raise my voice above the music, placing the bag of dirty laundry on a countertop.

“No luck yet, but we’re using a different bait this time,” Fabian says, exotic-looking as always.

His long black hair is pinned up under a surgical cap, his black scrubs spangled with skulls wearing Santa hats. Tall and willowy with delicate features and elegant hands, Fabian Etienne is divine inside and out, to hear my secretary gush.

Best of all, he’s sensitive and kindhearted. He’s also our resident wildlife rescuer. Fabian is who we summon when uninvited visitors enter our building while the bay door is open.

We get bats, birds, an occasional squirrel or opossum, and all sorts of insects depending on the season. Many of our guests will build nests if we don’t relocate them as humanely as possible.

“As fate would have it, Faye brought in some fun snack stuff for our sleepover,” Fabian is saying, the blue plastic trap shaped like a tiny wind tunnel. “We’re trying Boursin on a Ritz cracker for bait in here, the anthro lab, also the anatomical division and elsewhere.”

“Let’s hope it does the trick,” I reply, keeping up my scan for our furry squatter.

“A nice pungent cheese on a buttery cracker. How can Pinky resist?” Fabian asks, and it’s an unpleasant thought considering where we’re having this conversation.

“Well, I hope our clever little mouse likes garlic and chives. Certainly, he isn’t tricked by peanut butter, birdseed or chocolate, which is surprising,” I reply.

“Some things aren’t from here.” Fabian gives me a knowing look. “Maybe Pinky’s a spirit mouse sent to us for a reason.”

“We’ll take all the help we can get.” I glance at the wall clock, the time slipping by. “I hope tonight will be quiet, but considering the weather report, we can expect cases.”

“Nothing much so far. But that will change soon enough.” Fabian begins spraying my workstation with metal polish, wiping down stainless steel with a towel.

“Snow and ice guarantees car wrecks, people falling or dying of exposure and from faulty heaters. Plus, the expected domestic homicides, overdoses, suicides.”

“I’m sorry this is how you’re spending your holiday,” I tell him while feeling guilty about tomorrow’s trip to the UK and France.

It’s been a long time since Benton and I have managed to get away longer than a night or two.

We never fail to have ambivalence about taking time off.

Both of us are hardwired to be fixers, and there’s always something broken.

Fabian’s no better. He grew up in the business, his father a legendary Louisiana coroner.

“My favorite time to be here,” Fabian is saying.

“It’s when all the worst things happen, explaining why my dad was hardly ever home on Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s Day, you name it.

That’s when people killed themselves and each other.

As soon as I was old enough, I’d go with him to the scenes. ”

He walks over to a countertop, picking up a large manila evidence envelope and a ballpoint pen.

“Which is one of the reasons you’re such a good death investigator.” I take the envelope from him, scrawling my initials under his.

“I know it sounds sick, but there was nothing I liked better than shadowing my dad. The nastier the case the better,” Fabian adds. “Although I’ll never see Baton Rouge the same way other people do. The landmarks on my map are places where people died, often horribly.”

“We don’t see anything the same way other people do, Fabian.”

I’m looking at Rowdy O’Leary’s clothing and other belongings arranged on tables.

“Once you know it, you can’t unknow it. And I don’t want to go through the world with blinders on,” Fabian says. “You and I both know that’s contrary to survival.”

“We’ll leave these things in here for now to continue air-drying,” I decide. “Maybe tomorrow hang them in the evidence room.”

“Then what?” He collects my bag of dirty laundry from the countertop.

“Then we hold on to them until I’m sure we have no further need,” I explain.

“Anything that might make us think someone killed him? Like a bullet or two in him?” Fabian asks.

“No bullets.”

“The state police keep bugging me about the case. And Maggie Cutbush has texted several times wanting to know about the autopsy.”

“Ignore her, please.” I’m looking at my phone.

“She’s itching for it to be natural causes. Or maybe an accidental drowning,” Fabian says.

“This isn’t Let’s Make a Deal.” I send Reba O’Leary a text, letting her know I’m headed her way.

“I sprayed everything again a little while ago, the money still damp, but nothing smells bad.” Fabian indicates the evidence envelope tucked under my arm. “The paperwork is inside, so you can receipt the stuff to the family, everything accounted for and by the book.”

“Thank you for that and for being on call. I know it’s a lot to ask even if you supposedly enjoy it,” I say to him. “Wish Faye a happy holiday for me.”

“I’m right here!” She emerges from the anteroom at the far end of the autopsy suite. “I’ve been placing traps while looking for Pinky.”

The firearms examiner is funky in her tie-dye scrubs, goth jewelry, body piercings and many tattoos. When here after hours, she wears a Beretta pistol in a belly band holster. Fabian’s .40 caliber Glock is on his hip for all to see.

“Do we know anything further about the two spent cartridge cases in Rowdy O’Leary’s revolver?” I ask Faye. “The big question is when did he fire his gun last?”

“I’m not sure we’ll ever know that, Doctor Scarpetta,” she says.

“Most people who carry a gun for self-protection aren’t going to leave the house with only three live rounds,” Fabian adds. “I’m betting he fired his revolver while he was on the pier the night he disappeared.”

“Will be hard to prove,” Faye replies. “He was in the water for a week, so you can forget finding gunshot residue on the body or clothing. And the police tell me there are no security cameras on the pier, only in the parking lot where he left his car. Also, no reports of shots fired in that area the night in question.”

“I’m not surprised nobody heard anything,” Fabian says.

“If you’ve ever been to that pier, there’s nothing around.

Just miles of water and trees. At night it’s pitch-dark.

The place is more of a lovers’ lane, it’s been my impression.

The times I’ve been there, I’ve never seen anybody fishing at night, truth be told—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. News to me,” Faye butts in with a flash of jealousy that feels genuine. “When were you there?”

“Not in recent memory, but it’s a good place to take dates.” Fabian winks at me, and I can tell that Faye isn’t amused in the least. “Couples go there to sit on the pier, drink, maybe smoke some weed while looking at the water. Only a lot more than just sitting and looking is usually going on.”

“Maybe not so much during cold weather?” I suggest.

“It all depends,” he says with a mischievous smile as Faye lightly socks him in the shoulder. “I remember sitting on that very pier drinking Maker’s Mark while it was snowing.”

“Why don’t I know about this?” Faye says half playful, half not.

“If that’s a place where people go for romantic encounters, it could be an important detail,” I tell them. “I assume the police are aware the pier is used for that.”

“I would think so,” Faye supposes, her eyes locked on Fabian.

“I’m wondering why he picked that particular location to begin with.” I walk to the door.

“He would have been better off on Daingerfield Island or some other place that has bathrooms and all the rest,” Fabian says.

“Hope you don’t mind that we moved our cars inside because of the storm.” Faye directs this at me, and of course it’s fine.

“Merry Christmas,” I tell them as I leave.

A few minutes later, I’m walking down the vehicle bay’s stretcher ramp. I can see my breath, the cold air a reminder my hair is still damp from the shower.

I flip up my coat collar, annoyed that I forgot my wool gloves. The bay is unheated and about the size of a basketball court or airplane hangar. Metal trusses are exposed in the high ceiling, the lights low. At the far end is the massive garage door, closed and quiet as I pass through shadows.

Out of the way of traffic is Fabian’s prized vintage El Camino, black with flames painted on the hood. On the back bumper is a Goth Mobile sticker with a Grim Reaper on it. Faye’s Toyota pickup is nearby, the snow tires oversized, the bed covered, a gun rack in the back windshield.

As I walk across epoxy-sealed concrete, I can almost feel Wyatt tracking me.

No doubt, he’s hanging out upstairs in the breakroom.

I imagine him drinking coffee and having supper while monitoring security displays divided into squares like graph paper.

I smile up at a camera, signaling that I’m aware of him.

I want him watching and I wave, reaching the designated smoking area. The two plastic chairs and sand-filled bucket littered with cigarette butts are in a dead zone for camera microphones. In nice weather, it’s a pleasant place to have a conversation with the bay door rolled up.

Next to it is a normal door for pedestrians. I open it to gusting frigid wind, the grumble of thunder muted by snow that’s whited out everything. Lightning shimmers, and I don’t remember the last time I witnessed what meteorologists call thundersnow.

Thick gray overcast has settled low like a cloud, and I can’t see beyond the tall black privacy fence encircling my building.

The parking lot is empty except for our transport vans and Zodiac boat that are frosted white.

The semi tractor-trailer against the fence is for autopsies that require remote viewing capabilities.

Somewhere in the gloom, a car engine starts.

I imagine there aren’t many state employees left inside the sprawling northern district government office park.

The snow is rapidly accumulating, already two or three inches deep and blowing into drifts.

I’m careful walking through it, my footprints the only ones.

I trek to my reserved spot, my forest-green Subaru Outback covered in snow.

The state purchased the SUV at an auction for vehicles seized by the police.

As best I know, mine was involved in a drug raid, otherwise I wouldn’t have it.

The take-home car is one of the few perks that go with the job, and I didn’t always enjoy such amenities.

Early in my career, I often parked on the street, leaving a medical examiner placard displayed on the dash so I didn’t get a ticket.

Taking my personal car to scenes, I’d arrive home without the benefit of deconning.

I’d take a shower and wash my clothes inside my garage, not as worried about biohazards then as now.

Pointing my keyless remote, I unlock the doors. I lift wiper blades with my bare hands, brushing off the front windshield. I do the same in back and to the mirrors.

The glass is covered again by the time I’ve settled behind the wheel. Placing my belongings and the evidence envelope on the passenger’s seat, I blow on my stiff fingers to thaw them.

The leather upholstery is cold through my clothing as I start the engine, turning on the heat and defrost. I can’t wait to be home finally, having a drink with Benton in front of the fire. I send a message telling him that as my SUV warms up.

Leaving the office. Snowing but good, I write to him, when I’m startled by the roar of a powerful engine, something big closing in on me.