“I’ll look out for her—and for him. But he hasn’t come around here in a good month now. Hey!” She shot up a finger. “I’ve got Lori’s pocket ’link number.”
“I’ve got it. I’ll try that next. Thanks.”
She keyed in the number as she headed out and down, and got dead air. Puzzled, she keyed in the data again, checked the number, tried it again with the same result.
Changed it, didn’t you?
Eve hauled herself back, checked with the neighbor, but the number was the same as Eve’s data.
“You know, she said something about getting a new ’link,” Crabtree remembered. “A new number, the works. Said how she was going for fresh wherever she could get it.”
Eve thought, Crap, but nodded. “As soon as you see her, tell her to contact me.”
She headed down again, decided to start on the list of names she got from Mal via ’link on the way to the morgue.
By the time she got there, she’d managed to contact three on the list, and leave word with the manager of the restaurant where Lori Nuccio worked, in case.
Maybe she didn’t need this stop—at least she didn’t need to confirm cause of death on her vics as the cause had been brutally obvious. But it was part of the process, and part of hers. She wanted to see the victims again, take a hard look. And she wanted Morris’s take. The chief medical examiner often gave her another angle, or at least made her think.
She walked into the echoey white tunnel, slowed as she passed Vending. She could really use a nice cold boost, but machines liked to screw with her. She wasn’t in the mood to be screwed with by a damn vending machine.
Shoving her hands in her pockets, she marched on, then pushed through Morris’s doors.
He had both victims on slabs, their bodies washed clean of blood. The mother’s chest was splayed open from Morris’s precise Y cut. He bent over her, studying what lay inside.
He wore microgoggles over his clever eyes and a clear gown over a gray suit with hints of steely blue. He’d tied his long stream of black hair into a trio of descending ponytails and bound them with silver cord.
“Their son, I’m told.”
“Yeah.”
He straightened. “This is considerably sharper than a serpent’s tooth.”
“What serpent?”
Now he smiled and warmth came into his fascinating face. “Shakespeare’s.”
“Oh.” No wonder he and Roarke hit it off. “Nothing poetic about this.”
“He dealt in tragedies, too. And this is one.”
“What I’m getting is the son’s a fucking asshole who went psycho. Have you got anything cold in your box?”
“We keep everyone cold here.” He smiled a little. “But if you mean to drink, yes.” He gestured with his sealed, blood-smeared hands. “Help yourself.”
“Vending keeps breaking down on me,” she said as she crossed to his little Friggie. “I think it’s something chemical.”
“Do you?”
Grateful, she snagged a tube of Pepsi. She cracked the tube, took a gulp. “Anyway.”
“Anyway,” he repeated. “Ladies first, as you see. In her case in death as well as life. She’d consumed a slice of wheat bread, about six ounces of soy coffee with artificial sweetener, and a half cup of Greek yogurt with granola about five hours prior to TOD. Not a particularly lovely last meal. She was very slightly underweight, and in very good health. Or she was before she was stabbed fifty-three times.”
“Serious overkill.”
“The majority of the wounds were inflicted when she was prone—the angle. And several of the blows were forceful enough to nick bone, and in fact broke and lodged the tip in her tibia.” He held up a specimen jar. “My opinion is, all wounds were inflicted by one blade, which matches the one you found still in her. There are no defensive wounds.”
“She didn’t see it coming. Probably didn’t believe it when it did.”