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“My guess? Fly larvae. Unhatched. Which means that the body was exposed to the elements long enough to attract flies, but not long enough for them to hatch. We can get one of our bug guys to hatch these babies out and see what kind of fly we’re dealing with.”
Using rib cutters and a bone saw, she opened the corpse up to their prying eyes. The photographer avidly captured everything, while Lopez gave a running commentary aimed at the mike suspended above the table.
David folded his arms over his chest. He never quite knew what to do with his hands during an autopsy. He wasn’t allowed to do any more than observe, even though he often thought he could move something faster than Lopez could. He noticed Jairo was taking the notes he’d requested. He also noticed the young man’s hands shaking. David felt an irrational urge to take one of those hands, and stop the shaking, which was crazy.
Jairo was a cop, for God’s sake. A cop who wanted to be a homicide detective. Dead and mutilated bodies were going to be his bread and butter until he came to his senses, and went back to being a vice cop catching underage drinkers, which couldn’t be soon enough for David.
Lopez swapped the protective goggles for filtering ones, and scanned the body with a UV light, which glowed wherever some body fluid revealed itself. She flipped the light off and pulled down a more powerful white light.
“Still no sign of visible trauma anywhere besides the throat.
Let’s take a look at the innards.”
One at a time she removed all the internal organs, weighed and took samples of each one. After that, she cut the throat open, revealing the larynx and thyroid cartilage. “Fascia is intact.
Resectioning of the thyroid cartilage, incising through the cricoid cartilage before opening the larynx dorsally, inspection of the laryngeal joints reveals the hyoid is intact.” She skinned off her nitrile gloves, and swapped them for a clean pair. “No overt signs of ligature strangulation. I’ll check the lungs for any sign of asphyxia.”
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When she sliced open the skull and pulled the brain out, David heard Jairo’s sharp intake of breath. He glanced sideways at him, hoping he wasn’t going to get sick again. Jairo looked green but held his own. The lunch they had had less than two hours ago was in contention with his stomach. David’s gaze moved impassively from the wan looking man, to the decaying corpse, and felt nothing.
Finally Lopez removed the paper bags from each hand, and slid a thin scalpel under each fingernail, trapping whatever came out on small, sterile sheets of paper. Each one was sealed, and labeled, and joined the other samples in the growing pile. She lifted the exposed arm into the light, and studied the wounds closely.
“Coyote?”
“What? Oh, yes, definitely canine. What were you thinking?”
“You don’t want to know what I was thinking.”
“You’re a dark one, Detective Laine. I like that in a man.”
David tapped the table between them. “Do me a favor, doc, run that tox screen as soon as you can. I really need to know a cause of death. I don’t want some suspect telling us later that she was already dead when he found her, and buried her out of respect.”
“The baby’s father, maybe?”
“He’s definitely a person of interest.”
“Well, let’s see what we can find out.” Lopez exposed the fetus, its placenta still intact. It looked considerably less decayed than its mother. She pointed at a tiny, shriveled penis. “Him.
About seven months to term.”
“Could he have lived if she had been taken to a hospital?”
“Probably. They’ve got wonderful neonatal care these days.
Miracle workers.”
“If only someone had cared.”
“Unless he’s the reason she died,” she said.
“Wrong girl gets knocked up by the wrong guy,” David said.
“No happily ever after there.”
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Jairo seemed upset by the conversation. David looked at him gently. “You need a bathroom break there?”
“No,” he said in a strangled voice. “I’m okay. But how can you be so cold? That’s a baby!”
“Ah, you got kids,” Lopez said. “Can always tell the ones who got kids.”
Jairo’s nod was almost imperceptible. “Two,” he whispered.
“Sons.” Abruptly he turned away.
“I can finish up here, Jairo. You don’t need—”
“No, I am no woman to hide behind tears.” Suddenly he flushed. “I am sorry, Dr. Lopez, I meant no disrespect.”
“None taken. Well, if you think you can handle this, let’s get on with it.”
Sunday, 3:50 PM, Figueroa Street, Los Angeles
After stopping at not one, but two West Hollywood stores, and a side trip downtown to grab a latte for Chris, at a new Espresso cafe he’d heard a lot about, they took surface streets back to Chris’s Silver Lake home. From Figueroa Street they swung north toward Sunset, passing the distinctive Bonaventure Hotel and the downtown Marriott.
Des chattered animatedly all the way, hands waving as he described what he had seen in each store. Des was never more in his element than when he was trashing the competition.
“Did you see that green thing in that storefront? I mean, is Joan Collin’s campy slut look back? And where on earth did they find those hideous shoes? Even the Olsen twins would be repulsed by those. I don’t care if they were Jimmy Choo’s.”
“You don’t even sell women’s clothes, hon. What do you care what they wear?”
“Honey, I don’t, but I still have to walk the planet with them. Wearing something that butt ugly can ruin even my appetite.”
Ahead of them were the Santa Ana and the Hollywood freeway overpasses. Chris saw the flashing lights of a white, unmarked CHP car that had pulled over some hapless driver on the freeway ramp. The uniformed officer was standing behind the driver’s side door, reading something the driver had handed him while traffic streamed past them.
Before they had passed the access to the ramp, the khaki-suited cop strolled back to his vehicle with the red lights pulsing inside. Instinctively Chris looked at the speedometer, but he wasn’t speeding, probably why everyone else was passing him.
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Des seemed to notice where his gaze was because he said,
“You know, ever since you and David hooked up, you’ve become a real Nelly drive safe. I liked the old, reckless Chris.”
“No you didn’t. How many times did I have to listen to you complain that I needed a keeper, that I was always getting into trouble?”
“Well, I never really meant it.”
Chris took a sip of latte, and found it was still too hot. He sloshed coffee into his lap and cursed. The cup tumbled out of his hand and he reached for it, resting his chin on the steering wheel while he groped for it under the seat, before it could dump its contents on his carpet, and stain it.
They headed into the shadow of one of the dozens of overpasses that turned the downtown interchange into a spaghetti ride. The roar overhead from the two freeways, and the nearby Pasadena freeway, penetrated the sealed vehicle, and thrummed through his feet. Movement on the top of the overpass caught Chris’s eye, and he peered upward, confused.
“What the—”
Something tumbled onto Figueroa right in front of him. He yelled and jerked the steering wheel hard right, slamming on the brakes at the same time. Tires squealed and the Escape shuddered as it impacted something, then was rear ended by the vehicle behind them. There was the sickening crunch and scream of tearing metal and shattering glass.
The last thing Chris remembered were the air bags deploying in an explosion of powder. He was slammed back into the seat.
Beside him Des cried out.
Then there was only the tick-tick of cooling engine parts.
Steam hissed from the punctured radiator. The Escape listed alarmingly to one side. Chris could barely move. Or speak.
When he tried to call out to Des, all he could do was manage a weak, “Des, you okay? Please, Des...”
In the distance all he could hear was the roar of traffic overhead.
“Hang on, hon,” he whispered. “Someone’s coming.”
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He tried to turn his head, to look out the side window, but he couldn’t move, left or right. Out of the corner of his eye he could see someone approach the driver’s side door. He tried to call out, to let them know he was okay, but not even a croak emerged this time. He could hear heavy breathing, but didn’t know if it was his own or Des’s. Every time he tried to suck in air, pain lanced through his chest. His vision grew red-tinged.
He had no idea how much time passed. It seemed like hours. The traffic noises faded to a dull roar. Overhead he heard a helicopter.
Finally Des’s door was wrenched open and he heard a soothing voice speak softly to Des. Meanwhile he heard the sharp grind of metal that went on and on. Finally his own door was pried opened, and gentle hands guided him out of his seat.
They lay him on a stretcher, checking his vital signs as they wheeled him toward a blue and white ambulance, lights strobing on the top of the vehicle.
Free of his Escape Chris was now able to look around at the crash site. Figueroa was closed in both directions and was crowded with fire trucks and neon yellow vested paramedics.
What had happened? He saw the vehicle that had rear-ended him, a panel truck that had been carrying a load of plate glass which now lay shattered in glittering shards around the pavement. He could hear Des muttering to someone who was trying to calm him down. Then he looked over at his Escape.
Totaled didn’t begin to describe it. It looked like it had been opened by a giant can opener, the once clean lines twisted into a nightmare form.
One of the paramedics bent over him. “Can I check your wallet sir? I need to find some ID, so I know who to alert.”
Chris managed to nod, and felt his wallet being taken from his jacket pocket. He even heard the man flip it open and presumably read his name. He knew his emergency contact would be David. He wanted to tell the guy not to call; David would only worry. But he couldn’t get the words out. He turned his head, letting his gaze wander out to where his Escape lay in a twisted mass of metal and rubber. That was when he saw the third body. A woman—at least he thought it was a woman,
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though she was too mangled to be positive—lay sprawled untidily on the pavement between the bumper of his SUV, and the concrete abutment he had slammed into when he swerved off the pavement. Already yellow crime scene tape had been strung around the two vehicles and the body. A wave of nausea rolled through his stomach, threatening to bring up the lamb couscous he’d shared with Des earlier.
Sunday, 4:20 PM, Northeast Community Police Station, San Fernando
Road, Los Angeles
When the autopsy concluded David and Jairo had returned to the station. In the locker room, David stripped off his shirt and tossed it into the bag he kept there for that purpose.
Everything he wore today would need to be washed before it could be worn again. The morgue smell clung to every porous surface, and only hot water and soap could dull it. He skimmed off his wool pants, and replaced them with a lighter, linen pair.
When he snagged a golf shirt out, he realized Jairo was beside him, staring.
The younger man had already changed into another all black outfit that hugged his broad chest and did nothing to conceal the bulge between his long legs.
“You know if you keep looking at me like that everyone’s going to know.”
“Know what?” Jairo licked his lips. “That I want you to fuck me? You like bluntness, eh? How’s that for bluntness.”
“I think you need to transfer to another division.”
“No.” Jairo stepped closer. David could smell his cologne all too well. Worse, he could smell Jairo. “I won’t ask. And you can’t, can you? Not without giving a reason. You can’t even claim sexual harassment, since you’re my senior officer.”
He was right. David couldn’t ask for reassignment. He slammed his locker shut and looked around to verify they were alone. “Can you explain to me what the hell you’re up to?
You’re married and have no intention of telling your wife L.A. BONEYARD
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anything. Do you really think if you keep this up no one else is going to notice? Maybe you can shield your wife from the gossip, but we both know the guys here. They get a hold of this and both of us get dragged through the mud. Is that what you want?”
“Everyone knows I like pussy. Don’t tell me you haven’t heard about Vanessa.”
“Vanessa?”
“The producer’s wife,” Jairo said it like he was reading one of the headlines from the gossip rags. “She was a hot little number, and a perfect cover, don’t you think?”
“And it doesn’t bother you that you ruined a perfectly good marriage?”
“There was nothing perfect about that marriage. The guy was a pig. I did her a favor.”
“So now you think no one’s going to notice you sniffing around me like a dog in heat?”
“They won’t. We both know they won’t see what they don’t want to see.”
“I think you overestimate your ability to keep secrets,”
David snapped. Except Jairo was right. The other cops would never look beyond the reputation and see Jairo for what he was.
He only had to leer at a woman now and then and his cover would never be blown. “Fine, I’ll be your training officer. But there are going to be some ground rules.”
“Fine. Name them.”
“No touching. No innuendos and no more attempts to seduce me—”
“I don’t have to attempt anything. I only have to stand beside you and you wonder what it would be like, don’t you?
Well, I know what it would be like.
Incendio y hielo. Muy grande!
”
David closed his eyes and thought of Chris. Chris didn’t deserve this. David had never had a problem with fidelity before. Why was this time so different? Why was this man so different?
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His cell phone rang. He answered it curtly, then fell silent as the voice at the other end sent his heart plummeting into his stomach.
Sunday, 5:15 PM, South Figueroa Street, Los Angeles
Chris must have fallen back into unconsciousness then.