Ashes to Ashes

The waitress returned with their drinks. Kate ordered cheeseburgers and fries for both of them and handed the menus back.

“I—I didn't know what he was carrying,” Angie whispered when the waitress was out of earshot. “I just knew someone was coming and I needed to hide.”

Like an animal that knew too well the night was stalked by predators of one kind or another.

“A park's a scary place late at night, I suppose,” Kate said softly, turning her wineglass by the stem. “Everybody loves to go in daylight. We think it's so pretty, so nice to get away from the city. Then night comes, and suddenly it's like the evil forest out of The Wizard of Oz. Nobody wants to be there in the dead of night. So what were you doing there, Angie?”

“I told you, I was just cutting through.”

“Cutting from where to where at that hour?” She kept her tone casual.

Angie hunkered over her rum and Coke and took a long pull on the straw. Tense. Forcing the anger back up to replace the fear.

“Angie, I've been around. I've seen things even you wouldn't believe,” Kate said. “Nothing you tell me could shock me.”

The girl gave a humorless half-laugh and looked toward the television that hung above one end of the bar. Local news anchor Paul Magers was looking grave and handsome as he related the story of a madman run amok in the county government center. They flashed a mug shot and told about the recent breakup of the man's marriage, his wife having taken their children and gone into hiding in a shelter a week before.

Precipitating stressors, Kate thought, not surprised.

“Nobody cares if you were breaking the law, Angie. Murder overrules everything—burglary, prostitution, poaching squirrels—which I personally consider a service to the community,” she said. “I had a squirrel in my attic last month. Vermin menace. They're nothing but rats with furry tails.”

No reaction. No smile. No overblown teenage outrage at her callous disregard for animal life.

“I'm not trying to lean on you here, Angie. I'm telling you as your advocate: The sooner you come clean about everything that went down last night, the better for all concerned—yourself included. The county attorney has his shorts in a knot over this case. He tried to tell Sergeant Kovac he should treat you as a suspect.”

Alarm rounded the girl's eyes. “Fuck him! I didn't do anything!”

“Kovac believes you, which is why you're not sitting in a cell right now. That and the fact that I wouldn't allow it. But this is serious shit, Angie. This killer is public enemy number one, and you're the only person who's seen him and lived to tell the tale. You're in the hot seat.”

Elbows on the table, the girl dropped her face into her hands and mumbled between her fingers, “God, this sucks!”

“You've got that right, sweetie,” Kate said softly. “But here's the deal, plain and simple. This nut job is going to go on killing until somebody stops him. Maybe you can help stop him.”

She waited. Held her breath. Willed the poor kid over the edge. She could see through the bars of Angie's fingers: the girl's face going red with the pressure of holding the emotions in. She could see the tension in the thin shoulders, feel the anticipation that thickened the air around her.

But nothing in this situation was going to be plain or simple, Kate thought as her pager began to shrill inside her purse. The moment, the opportunity, was gone. She swore silently as she dug through the bag, cursing the inconvenience of modern conveniences.

“Think about it, Angie,” she said as she rose from her chair. “You're it, and I'm here to help you.”

That makes me IT by association, she thought as she headed to the pay phone in the alcove by the bathrooms.

No. Nothing about this would be plain or simple.

7

CHAPTER

“WHAT THE HELL did you do with my witness, Red?” Kovac leaned against the wall of the autopsy suite, the receiver of the phone jammed between his shoulder and his ear. He slipped a hand inside the surgical gown he wore over his clothes, pulled a little jar of Mentholatum from his jacket pocket, and smeared a gob around each nostril.

“I thought it'd be nice to treat her like a human being and feed her a real meal as opposed to the crap you give people at the cop shop,” Kate said.

“You don't like doughnuts? What kind of American are you?”

“The kind who has at least a partial grasp of the concept of civil liberties.”

“Yeah, fine, all right, I get it.” He plugged his free ear with a finger as the blade of a bone saw whined against a whetstone in the background. “Sabin asks, I'm gonna tell him you nabbed her before I could throw her in the slammer—which is true. Better your lovely tit in a wringer than my johnson.”

“Don't worry about Sabin. I've got his okay on a memo.”

“Do you have a picture of him signing it? Is it notarized?”

“God, you're a raving paranoid.”

“How do you think I've lived this long on the job?”

“It wasn't from kissing ass and following orders. That's for damn sure.”

He had to laugh. Kate called a spade a spade. And she was right. He handled his cases as he thought best, not with an eye to publicity or promotion. “So where are you taking the angel after this grand feast?”

“The Phoenix House, I'm told. She belongs in a juvie facility, but there you go. I've got to put her somewhere, and her ID says she's an adult. Did you get a Polaroid of her?”

“Yeah. I'll show it around juvenile division. See if anyone knows her. I'll give a copy to Vice too.”

“I'll do the same on my end of things if you get me a copy.”

“Will do. Keep me posted. I want a short leash on that chick.” He raised his voice briefly as water pounded into a stainless steel sink. “I gotta go. Dr. Death is about to crack open our crispy critter.”

“Jesus, Sam, you're so sensitive.”

“Hey, I gotta cope. You know what I'm saying.”

“Yeah, I know. Just don't let the wrong people hear you doing it. Is the task force set up?”

“Yeah. As soon as we get the brass out of our hair, we'll be good to go.” He looked across the room to where Quinn stood in discussion with the ME and Hamill, the agent from the BCA, all of them in surgical gowns and booties. “So what's the story with you and the Quantico hotshot?”

There was the briefest of hesitations on the other end of the line. “What do you mean?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean? What's the deal? What's the story? What's the history?”

Another pause, just a heartbeat. “I knew him, that's all. I was working on the research side in Behavioral Sciences. The people in BSU and Investigative Support regularly cross paths. And he used to be a friend of Steven's—my ex.”

This tossed in at the end, as if he might believe it was an afterthought. Kovac filed it all away for future rumination. Used to be a friend of Steven's. There was more to that story, he thought as Liska came toward him from the crowd around the corpse, looking impatient and nauseated. He gave Kate his pager number and instructions to call, and hung up.

“They're ready to rock and roll,” Liska said, pulling a travel-size jar of Vicks VapoRub from the pocket of her boxy blazer. She stuck her nose over the rim and breathed deep.

“God, the smell!” she whispered as she turned and fell in step with him, heading back toward the table. “I've had floaters. I've had drunks in Dumpsters. I once had a guy left in the trunk of a Chrysler over the Fourth of July weekend. I never smelled anything like this.”

The stench was an entity, a presence. It was an invisible fist that forced its way into the mouths of all present, rolled over their tongues, and jammed at the backs of their throats. The room was cold, but not even the constant blast of clean, frigid air from the ventilation system or the cloying perfume of chemical air fresheners could kill the smell of roasted human flesh and organs.