The last case she’d worked with Racine had left Maggie with a bad taste in her mouth-Racine’s mistakes had almost cost them an indictment.
Maggie swatted a strand of hair off her perspiring forehead with the back of her wrist, so as not to contaminate her latexed hands. She caught Racine watching her. Maggie looked away.
Quite honestly, other than the one botched case, Maggie knew little about Julia Racine except what she had heard through rumors. She probably had no right to judge the woman, but if there was any truth to the rumors, Detective Racine represented a breed of woman that Maggie despised, especially in law enforcement, where playing games could get someone hurt, or even killed.
Since day one of her forensics fellowship, Maggie had worked hard to be just one of the guys and to be treated as such. But women like Racine used their sex as some sort of entitlement or bribe, a means to an end. Now, as she felt Racine’s eyes watching her, Maggie hated that Racine still thought she could use that tactic, especially with her. After the last time they had worked together, Maggie thought Racine would know better- pouring on the charm or flirting wouldn’t get her any favors from her. But when Maggie glanced up and caught the woman watching her, Racine didn’t look away. Instead, she met Maggie’s eyes, held her glance and smiled.
CHAPTER 25
Ben Garrison strung the dripping prints on a short length of clothesline in his cramped darkroom. The first two rolls of film had been disappointing, but this roll…this one was incredible. He was back in the saddle again. Maybe he’d even be able to get a little bidding war started, though he wouldn’t be able to waste any time. His fingertips tingled with excitement, but his lungs ached from the fumes. He needed to take a break despite his impatience.
He took one of the prints with him, closing the door on the fumes and heading for the refrigerator. Of course, it was empty except for the regular array of condiments, some kiwi fruit he couldn’t remember putting in the back, a container of mystery goop and four long-neck bottles of Budweiser. He grabbed one of the bottles, twisted off the cap and returned to the kitchen counter to admire his masterpiece in the shitty fluorescent lighting.
A knock at the door startled him. Who the hell? He rarely got visitors, and he thought he had trained his meddling neighbors to fuck off. His artistic process was time sensitive. He couldn’t be disturbed if he had prints in the fix bath or a roll of film in the developing canister. No respect. What was fucking wrong with people?
He flipped all three locks and yanked open the door.
“What is it?” he growled, causing the small gray-haired woman to step backward and grab the railing. “Mrs. Fowler?” He scratched at his jaw and leaned against the doorjamb, blocking his landlady’s wandering eyes. Apparently he hadn’t trained everyone in this dilapidated old building to leave him alone. “Why, Mrs. Fowler, what can I help you with today?” He could turn on the charm when necessary.
“Mr. Garrison, I was just wandering by. I’ve been checking on Mrs. Stanislov down the hall.” Her beady eyes were darting around him, trying to get a glimpse into his apartment.
Several weeks ago, she’d insisted on accompanying the plumber to fix his leaky faucet. The old woman’s birdlike head pivoted around, trying to take in the African masks on his wall, the bronze fertility goddesses that adorned his bookcase and the other exotic trinkets he had amassed during his travels. That was when the money was flowing in, and there wasn’t a photo he could shoot that someone at
“I’m actually pretty busy, Mrs. Fowler. I’m working.” He kept his voice pleasant, crossed his arms to stifle his irritation and waited, hoping she could see his impatience through her trifocals.
“I was checking on Mrs. Stanislov,” she repeated, waving a skeletal arm toward the door at the end of the hall. “She’s been under the weather all week. There’s that flu bug going around, you know.”
If she was expecting some show of sympathy, they’d be here all night. That was above and beyond his ass- kissing ability, cheap apartment or not. He shifted his weight and waited. His mind wandered back to the print he had left on the kitchen counter. Over thirty exposures to finally capture that one image, that one-
“Mr. Garrison?”
Her small pinched face reminded him of the wrinkled kiwi fruit in the back of his fridge.
“Yes, Mrs. Fowler? I really must get back to my work.”
She stared at him with eyes magnified three times their size. Her thin lips pursed, wrinkling her skin beyond what he thought possible. Spoiled kiwi. He reminded himself to throw them out.
“I wondered if it might be important. That you might want to know.”
“What are you talking about?” His politeness had but one level, and she was pushing it past its limits.
This time she backed away, and he knew his tone must have frightened her. She simply pointed at the package he hadn’t noticed sitting next to his door. Before he stooped to pick it up, Mrs. Fowler’s tiny bird feet shuffled down the stairs.
“Thank you, Mrs. Fowler,” he called after her, smiling when he realized he sounded like Jack Nicholson in
The package was lightweight and wrapped in ordinary brown paper. Ben flipped it around. Nothing rattled, and there were no labels, only his name scrawled in black marker. Sometimes the photo lab down the street delivered supplies for him, but he couldn’t remember ordering any.
He set it on the kitchen counter, grabbed a paring knife and started cutting the wrap. When he opened the lid of the box, he noticed the packing material’s strange texture-it looked like brown packing peanuts. He didn’t give it a second thought and stuck his hand into the box, feeling for what was buried inside.
The packing material began to move.
Or was it the exhaustion and too many fumes playing tricks on him?
In seconds the brown peanuts came to life. Shit! The entire contents started crawling out over the sides of the box. Several scurried up his arm. Ben swatted and slapped at them, knocking the box off the counter and releasing hundreds of cockroaches, racing and skittering across his living room floor.
CHAPTER 26
“Anything found that could have been used as a ligature? And what about handcuffs?” Maggie showed Tully and Racine the girl’s wrists, but looked to Tully for answers. The bruises and marks on the wrists were undeniably made by handcuffs. She watched Tully’s face, pretending to wait for the answer but really trying to see if he was okay.
This time Tully didn’t glance at Racine, but Maggie did, and she could tell the detective wanted to answer, but stopped herself. Tully started pulling out his eyeglasses and pieces of paper from somewhere beneath the gown, tangling his hands in the process. Typical Tully, Maggie noted. He put the glasses on and began sorting through his slips of paper, an odd assortment that included some sort of pamphlet, a folded envelope, the back of a store receipt and a cocktail napkin.
“No handcuffs,” he finally answered, and continued to search his scraps of paper.
She wished he would relax. Tully was usually the laid-back one. She was the quick-tempered, hotheaded one, the loose cannon. He was the steady, let’s-think-before-we-leap type. It unnerved her how uptight he seemed to be. Something was wrong. Something more than his discomfort with witnessing an autopsy.
“You know, Tully,” she said, “they make these really cool contraptions with sheets of paper all tacked together. They’re called notebooks, and you can even get them small enough to fit into your pocket.”
Tully frowned at her over his glasses and went back to his notes.
“Very funny. My system works just fine.”
“Of course, it does. As long as you don’t blow your nose.”
Racine laughed.
