favor by rescuing Racine's father from a serial killer. Theirs was, indeed, a complex relationship. Okay, so maybe Maggie wasn't quite objective when it came to Julia Racine, let alone her job performance.
'She's dragging her feet on identifying the other two victims,' she said anyway.
'Is that her responsibility or the M. E.'s? Maybe it's him who's dragging his feet? Sounds like you need to give Racine a break.'
Maggie shrugged. She wasn't sure why Gwen wanted her to play nice with Racine all of a sudden. How could Gwen defend a woman she'd never met? 'She doesn't play by the rules,' Maggie offered as a weak defense and realized her mistake as soon as she saw Gwen's smile.
'And you do?'
'Sometimes I bend the rules. Weren't you the one who told me about a dozen years ago that there are no rules in battling evil?'
'There are always rules,' Gwen said, serious again. 'Good is held to them, evil is not. Sort of an unfair advantage right from the start.'
Marco chose that moment to deliver the plate of steaming, garlic-scented mushroom caps and small serving plates. 'Ladies, enjoy. I'll return in a few minutes.'
Both of them stared at the appetizer even though Maggie had been starving.
'So what about Stan?' Gwen said and scooped up several of the mushroom caps onto Maggie's plate. She served herself a couple as well, but kept her plate to the side. 'Why is he dragging his feet?'
'From what I understand there was little tissue left.' Maggie glanced around the restaurant. The tall wooden booths allowed much privacy, but this was also a regular hangout for high-level politicos. Which meant plenty of eavesdroppers, too. Satisfied that no one was trying to listen to their conversation, Maggie continued, 'There were no dental records to match, either. Stan says he wasn't able to do an autopsy, but he also hasn't sent them to a forensic anthropologist.'
'And you're thinking you've got just the forensic anthropologist he could send it to.' There was another knowing smile, and Maggie tried to suppress a blush.
'That's not exactly what I was thinking.' She knew Gwen was referring to Adam Bonzado, a professor in West Haven, Connecticut, with whom Maggie had worked the previous year. A professor of forensic anthropology who had made it quite clear he was interested in more than Maggie's bones.
'Seriously, though,' Gwen continued, letting her off without what Maggie had come to expect was Gwen's regular lecture about her nonexistent love life. 'What are the chances of using an outside expert like Professor Bonzado? Would Stan be offended?'
'Actually, I would hope he'd welcome it,' she said, slicing off a bite of mushroom. 'I've already mentioned the idea to Racine that the other two victims should be handed off to an expert. It's up to her to bring it up with Stan. As soon as I got to the site today, he reminded me that technically this wasn't even his case.' Maggie gulped the remainder of her Diet Pepsi and started looking for Marco.
'What did he mean, it wasn't his case?'
'Traditionally when a body's been dismembered, or in this case decapitated, whoever has the heart has jurisdiction.'
'That's ridiculous,' Gwen said with enough force to make Maggie stop searching for a waiter and get her attention. Evidently she realized her mistake. Gwen sat back and in a much calmer, more controlled voice she said, 'It's silly, isn't it? I don't remember such an archaic rule. I mean, what if the rest of the body is never found?'
'First, Racine needs to check the computer again and see if any torsos have shown up. The killer could be traveling to dump them somewhere else.' Maggie watched her friend out of the corner of her eye as she opened the menu and pretended to be interested. What was it that seemed to have Gwen on edge? In the dim gaslight of the restaurant Maggie tried to study Gwen, only now noticing that her strawberry-blond hair was tousled, her usually manicured fingernails looked neglected, and there were dark lines under her eyes.
'That would mean he has a job that includes travel or it allows some flexibility in his schedule.' Gwen's tone was back to normal, but Maggie noticed her fingers nervously curling the tips of her cocktail napkin.
'Quite possibly. But whatever the killer's doing with the torsos, Stan won't be able to just shrug off his responsibility. Right now jurisdiction is the last thing we need to worry about.'
Gwen sipped her wine, and this time Maggie thought she could see a slight tremor in her hand. She wondered if Gwen was simply tired, perhaps stressed about a particular patient. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe Maggie was looking for something that wasn't there. She'd ask anyway. 'Are you okay?'
'Of course.'
Gwen's answer came too quickly, and she must have noticed the concern on Maggie's face.
'I'm fine,' Gwen said, sounding a bit defensive, but then catching herself and adding, 'Just a bit tired.'
She smiled at Maggie as she pretended to be interested in her menu, closing the subject as she strategically hid her eyes. Maggie couldn't help wondering if Gwen was afraid she might reveal something more than exhaustion.
She followed Gwen's lead and reopened her own menu, but kept it slanted so she could watch her friend. What in the world was it that was Gwen wasn't telling her?
CHAPTER 6
Detective Tommy Pakula hated messes. He didn't really mind the blood. After almost twenty years as a cop there wasn't much he hadn't seen. He could handle splattered brain matter or sawed-off body parts. None of that bothered him. What he absolutely hated was a contaminated crime scene.
He ran his hand over his shaved head, the bristles becoming a bit pronounced at the end of what had already been a long day. He had been home only long enough to change his shirt and socks, the latter at his wife, Clare's, insistence. They'd been married for as long as he'd been a cop, and his stinky feet still bothered her. The thought made him smile. There were a lot worse things she could complain about. He should be grateful. Things like calls interrupting dinner, forcing him to leave behind homemade lasagna and hot garlic rolls in order to take care of some dead guy in a toilet at the airport.
From the doorway he could easily see what irritated him most, at least three different sets of footprints. One set trailed blood from inside the bathroom out into the hallway, leading all the way around the cleaning cart that had been parked in front of the doorway to block the entrance. The footprint's owner had ignored the yellow plastic Out Of Order sign. From what Pakula had been told, the cart had been placed there after the stiff was found, so this set of tracks belonged to one of the sightseers. If all that wasn't bad enough, the stiff just happened to be a priest, a monsignor, according to his driver's license.
'Holy crap,' Pakula said to no one in particular. 'My eighty-year-old mother can't get past airport security without disrobing and being patted down, but every Tom, Dick and Harry can drop by to take a piss and see the dead guy on the bathroom floor.'
'Guy who found him said he asked a janitor to pull his cart in front of the doorway while he went to get help.' Pete Kasab consulted his two-by-four notebook, jotting down more chicken scratch.
Pakula tried not to roll his eyes at the wet-behind-the-ears junior detective and instead, watched the young black woman from the Douglas County Crime Lab. She hadn't reacted or responded to any of their chatter. Instead, she had already finished with the video camera and was now starting to work her grid on gloved hands and padded knees, filling specimen bags and bottles with items at the end of her forceps, items that seemed invisible from where Pakula stood. He had never worked with her before, but he knew Terese Medina by reputation. If the killer left something behind, Medina would find it. He wished he could trade Pete Kasab for Medina.
'The guy said he may have bumped into the killer,' Kasab continued, reading it as if it were just another of his scribbles.
'He said what?' Pakula stopped him in midflip of his pages.
'The guy thinks he may have bumped into the perp on his way out of the bathroom.'
Pakula winced at his use of the term 'perp.' Was this kid for real? 'This guy have a name?'
