safe for the investigation.
This place turned out to be an overly warm glassed-in waiting area, complete with gas-log fireplace and a snack bar, a place where young skaters’ parents and hockey widows might hang out. Personally, that day or any other, I would have preferred a cold, hard bleacher closer to the action. I couldn’t see much from where I waited. The gargantuan officer Frank posted at the door didn’t improve the view.
I could see that strips of flat carpet — usually used for awards ceremonies, so that nonskating dignitaries can walk out onto the ice — led out to a huddle of men that included Frank, Pete, Carlos Hernandez, and others. I couldn’t see the body itself.
Ben was escorted in by a uniformed officer. When he saw where I was being kept, he gave me a little smile and waved.
He managed getting out to the huddle without any problems; the group parted a little, he went down on one knee to take a closer look at the body and suddenly started screaming.
He screamed words, but I’m not sure what they were, because the sound itself triggered a flood of memories, and made me think of him screaming in the mountains as he ran into the meadow — which made me try in vain to get past the behemoth in blue at the waiting area door.
The words didn’t matter. I just wanted to get to Ben. Before long, I got my wish — Frank was bringing him into the waiting area. He had stopped screaming; his face was drained of color. Frank asked me for Jo Robinson’s number as he set Ben down next to me.
Frank called and left a message with Jo’s service. I held on to Ben, who seemed to be in a state of shock.
“What is it?” I asked him. “What’s wrong?”
“Camille,” he said numbly. “It’s Camille. Out there on the ice.”
“Who’s Camille?” Pete asked, overhearing Ben as he walked into the room.
Ben didn’t answer, so I told them that she was Ben’s ex-girlfriend. “The woman he was living with until last January.”
“Her skull,” Ben said miserably, looking down at his hands as if they were foreign objects. “I’ve been handling her skull!”
Frank and Pete exchanged a look.
“How do you know it’s Camille?” I asked.
I didn’t think he’d answer; he looked as if he might faint. But he whispered, “Her birthmark. She has an unusual birthmark on her upper thigh.”
I could see that Frank and Pete didn’t entirely trust Ben’s identification of the body, but they spoke consolingly, told him just to wait with me, and brought him a cup of coffee. I understood their doubts; Ben had experienced one loss after another, had spent a nearly sleepless night, and perhaps his reaction to the corpse had been a result of the strain he was under lately.
Frank flipped through his notebook, found Camille’s address from his previous visit, and sent a unit to check on her home.
A little later, a uniformed officer leaned his head in the door and said, “They want you out there, Detective Harriman.”
Frank glanced at Pete, then they left together.
Frank was back a few minutes later. He beckoned me away from Ben. In a low voice, he said, “Call John and tell him you aren’t coming in.”
“What?”
“Tell him you aren’t coming into work.”
“Why should I? Do you know how hard it was for me to get the few hours I do have?”
“Tell her,” Pete said, walking up to us. “She’s too damned stubborn for her own good.”
Frank glanced over at Ben, then said, “Parrish left a note for you.”
I felt my stomach clench, and my heart began to hammer against my ribs, as if it wanted somebody to let it out. But I looked at Pete’s smug face, and suddenly my heart slowed. “Really?” I said. “What did it say?”
Frank’s brows drew together. “Irene—”
“What did it say?”
He held out a plastic bag. There was another plastic bag within it; on this one, my name had been neatly written in black felt pen. Within it, a sheet of lined yellow paper from a legal pad contained a short message, written in very precisely printed letters:
He had signed it with a flourish.
“Nothing anonymous about this one, is there?” I said, not as steadily as before.
“He left it under the body,” Pete said. “Don’t be an idiot, Irene. Stay home.”
I glanced up at him.
Frank saw, a little too late, what was inspiring me.
