“Brain is unremarkable,” Sam called out.
“Wouldn’t the brain shrink up like the rest of the organs?” McKenzie asked.
“You’d think so, but no. Our histology slides should look relatively normal, comparatively.”
“What’s it like to starve to death?” McKenzie looked sad, and Taylor knew they had him. She’d been wondering what kind of detective he was going to be-blustery and sarcastic, deflecting the daily horror with sharp words, or compassionate and caring. A good detective needed to find the balance between reality and compassion. Overly involved and you burn out. Too cynical and you can’t relate to the victims and can’t find their killers. Finding the middle ground was something that couldn’t be taught, but the look on McKenzie’s face said everything. He was going to do just fine.
Sam began wrapping up. “I need to get all the tox screens back, and look at the electrolytes and the other readings. But if she did starve, it wouldn’t have been pleasant. Hunger pains are one thing, but without water, she’d lose blood volume, and her blood pressure would drop. Headaches, rapid heartbeat, constant fatigue. Toward the end, muscle spasms and delirium. She would have been exceptionally sluggish, and dizzy. She wouldn’t be in much of a position to fight back. T, I’ll run everything, see if I can find any biologicals to test, but the body is pretty clean. Like she’d been washed, clean. Who knows, we might get lucky.”
Sam nodded at McKenzie and went to wash up. Taylor tapped him on the arm and said, “Let’s get out of here. You did good. I need you to track down her particulars, find out an address, see if there’s anyone to do a notification to. Then call the chaplain, we have to have him with us. Let’s grab something to eat and get our ducks in a row. Meet me at Rippy’s?”
“Okay. I’ll see you there.” McKenzie left the autopsy suite dutifully, lost in thought. Taylor wondered what he was thinking.
Sam called out, “Hey, I’ll get the lube tested first thing and call you later.”
Taylor waved at her. “Thanks. Maybe that will tell us something about who this killer really is.”
Ten
“O h, fack off and die, why don’t you?”
Detective Inspector James Highsmythe threw the phone down onto his desk. Another person who wasn’t all that thrilled to hear from him, and another dead end. He’d been chasing down the murders of three of London’s finer professional citizens, and was getting exactly nowhere. Calling up the known clientele of a lady of the night didn’t exactly endear him, letting them know he was calling from the Met meant an immediate diatribe of invectives, about him, his mother, his education and his dog, in that order.
Well, there was nothing to be done for it. The consultation with the chap from Quantico was scheduled for three o’clock tomorrow, which meant his sorry arse needed to be at Heathrow sharpish. He’d been laboring under the illusion that he could solve the case and avoid the transatlantic flight, but that wasn’t meant to be.
Nashville. He’d been through there once, as a child. His mother was an Elvis fan, and on a summer holiday his parents had taken him to Memphis to see Graceland. They had stopped in Nashville for a night, visited the Bluebird Cafe to hear John Hiatt sing. When he performed “Riding with the King,” Memphis remembered his dear mamma tearing up. He was too young to understand then, but he had an appreciation for the irony now. And of course, the visit had launched his nickname. He had fond memories of the state of Tennessee.
He wondered if the Bluebird was still open. Well, maybe he would find time to do a quick bit of sightseeing.
His door opened a crack, and a winning smile appeared in the darkness, a veritable Cheshire cat grin. Pen, his assigned DC on the case. She was a freshly minted detective constable, and he had high hopes for her. Adorable girl. Brown hair, soft as a wren’s feather, firm body, compact and tight. Pert nose and a wicked tongue. Too bad she batted for the other team.
“Memphis, you need to leave. Now. Only a half-wit would try to get out of London during rush hour and it’s already past five. There were no direct flights, but we found one that has a single stop. You’ll be in before midnight. I’ve alerted the Nashville Police that you’ll be stepping on their patch.”
“Wonderful. Be a darling and see if you can rustle me up some wheels, would you?”
Pen pushed her way into the office, the door swinging open and crashing into the wall behind. They both winced.
“Don’t worry, I’ll get maintenance to sort it out while you’re gone. The car’s been waiting downstairs for the last half an hour. Just promise me you’ll come back? Don’t get seduced by America. I don’t think I have it in me to take on a replacement-not now I’ve got you so nicely house-trained.”
“Penelope, I promise you. I’ll be back. The deepest darkest corners of the earth couldn’t keep me from your side for long.”
“Jesus, Memphis. Do you have to call me that?” She helped him into his coat, settling it on his shoulders. “My mum was bad enough.”
“I beg your forgiveness. I just like to see you all wound up.” He raised his eyebrows into what most women would interpret as an erotic leer, shed their clothes and present themselves to him. Pen simply shrugged.
“Oh, get off with you, then. Safe travels. Don’t get pissed on the plane.”
“And me the Queen’s representative? You must be joking, darling.” He grabbed his bag from the top of Pen’s desk. “Cheerio.”
The ride to Heathrow was blessed quiet. The driver was his favorite kind, silent, nodding his head in time to some invisible beat. He debated shuffling through his papers, decided against it. He knew the files back and forth already. Going through them again, looking at the crime-scene photos, the posing, the bones jutting out from the girl’s bodies, the blackened bruises across their necks, well, those images lived in his brain already.
Security was its usual pain in the arse, the government paperwork in his bag only lessening the grief slightly. No honor among thieves anymore, what with the terror situation so wholly out of control. He made it through unscathed and settled in with a Glenfiddich at the first-class lounge. When his flight was called, he went to the gate and boarded with the first-class passengers. His seat was luxurious and the attendant handed him a glass of champagne with an inviting smile.
“Anything else I can do for you, sir?” she asked.
He met her eyes and saw the blatant invitation in them. He wondered for a moment exactly what she could do for him, then simply smiled and said, “No. Thanks.”
She winked at him, then went back to the other seated passengers.
A mustachioed man in a black-and-white sailor shirt who looked suspiciously like an overweight gondolier shoved him a bit as he walked past down the aisle, and said, “Oi!” as if Memphis was at fault. Tamping down his annoyance, he distracted himself with the flight attendant, who was shooting smoldering glances over her shoulder at him. The mile-high club with a stranger, eh? The idea of it was probably much more exciting than the reality. Not like he’d really do that. Not now. Not after…well, that was no matter.
His mind was no longer there. It was lost in time, remembering a sweet smile, blond hair tickling his chest, and the fragrant scent of citrus. Damn, he missed her.
Eleven
B ack in the Caprice, Taylor accessed her voice mail. The department secretary had left her a message-Hugh Bangor, the owner of the house on Love Circle, was on his way back to Nashville on a red-eye from Los Angeles. He would be met at the plane and waiting back at the CJC within an hour. The message was left forty-five minutes earlier, which meant Bangor was already there, or close to it.
Damn. She was hungry. It was past noon. She speed-dialed McKenzie and told him to grab the sandwiches and bring them back to the homicide offices.
Flexibility. One of the most important components to being a cop. You needed to be willing to strike when the iron was hot. Self-deprivation was second nature.
