Under the Microscope

pew. But the gathering might give them access to friends and family members who might have additional information on Denise’s lifestyle.

There had to be a pattern somewhere. A risk factor. A reason the women had died.

Or been killed.

The church was a few blocks from the Allens’ stately home. It, too, spoke with the quiet under-tones of old money, which was evident in the profusions of fresh off-season flowers and the plush cloth of the bolsters and curtains. Vivid stained glass windows showed scenes of sin and redemption and God’s forgiveness, and the air carried the scents of incense and lilies.

Max drew a deep breath and felt something loosen in his chest. Though he had attended church less and less frequently over the past few years, the sounds and sights and smells reminded him of childhood services. Most of the neighborhood congregation had been related to him in one way or another, and the services had been simple and easy for his younger self to understand.

Honor thy family and neighbors. Protect those weaker than yourself. Do no harm.

It was the last two he kept getting stuck on when it came to Raine, he thought as they took a pew six rows from the back so as not to disturb the seated mourners or the memorial, which was already in progress.

A closed casket of polished wood sat at the front of the room, draped with flowers. An enlarged photograph of a woman in her mid-thirties sat atop the flowers, propped up so the mourners could see Denise Allen as she’d been in life.

A podium stood to the left of the casket; a man in cleric’s robes stepped away from the microphone and gestured a tall, gray-suited man forward.

Gray Suit leaned too close to the microphone, eliciting a hum of feedback when he started to speak. He eased away and tried again. “I know it might seem strange for me to eulogize my ex-wife, but just because we were divorced doesn’t mean we didn’t love each other anymore. Let me give you an example.” He launched into a rambling story about the gym workouts he and Denise had apparently shared until her death. The longer he spoke, the more he used the word I and the less he actually said about his ex-wife.

“Nice guy,” Max muttered. He glanced over at Raine, saw her fidget uncomfortably in her seat. Leaning close, he asked, “Are you okay?”

“Sorry. Churches give me the creeps.”

Before Max could ask why, a tall, willowy woman with ash-blond hair and a feminine black suit leaned into their pew. “Is there room for one more?”

“Yes. Please join us.” Raine scooted over until the edge of her tailored business pants brushed up against Max’s jeans.

The woman glanced at their casual clothing, but didn’t comment. She faced forward for a minute before she grimaced and whispered, “He’s so full of it.” She turned to Raine and mouthed, “Don’t you think so?”

Raine made a noncommittal noise. “I don’t know him well.”

“You must know Denise from the shelter, then?”

“Something like that.”

Max gave Raine points for playing it off so casually, though he did get a kink of amusement that the woman had apparently placed them in the soup kitchen Ike had noted as one of Denise Allen’s regular haunts. Then again, he supposed three days of doing laundry in hotel sinks hadn’t done his and Raine’s wardrobes any favors.

The blonde leaned closer and confided, “Doug is a real piece of work. As you can see, he likes to be the center of attention.” She gestured to the front of the room, where the speaker appeared to be suppressing tears as he talked about how much the divorce had affected him. “I’m surprised he’s up there, though. I would’ve thought he’d be hiding out.”

That got Max’s attention. “Why is that?”

The blonde’s eyes flicked to him. “Because Denise wasn’t using the jazz juice with him, that’s why. She was at a party with me.”

“Jazz juice?” Max prompted, aware that Raine had gone still.

The woman’s lips curved. “That’s what we call it, anyway. It was Denise’s idea-Thriller dissolved in champagne. Double the bubbles.”

Oh, hell, Max thought. What if the other dead women had mixed the drug with alcohol and there had been an adverse interaction of the molecule?

Could it be that simple?

Beside him, Raine relaxed and shook her head almost imperceptibly. He took that to mean her people had already tested the Thriller-alcohol interaction for toxicity and found nothing.

“You were both drinking jazz juice that night? Did you get the samples from the same place?” Max kept his voice low, but he was aware that their conversation was starting to attract annoyed looks from the other mourners scattered in the back of the church.

“Sure. Our plastic surgeon, Dr. Moyer.” She paused and confided, “Well, he was my plastic surgeon, though I’m not telling what he did. Denise was scheduled for breast implants in the spring. I think she canceled a couple of weeks ago, though, thanks to the jazz juice.”

Max stiffened as the connection hit him. He and Raine traded a look. Plastic surgery.

Was it a coincidence?

Or was it a risk factor?

“Why did she cancel the appointment?” Raine asked, voice casual, fingers knotted together in her lap.

The blonde shrugged and whispered, “She was kind of insecure about her body, you know? Especially after the way that one-” she indicated Doug-the-ex with a jerk of her thumb “-treated her. She thought bigger breasts would make her feel sexier. Then we got those Thriller samples and she decided she didn’t need the boobs anymore.” The blonde’s eyes darkened. “We never thought it’d kill her. There weren’t any warnings or anything. If we’d known…”

She trailed off as a sober-faced man in white robes leaned into their pew. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to either be quiet or take this conversation outside. This is a memorial service.”

“Of course. Our apologies.” Max rose and gestured for Raine to precede him. He nodded at the few people who turned and glared, and felt a beat of remorse for having brought the investigation into the church.

But he couldn’t regret the decision. They had their break.

Once they were outside, Raine grabbed his sleeve. “Cari had a tummy tuck after her C-section and wanted breast implants. Jenni had a nose job. Denise also wanted breast implants.” Then she frowned. “But unless they were all on some sort of pre-or post-op drug regimen, I can’t see how being scheduled for plastic surgery could explain why they died from taking Thriller.”

He led the way back to their rented truck, brain humming. “There’s one way to test our theory.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out the disposable phone and Ike’s computer printout, and dialed a number off the paper. He paused on the sidewalk when the connection went through. “Hello? Mrs. Pawcheck? My name is Maximilian Vasek, and I’m with a pharmaceutical investigation firm on the east coast. If you’ll allow me, I’d like to ask you a quick question about your daughter, Melissa.”

There was a moment of silence before the response came. “Melissa is dead.” The woman’s voice broke on the words.

“I know and I’m very sorry, Mrs. Pawcheck. I’m one of the people involved in figuring out what happened and making sure the guilty parties are punished.”

He heard a sniffle and a gulp, then, “Ask your question.”

“Did Melissa ever have cosmetic surgery, or was she planning on having cosmetic surgery in the near future?” Max nearly crossed his fingers, waiting for the answer.

“Yes.” The woman’s voice was puzzled. “She had an endoscopic brow lift and liposuction last year. Why? Did that have something to do with her death?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Max said, sending Raine a nod. When Mrs. Pawcheck pressed for an elaboration, he ended the call, saying, “We’ll let you know as soon as we do, ma’am. Thank you so much for your help.”

He snapped the phone shut and gestured for Raine to keep walking. “Brow lift and liposuction last year.”

She pressed her lips together. “I guess that means we’re onto something.”