'You need to get in shape. I've got guest passes. They've got Pilates at the club. I'm thinking of taking a class after work.'
Herb smiled, biting into a rice cake. His smile faded as he chewed.
'Damn. These things taste like Styrofoam.'
The phone rang.
'Jack? Phil Blasky. There's, um, a bit of a situation here at County.'
County meant the Cook County Morgue. Phil was the Chief Medical Examiner.
'I know this is going to sound like a paperwork problem . . .' He paused, sucking in some air through his teeth. '. . . but I've checked and double-checked.'
'What's wrong, Phil?'
'We have an extra body. Well, actually, some extra body parts.'
Phil explained. I told him we'd stop by, and then shared the information with Herb.
'Could be some kind of prank. County are a strange bunch.'
'Maybe. Phil doesn't think so.'
'Did he say what the extra parts were?'
'Arms.'
Benedict thought this over.
'Maybe someone is simply lending him a hand.'
I stood up and pinched the center of my blouse, fanning in some air. 'We'll take your car.'
Herb recently bought a sporty new Camaro Z28, an expensive reminder of his refusal to age gracefully. Silly as he looked behind the wheel, the car had great air-conditioning, whereas my 1988 Nova did not.
We left my office and made our way downstairs and outside. It was like stepping into a toaster. Though it couldn't have been much hotter than the district building, the blistering sun amplified everything. A bank across the street flashed the current temp on its sidewalk sign. One hundred and one. And the sign was in the shade.
Herb pressed a gizmo on his key chain and his car beeped and started on its own. It was red, naturally, and so heavily waxed that the glare coming off it hurt my eyes. I climbed in the passenger side and angled both vents on my face while Herb babied the Camaro out of its parking space.
'Zero to sixty in five point two seconds.'
'Have you taken it up to sixty yet?'
'I'm still breaking it in.'
He put on a pair of Ray-Bans and pulled onto Addison. I closed my eyes and luxuriated in the cool air. We were at County all too soon.
Cook County Morgue was located on Harrison in Chicago's medical district, near Rush-Presbyterian Hospital. It rose two stories, all dirty white stone and tinted windows. Herb pulled around back into a circular driveway, and parked next to the curb.
'I hate coming here.' Herb frowned, his mustache drooping like a walrus. 'I can never get the smell out of my clothes.'
Years ago, when my mother walked a beat, cops would smear whiskey on their upper lip to combat the stench of the morgue.
Sanitation had improved since then; cooler temps, better ventilation, greater attention to hygiene. But the smell still stuck with you.
I made do with some cherry lip balm, a small dab under each nostril. I passed the tube to Herb.
'Cherry? Don't you have menthol?'
'It's a hundred degrees out. I wasn't worried about windburn.'
He sniffed the balm, then handed it back without applying any.
'It smells too good. I'd eat it.'
The heat hit me like a blow dryer when I got out of the car.
A cop walked over and eyed the Camaro -- there were always cops around County. He was young and tan and didn't give me a second glance, preferring to talk to Herb.
'Five speed?'
'Six. Three hundred ten horses.'
The uniform whistled, running his finger along some pinstriping.
'What's under the hood, five point seven?'
Herb nodded. 'Want to see?'
I left the boys with their toy and walked into the entrance, to the right of the automatic double doors.
The lobby, if you could call it that, consisted of a counter, a door, and a glass partition. Behind the counter was a solitary black man in hospital scrubs.
