'Who has access to the morgue?'
'Cops, docs, morticians. Some days fifty people sign in.'
'How many employees?'
'Around twenty, with the ME's staff.'
I frowned. If the arms had been here for a few days before being discovered, we could be dealing with several hundred suspects.
'Thanks, Mr. Graves.' I handed him my card. 'If you hear anything, let us know.'
Graves nodded, walked off.
'Anything with the arms?' Herb asked, lips flecked with bits of greasy potato.
'Nothing, other than the fact that they're my handcuffs.'
'Should I read you your rights?'
'Not yet. First you have to trick me into confessing.'
'Gotcha. So . . . was the rest of the body hard to dispose of?'
'Yeah. I'll never get those stains out of my carpet.'
My cell rang, saving me from further interrogation.
'Daniels.'
'Ms. Daniels? This is Dr. Evan Kingsbury at St. Mary's Hospital in Miami. Mary Streng was just admitted into the Emergency Room. You're listed on her insurance as a contact.'
My heart dropped into my stomach.
'She's my mother. What happened?'
'She's sedated. I know you're in Chicago, but is it possible for you to get here? She needs you right now.'
Chapter 3
I hadn't realized how fragile my mother had become until I saw her in that hospital bed, an IV cruelly jabbed into her pale, thin arm. She couldn't weigh more than a hundred pounds, eyes that were once bright and active now sunken and sparkless.
This couldn't be the woman who raised me, the tough-but-loving beat cop who played both mother and father in my upbringing. The woman who taught me how to read and how to shoot. The woman with such inner strength that I modeled my life on hers.
'The doctors are overreacting, Jacqueline. I'll be fine.' She offered a weak smile in a voice that wasn't hers.
'Your hip is broken, Mom. You almost died.'
'Didn't come close.'
I held her hand, feeling the fragile bones under the skin. My veneer started to crack.
'If Mr. Griffin hadn't made the police break down your door, you'd still be lying on the bathroom floor.'
'Nonsense. I would have gotten out of there soon enough.'
'Mom . . . you were there for four days.' The horror of it stuck in my throat. I'd called her yesterday -- our twice weekly call -- and when she hadn't answered, I assumed she was out with Mr. Griffin or one of the other elderly men she occasionally saw.
'I had water from the bathtub. I could have lasted another week or two.'
'Aw, Mom . . .'
The tears came. My mother patted the back of my hand with her free one.
'Oh, Jacqueline. Don't be upset. This is what happens when you get old.'
'I should have been there.'
'Nonsense. You live a thousand miles away. This is my dumb fault for slipping in the shower.'
'I called you yesterday. When you didn't pick up, I should have . . .'
My mother shushed me, softly.
'Sweetheart, you know you can't play the what-if game, especially in our profession. This isn't the first time this has happened.'
She couldn't have hurt me more if she'd tried.
'How many times, Mom?'
'Jacqueline--'
'How many times?'
'Three or four.'
I didn't need to hear that. 'But you never hurt yourself, right?'
