Hepburn–style cut—and hands me the book.
“I’m considering trying this one next time,” he says. “What do you think?”
“I think it will look stunning on you,” I tell him honestly, noticing as I do that the eyes on the model in the picture are closed. I flip through a couple more pages and realize that all of the models are corpses—fine-looking corpses, mind you, but dead nonetheless. I make a mental note not to use the word
With one last wistful glance in the mirror, Chris picks up his purse, bids us both good-bye, and sashays out of the room.
Barbara turns her attention to me and takes a moment to survey my hair and make-up. “Looks like you ran into some trouble,” she says.
“You have no idea,” I say, rolling my eyes. “First I fell into a pile of decomp goo and then I had to ride back from the scene on the flatbed of a truck. Today I wrecked my car and managed to get cottage cheese, strawberry jelly, and blood in my hair. Oh, and I have a couple of stitches up here.” I touch the area and wince, surprised at how tender it is. The lidocaine used to numb the area has worn off. “I’m a mess, Barbara. Can you help?”
“Lie down,” she says, gesturing toward an empty stretcher. “Let me see what I can do.”
Though it took some coaxing to get me to lie on a stretcher for dead people the first time I came here, I eventually got past my heebie-jeebies. I’m glad I did, because Barbara is truly a miracle worker. Just shy of an hour after my arrival I arise from my stretcher like a two-bit actor in a Bela Lugosi movie. My hair has been shampooed, conditioned, trimmed and blown dry. My face has been washed, treated with some kind of herbal stuff, and adorned with make-up. I feel renewed, refreshed, and attractive again.
After thanking Barbara, I write her a check and say good-bye, then venture upstairs to look for Bjorn. I find him and Irene in one of the sitting rooms, holding hands. Judging from the red smear on Bjorn’s cheek and the further spread of Irene’s lipstick, I’m guessing they were doing more than hand-holding. Pretty fast moves, if you ask me, but then there is that age thing.
I manage to tear Bjorn away from Irene, but not before hearing that they have a date planned for two nights hence to play bingo at the senior center.
I slip behind the wheel of Bjorn’s van and as soon as he’s seated inside I say, “Looks like you two hit it off, eh?”
He smiles and gazes off into the distance. “A gentleman never kisses and tells,” he says. Then he looks over at me and his smile fades. “Who are you again?”
Chapter 22
Within a few minutes of leaving the funeral home we pull up in front of the police station. I tell Bjorn I won’t be long and hint that he might want to wait in the van, but he’s having none of it.
“I’m coming in,” he says. “I need something to eat and maybe they’ll have some snacks or something.”
I can’t believe he’s still hungry after scarfing down two huge slices of Dairy Airs cheesecake and who knows how many cookies with Irene.
“And I’m sure they have a bathroom in there, don’t they?” he goes on. “ ’Cause my bag is feeling kinda full.”
Resigned to having Bjorn as my sidekick, I head into the station with him in tow. Sitting behind the glassed-in reception area is the day dispatcher, a woman named Stephanie whom I know well. She greets me warmly and says hi to Bjorn as well, who nods and asks, “Do you have any vending machines here?”
“In the squad room,” Stephanie says, hitting a buzzer that opens the door to the inner sanctum. As soon as we step through she hands me a cell phone and says, “Here you go. It’s a bit sticky with something and I meant to clean it off for you but didn’t get to it yet. It seems to be working okay, though. How did you know I had it?”
“I didn’t,” I say, taking it. “How did you get it?”
“One of the guys found it in your car when they towed it to the impound lot.”
“Thanks.” It is indeed sticky and I grab a tissue from a box on Stephanie’s desk and try to wipe it down. Instead, all I manage to do is cover it with fuzz.
“So if you didn’t know about the phone,” Stephanie asks, “what brings you here?”
“I need you to run a license plate for me.”
“I need to eat something,” Bjorn adds. “And empty my piss bag.”
Stephanie’s eyes grow big at that and she wheels her chair a few inches back.
“I’ll help him,” I assure her. “While I do that, can you look up this plate for me?” I take a pen and paper from her desk and write down “HOT 44D” and “cherry-red convertible” on it. “I don’t know the make of the car but it shouldn’t be too hard to figure out.”
Stephanie nods, takes the paper, and turns to her desk while I steer Bjorn into the back. We stop in the restroom, a unisex room with one toilet, one urinal, and a sink. The urinal height is perfect for Bjorn’s catheter bag and it doesn’t take me long to empty and recap it. I stop at the sink, wet a paper towel, and use it to clean off my phone. A minute later we are on our way to the squad room and as soon as we enter, Bjorn makes a beeline for the refrigerator. On the door is a set of those magnetic poetry words and several lines of them have been put together. One reads HAVE CAR AND GUN DON’T LIKE TO RUN. Below it, with TASER handwritten on a blank magnet is LET’S PLAY TASER TAG. Just above the door handle is another one: EAT IF YOU DARE.
“I wouldn’t eat anything out of there if I were you,” I warn Bjorn. “God knows how long some of that stuff has been in there.”
He ignores me and opens it anyway. I’m surprised to see that it’s relatively empty; someone must have gotten ambitious and cleaned it out recently. Its only contents are a half pint of cream, a couple of sodas, a package of hemorrhoid suppositories, and a box of bullets.
Bjorn and I scratch our heads over the contents for a moment before he grabs a can of Mountain Dew and closes the door. It’s not the best choice; the caffeine in the Mountain Dew is a diuretic, meaning his leg bag will be refilling in no time, but I let it go. He then turns to the snack machine and fishes some change out of his pocket.
“Damned inflation,” he grumbles. “I remember when you could buy stuff out of these machines for a dime.” He proffers his hand and shows me that he has one quarter, one nickel, three pennies, and a lint-covered cherry Lifesaver. “I don’t think I have enough,” he says mournfully.
I fish out my wallet. “Here,” I tell him, handing him a dollar bill. He puts his change back in his pocket, pops the linty Lifesaver in his mouth, and takes the money. The dollar is enough for two purchases and Bjorn opts for a bag of nacho cheese-flavored tortilla chips and a package of Oreos.
Back at the front desk, Stephanie starts to fill me in but is waylaid when her radio to the 911 center goes off.
“What the hell?” I say. I stand and listen as Stephanie responds and then dispatches all available officers on duty to the site. “What’s 103f and 103m?”
“The 103 is code for a disturbance, the f means there’s a fight, and the m means there might be a mental patient involved.”
A mental patient at my office? I briefly wonder if it might be Arnie but quickly dismiss the idea. He’s a bit off the radar but I’m pretty sure he’s not insane.
Steph’s phone rings and I wait impatiently while she answers it. As soon as she hangs up she says, “That was one of the officers over at your office calling to fill me in. Apparently there is some kind of family squabble going on with the Heinrichs’ offspring and it’s getting kind of dicey.”
Great. The spoiled rich kids. Just what I need.
“Oh, and here’s the report on that tag you wanted,” she adds, handing me a piece of paper. “The car belongs to a lady over in Smithville.”
I mutter a curse under my breath. Smithville is a half hour away and not within Bjorn’s jurisdiction.
