miracle been able to find anything on or in the body that could yield a DNA profile of the killer?
Mother Nature is a strange old bird. I knew of cases where there should have been no hope at all of finding the perp’s skin cells under the victim’s fingernails-and yet it had happened. It could happen. The odds weren’t good, but…
I thought of the Laci Peterson case in California, where all hope of finding the woman’s body had gone overboard with her and the concrete anchor tied to her body. But that body had defied all odds, not only washing up onshore where it could be found but washing up onshore literally blocks from the state crime lab.
I knew that if there was any way Irina could have, she would have gone down fighting. I could only hope the ME had found evidence that was so.
Of course, I would not be privy to that information. When I was a cop, all the technology available had been at my disposal, provided the county wanted to pay for it. As a civilian, I felt as handicapped as Billy Quint.
I still had contacts in law enforcement, the few people who had not judged me as harshly as my fellow officers had judged me-or as I had judged myself-when my career went nova with the death of Hector Ramirez. I had known Mercedes Gitan when she was just made assistant chief at the ME’s office. I had stood and watched her perform more than one autopsy when I was on the other side of the badge.
It had been three years and a lifetime since I’d seen her. She had actually come to the hospital a couple of times in the first weeks following my near-death experience. I hadn’t wanted to know anyone then, certainly hadn’t wanted anyone to know me. The people who tried to support me, I had shut out, and they gave up. I wondered now if she would even take my call, let alone give me information only the sheriff’s detectives were supposed to have.
I stopped at a drive-through Starbucks on my way back to the farm to pick up something chokingly sweet and artificially flavored for Sean and a straight-up double-strong espresso for myself. Sean was leading a horse to the barn when I drove in. He looked like a Ralph Lauren ad. Tall, handsome, chiseled, narrow-hipped.
“I got you a venti white-chocolate mocha with whipped cream and enough artificial sweetener to kill a dozen lab rats,” I said, offering his drink to him, as he put the mare in the cross ties to groom her.
He looked at me, wide-eyed. “My God, El! What happened to you? What happened to your lip?”
“I tripped and fell. Don’t make a big deal. Take your coffee.”
He took the cup and set it aside, never taking his eyes off me. “I don’t believe you.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re a known liar, young lady.”
“Nevertheless,” I said, “that’s what happened.”
“Elena, I’m a nervous wreck already. Please don’t make me worry about you.”
“That’s a very good outfit,” I said. “The brown breeches, the matching shirt, the pinstripes. Very chic.”
He looked offended. “Do you really think I’m so shallow you can distract me with compliments?”
“It’s always worked before.”
Behind him, the small bay mare pinned her ears and shook her head from side to side, raised one front leg in a threat to paw the ground.
“I think the queen bee is ready to retire to her chambers,” I said.
He took the horse back to her stall, but the break in concentration didn’t distract him from my split lip.
“Swear to me that is not the result of domestic violence,” he said, staring down at me.
I rolled my eyes. “First: I broke up with Landry two days ago. So just who beat me up? My imaginary friend? I was home alone last night. Second: Frankly, I’m offended you think I would let some jerk do this to me. And I’m offended on Landry’s behalf.”
“I didn’t say you would let him get away with it,” he said. “Is there a corpse in your house we need to dispose of?”
The words were barely out of his mouth before his eyes filled with tears. “Oh, my God, I can’t believe I just said that.”
Poor Sean. Unlike myself, he had chosen to stay floating along on the cushy cloud of the sheltered Palm Beach lifestyle. The sensitivity hadn’t been ground out of him working drug deals and homicides, living day and night among the cruelties of a baser existence.
He looked away toward the door to the lounge. “I keep expecting her to walk out that door and complain about something. I wish she would.”
“I know. I wish yesterday never happened.”
“Never in my life did I ever think I would know someone who got murdered,” he said.
“What about me?”
“You’re too mean to die.” He turned and gave me an uncharacteristically stern look. “You’d better be. You’re the bratty little sister I never had. I’d never forgive you.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said, thinking that a year before I might not have said the same thing. Sean was thinking that too.
“I didn’t save you from the gutter so you could check out on me,” he said.
“I have no intention of checking out.”
He reached out a hand to not quite touch my fat lip. “That looks awful. Don’t you know how to use concealer? And a little Preparation H would take the swelling down. You could create the illusion of symmetry with a neutral lip liner.”
“Are you a closet transvestite now?”
“Honey, there isn’t a closet I haven’t already come out of,” he said. “I haven’t spent a small fortune on personal trainers and diet gurus to cover this physique with women’s wear. Let’s drink our coffee.”
We went out of the barn to sit on the bench by the arena. Sean stared into the middle distance, where a couple of news vans were parked on the road.
“Have they tried to talk to you?” I asked.
“I’ve declined all interviews. I couldn’t possibly be so tacky as to comment on the murder of someone I know. Of course, that doesn’t stop them from standing out there with their cameras.
“‘Look!”“ he squealed, pretending excitement. ”“That’s the barn where the victim shoveled horseshit! That’s the grass she walked on!”“
“It’s news,” I said. “Like it or not. People get engrossed in these stories in part to make them realize how lucky they are. Their lives might be shitty, but at least no one has murdered them. Yet.”
Sean took a long drink of his coffee and was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, he said, “You’re going to get in the middle of this, aren’t you?”
“What? The media?”
“The investigation.”
“Of course. What else would I do?”
“What else would you do? Nothing else,” he said. “What else could you do? Leave it to Landry.”
It was my turn to say nothing.
“Why did you break up with him?” he asked.
“God, that sounds so high school. What was there to break up? We didn’t have a relationship. We had sex.”
“He wanted something more?”
I turned and looked at him, annoyed he had made the assumption that I was the one who backed away, even though I was.
“Well, I knew you wouldn’t be the one pressing for commitment,” he said.
“I did him a favor. I can hardly stand myself twenty-four/seven; I wouldn’t wish me on anyone else.”
Sean didn’t comment. I was glad.
“What happens next?” he asked.
“They’ll do the autopsy today, continue interviewing people who knew her, people who saw her Saturday night.
“Did you ever see Irina out on the town?” I asked.
“Once in a while. At Players. Once or twice at Galipette.”
“Having dinner or in the bar?”
“Dinner.”
