Jeffrey shook his head to clear his mind when he heard a voice. Julie was talking to him. “Jeffrey?”
He was ready.
“Get down,” he growled.
She knelt in front of him. As soon as her mouth wrapped around his cock he came.
He held her head to him for a long moment. He had a solution to their problem. Why did he always have to make the tough decisions?
If Tom O’Brien were dead, none of this would have happened. But since Hamilton had fucked that up, the next person in the food chain had to go. The only person, really, who could be a threat to them.
Claire O’Brien.
EIGHTEEN
Claire drove around to the back of the Sacramento County Morgue. Most people-unless they were cops or morticians-didn’t know about the rear entrance. But Claire had met the head supervising pathologist when she was working a life insurance case for Rogan-Caruso a couple years ago. She’d witnessed her first autopsy then, and she and Phineas Ward hit it off. They’d never been romantically involved, but a few times they’d hit the club scene together platonically.
She handed her card to the receptionist, who said without looking up, “Paperwork and name of the deceased.”
“I’m here for Phin Ward, not a body.”
The woman glanced up, then called over her shoulder, “Phineas, you have a visitor.”
Claire glanced around. The office was cluttered but organized. In the far corner was a fish tank with goldfish and a submerged plastic skeleton. Similar pathologist humor added levity to what could have been a depressing place to work, including a fake brain that looked real on a shelf, next to the snack food, and a life-size artificial skeleton hanging in the corner wearing a pirate’s hat and eye patch and holding a plastic sword.
Phin emerged from the rear office and smiled at Claire as surprise lit his eyes. “It’s been awhile.” He walked out and greeted her with a hug, then escorted her into the staging area. This was where they first tagged, weighed, and logged in the bodies.
“I know, I know. I’ve missed hanging out with you. How’ve you been?”
“Sad and lonely without you, but I’ll live. Better than being him.” He jerked his thumb toward a cadaver in the hall outside the freezer. “Came in fifteen minutes ago. John Doe, hit and run.”
A mortician walked by pushing a cadaver on a trolley. He handed his paperwork to Phin. Without looking at it, Phin walked back into the office, handed it to the woman, and returned.
“Is there a place we can go talk in private?” she asked.
He reached into a box and tossed her two booties for her shoes. She slipped them on, then followed him through the large autopsy room-currently unused-to a small office on the far side. The smell was mostly clean and antiseptic, with a very faint, underlying hint of something akin to rotten eggs. Like the first time she’d been here, Claire didn’t think it was that bad.
The office was crammed with equipment used to preserve tissue samples and containers with a colored fluid that held, primarily, brains. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“No,” she said, partly lying. Phin had a morbid sense of humor and probably wanted to get a rise out of her. “What’s this room used for?”
“We have a neurologist who comes in every Tuesday to examine abnormalities in autopsied brains. Primarily for genetic research.”
She picked up a jar, brows furrowed. “Don’t tell me this is from a child.”
He took the jar from her, read the label, gave her a half grin. “Naw. It was removed from a grown man three days ago.”
“It’s so small.”
“Yeah, that’s why the neurologist needs to look at it. Abnormal.” He put the jar back. “Okay, what brings you to my neck of the woods? Work or pleasure?”
“Neither. I’m not here about Rogan-Caruso business.”
“And you’re still seeing that Mitch guy?”
“Yeah, but-”
“So I guess you’re not asking me out on a date.” He sat on the edge of the metal-topped desk and crossed his arms, revealing intricate tattoos on his biceps.
“Date?”
“I’m just teasing you. You should have seen your face, though.” Phin grinned. He picked up a jar and absently turned it slowly around in his hands, the preserved organ turning inside. Looked like a kidney, but Claire wasn’t positive. “So why are you here?”
“I need a favor.”
“Ah. The truth comes out.”
“Two favors.”
“What are you going to give me in return?”
She didn’t know what to say. “Kings tickets?”
He laughed. “I’m joking. Damn, you’re serious today. You usually come back with a great retort.”
“I’m preoccupied.”
“Okay, what? Seriously, I’m at your disposal.”
“I need the coroner’s report from two autopsies fifteen years ago.”
“Fifteen years? Those are in archives.”
“But you can get to them a lot faster than I can. When I called, they said it would take weeks. I don’t have weeks. I need them like, um, today.”
“You don’t ask for anything difficult, do you?”
“Is it possible?”
“I’ll get them. Who?”
“Chase Taverton and Lydia O’Brien. They were killed on November 17, 1993.”
“O’Brien. Your mother?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I need to read the reports. They weren’t in the court records.”
He stared at her, wanting more information, but she didn’t say anything else.
“I’ll get them, but I might not have them until tonight.”
“I really appreciate it. Call me on my cell phone and I’ll pick them up wherever.”
“What’s the second favor?”
“There was a guy hauled out of the Sacramento River yesterday. You probably did the autopsy today.”
“I know the body.”
“Did you work on him?”
“No. What do you know about it?”
“I know who he was.”
