“Why was his blood sample swapped? Or was it just documented incorrectly?” he asked. The house creaked a little, as though urging her to open up and tell him everything.
“His blood was irregular,” she said slowly, avoiding his eyes. “That’s possibly even why he chose suicide; it may have been causing problems with his brain.”
“Irregular, how?” Ethan felt a surge of eagerness for the answer to Tobias’s mysterious ailment and leaned forward with expectation.
She shook her head, still toying with her fingers. The house creaked again and seemed to sigh. The kettle on the stove began to whistle.
And then Ethan had that moment — a switching on of the mental light bulb — when he figured out what was wrong with his earlier perception of Rebecca Wilson. Now it was clear: the two types of coffee, the lacy bra, and the gold ring she twisted around her finger.
The conclusion popped in his head like the snapping of fingers, and another creak sounded in the hallway behind them as if driving it home. That was when Ethan realized they were not alone.
21
The Girl with the Distracting Shampoo
Ethan jumped up from his seat as Rebecca screamed in alarm. His forward inertia slid the chair back to collide with a nearly naked man swinging a baseball bat. The man’s tighty-whiteys did little to hide the condition of his nethers. It seemed that something more than Rebecca’s preparations for a snooze had been interrupted by Ethan’s visit.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Ethan pulled out his sidearm, disengaging the safety, and aimed it as he would in any other situation where he was being barged by a half naked — and semi-aroused — assailant.
“Who the fuck are you?” the man wielding the Louisville slugger yelled, after recovering from his lost balance on the wild swing.
“Detective Tannor, NYPD.” Ethan was glad to notice that the man’s erection was retreating, though his own predicament hadn’t changed. Oddly, the only thing that occurred to him at that moment was the situational pun behind the word ‘pre-dic-ament’.
“How do we know you’re a real cop?”
“Put the bat down and we’ll talk.” Ethan pointed his gun a little off center mass to ease the man’s tension. The tea kettle continued its shrill whine.
“Hell no!” he barked.
Rebecca rose to her feet, not caring that the robe no longer sheltered her attributes. “He’s got a gun, Mark!”
“I can see that, Becky — now shut the hell up, and turn that damn thing off!” Mark twirled the bat in a slow, steady circle at the tip. Becky went to the stove, pulled the kettle away from the burner and shut off the flame.
“Your wife has a good point.” Ethan lowered his gun, no longer keeping the weapon trained on Mark’s kill mark. It sounded weird when he thought of it that way.
“That doesn’t mean shit!” The club moved in jerky motions, bringing to mind an image of Casey at the bat ready to swing for a home run; Ethan hoped for a strikeout here as well.
“Okay,” Ethan said, “call the NYPD headquarters then; ask for verification.” With his free hand he tossed his detective shield to the other man, who snatched it out of the air. “My badge number is on there.”
Mark still eyed him with suspicion, but the bat had ceased its menacing circulations.
“All I need are some answers to a few questions about a case your wife worked on.” Ethan gave him a wry grin. “And then I’ll let you two get back to your … ah … morning.”
Dr. Rebecca Wilson — or more recently known as Dr. Rebecca Frasier — had regained awareness of her near nakedness. She clutched the edges of her robe against her body as she reset the burner and took a seat at the table again.
The water had cooled off while Mark took Ethan up on the challenge to verify his identity by calling the NYPD. After ending his talk with the dispatcher, the doctor’s new husband excused himself. Moments later the sound of a shower running could be heard down the hall. Rebecca’s face reddened.
Ethan cleared his throat in the strained silence and tried to pick up where they’d left off. “I apologize for this intrusion, but like I said — I do need some answers. Where is my uncle’s body?”
“I wish I could tell you, but I honestly don’t know.” She fiddled with the collar of her robe, looking miserable. “Two men arrived in the middle of the night — around 1:30, I would guess — and asked for it.”
“Just asked?” Ethan eyed her with suspicion.
“I didn’t want to cooperate at first, but they showed identification, the works. I insisted it wasn’t protocol, and then they offered me twenty thousand dollars.”
She noted the look on Ethan’s face, then spoke again before he could respond. “You don’t understand; we just got married. I’m still paying on my student loan, and we were broke. We needed that money, and to be frank I don’t think I would have been able to stop them if they’d decided to just take his body by force.” She bit her lip and looked away, shame flooding her features.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about the money,” Ethan said impatiently. “You mentioned identification. What were their names?”
She shook her head and watched the kettle. Wisps of steam were beginning to float through the hole in the spout’s lid, but its telltale whine had not yet begun. “I don’t remember. The only thing I recall was the bigger of the two men. I think his name was Jackman or Jackson.
Ethan was still scribbling down what she’d said and didn’t raise his eyes from the notepad as he asked his next question. “Their identification — was it FBI, CIA, NSA?”
“No. I’d never heard of the agency before and I can’t remember the acronym at all, I’m sorry.”
He frowned in thought and she cut in to defend herself again. “I wouldn’t have done this, but your uncle’s chart indicated there was no next of kin. I figured no one would miss the body and I was going to change the out processing sheet tomorrow, showing he had been cremated.
“Otherwise, CDC regulations would have made cremation out of the question due to the irregularity of his blood if I didn’t swap the samples. I was going to make notes on his chart correcting my findings.”
Ethan lowered the notepad and fixed his gaze on Dr. Frasier, leaning toward her. She eyed him with trepidation but didn’t back away. “What was irregular?” he asked. “I know he was AB negative, and that’s a rare blood type. But it’s not that unheard of, so what was the problem?”
“His blood was slightly radioactive. Not enough to contaminate anyone else, but definitely not healthy for him to live that way. I flagged it and called the CDC. Shortly after I made the call, these two men showed. It all seemed legit, until I didn’t want to go against CDC guidelines and they offered me the money.”
Radioactive? What the hell? His brain kept repeating the question to himself, but still he had no answers. Ethan scanned his notes for another moment before asking, “And they gave no indication as to where they were taking the body?”
She shook her head again, the motion sending another whiff of honey and almonds his way. “No. A truck pulled up to the cargo doors and a bunch of guys came in and took the body from the refrigeration unit.”
The kettle whistled its second tune, and Rebecca pushed herself up from the table to pour the boiling water into the waiting cup of instant coffee.
“Cream, Mr. Tannor?”
“Ah, yes — and sugar if you have it.”
She stirred the contents, tossed the spoon into the sink, and brought the cup and a saucer to the table, placing them in front of Ethan. She sank back into her chair and bundled up again, her face still full of uncertainty.