I clutched at the hand on my arm as I struggled for enough balance to stand on my own. “Thanks, man,” I said with an embarrassed grimace. I got my feet under me, looked up. And froze. A cop. Shit, it’s a cop.
He released me and stepped back while I fought down the stupid instinctive flare of alarm that shot through me. After two weeks on the job and a few dozen death scenes I should’ve been used to running into cops all the time, but this was the first time I’d been up close and personal with one. Besides, this cop was kinda hot. I didn’t usually go for the men-in-uniform type, but he rocked it. There was no spare fat on this guy. His hair and eyes were both dark, but he didn’t look Italian or Arabic or anything like that. I took a quick glance at his nametag. M. Ivanov. Was that Russian? That would explain—
My thoughts came to a screeching halt. Ivanov. Shit. Marcus Ivanov. This was the cop who’d arrested me for that stolen Prius.
I could feel my face heating. “I, um, need to get inside,” I quickly muttered, avoiding eye contact.
“Of course,” Deputy Ivanov replied. He gave me a neutral smile, then continued on past me and headed toward his car. He hadn’t recognized me. I gave a small sigh of relief, even as a wistful little twinge shot through me. What the hell had I been so worried about? I wasn’t the sort of chick guys like that remembered, and certainly never in a good way.
I pushed aside my stupid disappointment and continued on in, stepping out of the way of the paramedics as they carried gear back to the ambulance. Their presence was routine. Unless a body had very obviously been dead for a while, it was standard to have them run an EKG strip to make absolutely certain the person was solidly dead. I was starting to get the hang of all the various procedures involved when someone died. It wasn’t something I’d ever thought about before. I mean, who really wants to, other than maybe deciding whether you wanted to be buried or cremated?
I waited patiently inside near the front door and tried to ignore my churning gut while I did my best to stay out of the way. Detective Roth stood near the entrance to the kitchen while he talked on his phone. A curvy blonde woman wearing fatigue pants and a shirt with SEPSO Crime Scene printed across the back was crouched by the wall as she carefully packed a camera into a bag. More procedure. Unless someone was under hospice care or in a hospital or nursing home, a detective and a crime scene tech were dispatched to investigate and process the scene. Though I’d already learned that, unless it was clearly foul play, “investigate” meant that the detective took down the decedent’s information and then referred to the coroner’s report; and “process” meant that the crime scene tech took pictures of the scene and the body.
But I guess that makes sense, I thought. Going all out on every dead body would get to be a pain in the butt and a waste of time pretty fast.
I snorted. Look at me, being all understanding about cops. Who’d have thought that would ever happen?
I leaned against the wall, watched as Derrel spoke in soft and comforting tones to the dead man’s wife. For all his imposing size and looks, Derrel had a way of dealing with family and loved ones that was nothing short of a gift. I could hear him gently inquiring about her husband’s medical history and what medications he was on. From what I could overhear it sounded as if the guy had a history of heart disease and had died in his sleep.
I slid further in and peeked down the hall. The bedroom door was open, and I could see the dead man lying on his back in the bed, the sticky pads from the paramedics’ equipment still stuck to him in various spots on his body. He didn’t look very old, maybe in his fifties or so, which meant that he’d be brought in for autopsy—which was why I was here. A geezer in his eighties with a bad heart probably wouldn’t be autopsied unless he had a few bullet holes in him or a knife sticking out of his chest.
I stepped back as one of the paramedics returned. “Forgot my stethoscope,” he explained with a smile as he continued on in to the bedroom. He came back out with it in his hand, then paused in front of me, a slight frown creasing his brow. He looked faintly familiar but the “Quinn” on his nametag didn’t help me out. He was tall and slender, with reddish brown hair and a faint scattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks. Not bad-looking at all. I’d probably met him on a different scene sometime in the past two weeks.
He continued to frown down at me. “Something wrong?” I asked, oddly nervous that I’d screwed up somehow.
His expression abruptly cleared, and he gave me a broad smile. “I knew I’d seen you before. You’re looking a lot better now.”
My expression must have echoed the What the hell? going through my head because he chuckled and shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m Ed Quinn. I . . . uh,” he lowered his voice. “I worked on you a couple of weeks ago when you were found out on Sweet Bayou Road.”
I could feel my face heating in embarrassment. Found dying of an overdose. “Oh. Great.” Then I grimaced. “I mean, thanks, y’know.”
His smile abruptly shifted to a look of chagrin. “Sorry,” he said. “I guess I shouldn’t have brought that up.”
I shrugged, trying to appear casual. “It’s cool. That’s behind me now.”
“Good to hear.” His gaze swept over me, pausing briefly on the Coroner’s Office logo on my shirt. I could see the question forming in his eyes: How the hell had I managed to land this job? I struggled to think of something plausible but to my relief he seemed to sense my discomfort and left the question unasked. “Well, I gotta run,” he said, glancing toward the door. “Take care of yourself.”
I gave him a nod and a forced smile as he headed out. As soon as he was gone I blew my breath out and leaned back against the wall. Awkward. First the cop who’d arrested me, then the paramedic who’d kept me from accidentally killing myself. I didn’t even want to think what a third thing might be.
I groaned under my breath as a wisp of a too familiar odor reached my nose. Oh yeah, how about stinking like a week-old corpse?
Derrel came over to me with a paper bag in one hand and his keys in the other. I could see his nose twitch but thankfully he didn’t seem to associate the stink with me. “Okay, we’ll be taking him in,” he said. “Would you mind sticking this in the lockbox in the back of the Durango on your way out to get the stretcher and body bag?”
“Sure thing,” I said, taking the bag and keys from him. “What is it?”
“All of his meds. The Coroner’s Office collects them and disposes of them.”
I blinked. It felt like about a dozen bottles in the bag. “They throw it all out?”
Derrel nodded. “I have to count all the pills and log everything first, but yeah, they get incinerated. It’s not like they can be given to anyone else.”
“Gotcha.” I flashed him what I hoped was a nonchalant smile. “Okay, be right back.” I hurried out to the Durango and popped the latch for the back. A metal lockbox was there and a quick search through the keys revealed one that opened it. I paused with the bag in my hand. They can’t be given to anyone else, huh? My pulse thudded as I quickly looked through the pill bottles in the bag. I didn’t recognize most of the drug names. Heart medicines of some sort, I assumed. But there were also some anxiety meds, and even a prescription for my little uppers. And Xanax. A whole damn bottle—and I knew this stuff would be the real thing.
Hunger clawed at me again. Maybe Xanax would make the crazy cravings go away, or at least dull them a bit? It wasn’t as if I was going to take the pills to sell them or anything. That would be stupid. I’d be looking at serious jail time for something like that.
My mouth felt dry as I stood there with the bag in my hand. Taking a deep breath, I pulled the bottle of Xanax out, crumpled the bag shut and shoved it into the box. I started to put the bottle into the pocket of my cargo pants, then paused. What if Derrel had already written down the names of the drugs? Even if he hadn’t actually counted the pills yet, he’d be sure to notice a whole bottle missing.