His collar was twisted. She stood and adjusted it. "I'm only trying to tell you that you aren't exactly a favorite around here, and Major Hoffman might just be looking for a reason to send you on your way. Do you have an electric razor with you?"
He ran a hand across his jaw. It sounded like sandpaper. "A guy shouldn't be penalized because he doesn't kiss ass."
He seemed a little hurt to find he was regarded with a lack of favor within the department.
"I can't be telling you something you don't already know," she said, sitting back down and opening desk drawers until she found a bottle of Tylenol. She held it within his line of vision.
He shook his head.
She dropped the Tylenol and shut the drawer. Sighing, she decided that as long as he wanted to act like he could be productive, she might as well discuss the case. "I've talked with Harrison 's coworkers and all of them say they never saw him eat fish the day he collapsed."
She grabbed a pen and leaned back in her chair. "So, what I've been wondering is if there's a connection between the body that showed up in the cemetery last night, Truman Harrison, and Samuel Winslow, the misdiagnosed death of three weeks ago."
Gould perched himself on the corner of his desk. He wasn't wearing socks. "Maybe," he said. "Maybe not. It could all just be coincidence. A weird cluster of events."
Elise got on the phone and ordered a crime scene team to inspect and collect possible evidence at Mr. Harrison's home and workplace. His locker. Vehicles. Wherever he spent time.
As soon as she hung up, her phone rang.
John Casper.
"You know the guy who came in last night? Jordan Kemp?" he asked. "I've found something you might be interested in. Can you stop by?"
"Be there in thirty minutes." She disconnected. "Feel up to formaldehyde fumes and corpses?" she asked Gould. The morgue could be tough even on a good day.
"Formaldehyde and corpses?" He gave her a weak smile. "Two of my favorite things."
The morgue was located in a new building on the outskirts of town, next to the crime lab. Not handy for police detectives, but they'd needed the ground and space.
Elise and Gould followed Casper to the walk-in cooler, past several sheet-covered forms, to the body of Jordan Kemp.
"I wanted you to see this." Casper uncovered the body, which had been left facedown.
Elise leaned closer. On the lower spine, just above the tailbone, was a raised circle slightly bigger than a silver dollar.
"Teflon body art," Casper explained. "I was thinking it might be a gang symbol."
"It's not a gang symbol," Elise said, straightening. "Have you ever heard of Black Tupelo?"
"Isn't that a bar?"
"Among other things. A bar. Massage parlor. Plus a front for prostitution. It's located downtown, near the river."
"And what does this have to do with body art?" Casper asked.
"Black Tupelo belongs to a Gullah woman named Strata Luna."
"I've definitely heard of her," Casper said.
"This is the trunk of the tupelo tree," Elise explained, pointing. "And these three lines are branches. It's a very simple, effective design actually."
"You mean to tell me she brands her prostitutes?" Casper asked in a horrified voice. "Like cattle?"
"It's a mojo," Gould said.
"Mojo?" Elise frowned up at him. How did he know about mojoes?
He was staring at the emblem, looking queasy again.
"Who told you that?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Just something I heard somewhere."
"I don't know about a mojo, but it's definitely a logo."
Casper pulled up the sheet, covering the body. "That's not all. There's something else you need to know. We got the lab work back and you're never going to guess what we found."
Elise was afraid she could, but allowed Casper his moment.
"TTX," Casper said.
That news was still settling when Elise's phone rang.
It was Major Hoffman. "Truman Harrison is dead," she said. "For real this time."
Chapter 12
Enrique and Flora watched as Strata Luna nailed a small cross made of wooden Popsicle sticks to the trunk of a tree. On the double headstone that marked her daughters' graves, she poured the loose incense she used to communicate with the dead. After a brief sizzle and flame, the pungent odor of saltpeter and herbs filled the gathering darkness.
It was late. After closing time. The caretaker of Bonaventure Cemetery had unlocked the gate so Strata Luna could visit the graves in private.
Enrique nudged Flora with his elbow. "Come on," he whispered.
They turned and walked away from the woman cloaked in black.
In all the times Enrique had been coming to the cemetery with Strata Luna, he'd never witnessed anything weini-and didn't want to. The dead could stay dead as far as he was concerned. He once thought he'd seen someone return from the grave-and his heart had nearly popped through his chest. But then he discovered the person had never really been dead in the first place.
He hated the dead. But the undead…?
Whole different story.
Strata Luna was practically a mother to Flora. To Enrique, quite a bit more…
He suspected Flora knew he sometimes joined Strata Luna in her bed. Not that the woman in black cared much for him. He doubted she'd ever really cared for any man except the root doctor, Jackson Sweet. No, Enrique was just performing a service.
He wasn't complaining.
Strata Luna thought he was somebody she could teach and mold. Thought she had him under her control, but she was mistaken. Nobody controlled Enrique Xavier.
There were things about him she didn't know. Things Flora didn't know. He had a life outside Black Tupelo and Strata Luna. A secret life.
"I'm cold," Flora whispered. "Mosquitoes are biting me."
Enrique rubbed her bare arm, causing friction. "You're the one who wanted to come," he reminded her.
Unlike Enrique, Flora was drawn to death. She liked to explore cemeteries, and she'd been on every single Savannah ghost tour more than once.
"Don't give me that shit, Enrique. You wanted me here."
He laughed-a little nervously.
It was true. He didn't like roaming around in the cemetery by himself while Strata Luna practiced her communion with the dead.
Flora tugged on his shirt. "Let's go see Grade."
Darkness had fallen like a shroud, and her face was hardly more than a blur. He pivoted and walked in the opposite direction. "No way, man. I ain't gonna go see Grade."
"Come on," she pleaded in a voice that always weakened him. "I want to see her."
Gracie was famous. She'd died over a hundred years ago, when she was six. There was a life-size statue of her somewhere. To the left? Right? He always got all turned around in Bonaventure.
A lot of people claimed to have seen little Gracie wandering around the cemetery, which was one of the reasons Enrique had asked Flora to come along. If he ran into Gracie, he didn't want to be alone.
"Don't talk about her," he whispered. "She'll hear and you'll draw her to us." And with Strata Luna over there, holding the door between this world and the next wide open, no telling who might show up.
Flora scampered away. "Gracie!" she called. "Oh, Gracie!"
Enrique ran and grabbed her, putting a hand over her mouth.
They'd known each other for years, and were like brother and sister. "Shut up\" he hissed against her cheek. Her hair smelled like flowers.
Flora pried his hand away. "Shhh. Listen," she said, laughter still in her voice. "Did you hear that?"
"What?"
"Something moving."
Enrique straightened in the thick darkness, his eyes and ears straining. Up high, against the sky, he could make out dark curtains of dangling Spanish moss. Lighter objects near the ground were tombstones and cemetery statues.
He hoped none were Gracie.
Damn Flora.
He heard a sound in the distance that made the hair on his scalp stand up and his heart begin to hammer.
Was that a little kid? Talking? Laughing?