“What the hell happened to you?” he asks. “Your hair looks like you stuck your finger in a light socket.”
I scowl at him and make a self-conscious swipe at my head. Before I can say anything, Hurley jumps in with an explanation. “The guys in the truck deemed her too rank to sit inside so they made her ride back on the flatbed.”
Izzy’s eyes grow wide and he gives me a cautiously sympathetic look. “I’m sorry, Mattie. I know this has been a rotten day for you,” he says gently.
Hurley snorts and says, “Yeah, it stinks that you had to ride in the back.”
Arnie, who is out of the van and standing beside Hurley, chuckles and says, “No kidding. That really reeks.”
“A truly rank day,” says Hurley.
“Utterly foul,” adds Arnie.
The two of them are wearing shit-eating grins and I give Izzy a pleading look. For a split second he manages to look disgusted by the humor, but then he turns on me faster than a starving dog on a steak.
“Totally putrid,” he tosses out, and then all three of them start guffawing like they’re at a hillbilly hootenanny.
I fold my arms over my chest and glare at them with my best Look but it doesn’t even begin to penetrate. I fear I’m losing my touch. So I move on to threats instead. “I think I need to give each and every one of you a great big bear hug,” I say, jumping down from the flatbed and spreading my arms wide as I move toward them. Hurley and Izzy both back up without hesitation but Arnie stands transfixed for a moment, clearly weighing the nastiness of being stunk up against the sweetness of a possible cleavage nestle. Ignoring Arnie, I close in on Izzy and Hurley. Izzy, realizing he might get backed against the wall and no doubt aware of his inability to outrun me, holds his hands up, nods in the direction of the other two men, and says, “Do it and I’ll tell them your real name.”
Hurley’s eyebrows shoot up with curiosity and I stop dead in my tracks, silently cursing Izzy. “I’ll make you pay, all of you,” I seethe. Then I stomp off toward the shower, leaving the boys behind me giggling like a gaggle of little girls.
Chapter 18
Tuesday morning, freshly scrubbed and showered for the fourth time since yesterday afternoon’s fiasco, I take the jacket Hurley loaned me the day before, which I have tied up inside two plastic bags to try to mask the odor, and drop it off at the dry cleaner. The same woman is on duty and the first thing she says when I walk in is, “Your dress isn’t done yet but it should be ready later today.”
“That’s fine,” I tell her. I didn’t expect the dress to be done yet but I didn’t want to hang on to the jacket any longer than necessary, fearful it would stink up my car. “I’m here to drop something else off.” I toss the bag onto the counter, and when she starts to open it I stop her.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I caution. “It’s a bit pungent. You’ll want to wear gloves and such to handle it.”
Her expression is a mix of intrigue and fright. “What is it?” she asks, trying to peer through the white plastic.
“It’s a jacket. A man’s jacket. Unfortunately it was exposed to some pretty nasty stuff at a scene with some decomposed bodies.”
Her eyes grow wide. “Was it that car accident thing that was on the news last night?” She leans closer. “Was it really the Heinriches in there?”
“We don’t know for sure,” I tell her. “And I can’t say anything more until we can confirm the IDs.”
She frowns, clearly disappointed. “This is going to cost extra,” she says, nodding toward the bag. “A lot extra.”
I suspect she’s being punitive because of my unwillingness to share and is enjoying what little power she can wield over me. So I flash a smile of indifference and say, “That’s fine. And there’s no rush. Whenever you can get to it.”
I leave the disappointed dry cleaner behind and drive to the office, where Arnie informs me that Izzy is out doing some follow-up tests for his physical and isn’t planning to do the autopsies on the Heinrichs until the afternoon. Preferring to spend time at home with Rubbish rather than holed up in the library—which is the closest thing I have to an office—I grab some textbooks and drive back to my house, where I spend a couple of hours studying up on how weather affects decomposition rates.
At a little past eleven my cell phone rings and a look at the caller ID tells me it’s Lucien. I wince, knowing I have to talk to him in order to get an update on Erik’s situation, but reluctant to spend any time in conversation with the man who once declared himself a “vagitarian.”
“How’s it going, Sweet Cheeks?” he says when I answer.
“Fine. Have you had a chance to look at Erik’s case yet?”
“I have. The case against him is mostly circumstantial at this point.”
“Can you help him?”
“I’m willing to give it the old college try,” he says. “I told him I’d cut him a break on the fees as a favor to my favorite sister-in-law.”
Not much of a compliment considering I’m his only sister-in-law.
“His arraignment is tomorrow morning. I’ll update you when I know something more.”
“Thanks, Lucien.” I’m about to disconnect, feeling relieved that my conversation with him was a relatively normal one this time, when he tosses out another tidbit.
“Gotta run, Sweet Cheeks. I’m due in court. I’m representing an Australian woman who got slapped with a DWI.” That sounds normal enough until he adds, “She told me she’s a lesbian. That lends a whole new meaning to the term down under, doesn’t it?”
After I hang up the phone, I turn my mental efforts toward Shannon’s murder by digging out a telephone book and looking up Luke Nelson’s address and phone number. I expect to reach a receptionist or an answering machine, but Nelson himself answers.
“Hi, Dr. Nelson. This is Mattie Winston. I’m a deputy coroner with the medical examiner’s office.”
There’s a bit of a pause before he responds. “I’m guessing this is about Shannon Tolliver?” he says rhetorically. “I heard about it yesterday. What a terrible thing.”
“Yes,” I agree. “It is terrible. I’m wondering if you might have some time for me to come by and talk to you about it.”
“I’ve already arranged to meet with a Detective Hurley on the matter. Won’t that suffice?”
I mutter a curse under my breath at hearing that Hurley has beat me to the guy. “Well, while my office does work with the police, we also conduct our own, separate investigation into these matters.” This isn’t totally true but Nelson doesn’t need to know that.
“I see,” he says, emitting a heavy sigh. “Can’t you do it together so I don’t have to set up two separate appointments? I’m a very busy man.”
His tone, and the implication that his time is more important than the investigation into Shannon’s death, irks me, but I swallow down my ire, not wanting to alienate him this early in the process.
“Perhaps we can accommodate you in that regard,” I tell him. “When are you meeting with Detective Hurley?”
“He’s coming by this evening at six, after I’m done with my patient appointments.”
“Darn,” I say. “I have plans this evening and won’t be able to make it then.” It’s a lie. I have no plans, and much as I would love to spend more time with Hurley, I can’t resist the chance to scoop him. “I don’t suppose you’d have any free time before then? Like now?”
He rewards my request with another world-weary sigh, letting me know he thinks I’m a huge pain in the ass. “Fine,” he says, clearly perturbed. “I’m eating at my desk right now since I typically use my lunch hour to review the charts of my afternoon patients. I have forty-five minutes before my next appointment, and if you can get here before then, I’ll give you whatever time is left.”