“Damned inflation,” he grumbles. “I remember when you could buy stuff out of these machines for a dime.” He proffers his hand and shows me that he has one quarter, one nickel, three pennies, and a lint-covered cherry Lifesaver. “I don’t think I have enough,” he says mournfully.
I fish out my wallet. “Here,” I tell him, handing him a dollar bill. He puts his change back in his pocket, pops the linty Lifesaver in his mouth, and takes the money. The dollar is enough for two purchases and Bjorn opts for a bag of nacho cheese-flavored tortilla chips and a package of Oreos.
Back at the front desk, Stephanie starts to fill me in but is waylaid when her radio to the 911 center goes off.
“Officer needs assistance at the medical examiner’s office, 400 E. Sixth Street. Code 10-103f and 103m.”
“What the hell?” I say. I stand and listen as Stephanie responds and then dispatches all available officers on duty to the site. “What’s 103f and 103m?”
“The 103 is code for a disturbance, the f means there’s a fight, and the m means there might be a mental patient involved.”
A mental patient at my office? I briefly wonder if it might be Arnie but quickly dismiss the idea. He’s a bit off the radar but I’m pretty sure he’s not insane.
Steph’s phone rings and I wait impatiently while she answers it. As soon as she hangs up she says, “That was one of the officers over at your office calling to fill me in. Apparently there is some kind of family squabble going on with the Heinrichs’ offspring and it’s getting kind of dicey.”
Great. The spoiled rich kids. Just what I need.
“Oh, and here’s the report on that tag you wanted,” she adds, handing me a piece of paper. “The car belongs to a lady over in Smithville.”
I mutter a curse under my breath. Smithville is a half hour away and not within Bjorn’s jurisdiction. Apparently reading my mind, Bjorn says through a mouthful of Oreo crumbs, “Hey, I don’t mind if you do the driving.”
“What about your dispatcher?” I ask him.
He shrugs, swallows, and wipes some excess crumbs off his lips with the back of his hand. “I’ll take a few days off and we can use my car. But you’ll have to pay for the gas.”
I nod and say, “That seems fair. Shall we plan it for tomorrow then?”
Bjorn nods; at the moment his mouth is too full to talk. But as soon as he swallows he looks at me with a puzzled expression and says, “Who are you again?”
Chapter 23
As we pull up to the main entrance of the ME’s office, I see that the street is crowded with TV vans and reporters. Clearly the Heinrich tragedy has piqued the public’s interest, not surprising given their wealth and social status. I have no doubt their story will be a feature in newscasts for the next several days, and fodder for magazine articles for weeks to come. When I spy Alison amidst the crowd I have to smile, knowing she must love all this attention. This is the second time in a month she’s had insider status on a huge national story. With any luck some big-city news station will offer her a plum position, getting her out of my hair and away from Hurley.
Not wanting to run the media gauntlet, I pull the cab around back and park in the secured garage. When Bjorn and I finally make our way to the front lobby, we find it packed with people: two regular-duty cops, Hurley, Cass, Izzy, and six other people, five of whom are yelling and gesturing at someone else. There aren’t any media people that I can see, but a few of them are peering through the glass in the front doors, trying to see what’s going on. Fortunately for us, the glass is tinted, making it easy to see out but impossible to see in.
I take a moment to admire the extremely well-fitting jeans Hurley is wearing, and wish for a moment that I was Barbara Eden and could nod all these other people out of here. Then, reluctantly, I shift my focus to the rest of the room.
Standing in front of Cass’s desk are three women. Two of them are Barbie doll twins: personal-trainer thin, artificial D-cups, dyed-to-blond perfection, dressed in designer clothes, artificially tanned, skillfully made up, and adorned in jewelry that costs more than I make in a year. They are screaming at a third woman: a mousy, wallflower type dressed in shabby chic and clutching a pocketbook the size of a small suitcase. The odds may be two to one, but there is a fierce light in the mousy woman’s eyes that makes me think she could easily prevail.
On the adjacent wall is a uniformed police officer who is doing his best to keep two men apart. One of the men, a lanky blond guy with a dark tan and a sun-etched face, is dressed as if he’s ready to hop on a sailboat. The other is heavy-set, balding, and wearing a suit and tie, though the jacket has a worn-to-death sheen to it. I suspect his shirt was at one time white, but several faint stains have blurred the original color beyond recognition. As the officer does his best to keep the two men from coming to blows, they glare at one another with obvious venom—their faces suffused red with anger and their fists clenched tight. If the cop between them fails, I’m putting my money on Mr. Frayed Suit since Sailor Boy has a spoiled, soft look about him and is only half the other man’s size. I am about to award Sailor Boy a couple of grudging points for moxie when I realize it’s more likely he’s being driven by drunken stupidity. He has the bloodshot eyes and slightly bulbous nose of a long-term drinker.
Holding center stage in the middle of the room is Hurley and another man. In stark contrast to the other groupings, these two appear to be carrying on a reasoned and calm conversation. The third man, who is as tall as Hurley and built with a sinewy strength, has dark blond hair, brown eyes, and an air of calm self-assurance. He is dressed in casual slacks and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing a pair of sexy looking tanned and muscular forearms. After a few seconds of study, I gauge his age to be somewhere around my own—in his mid-to-late thirties—and guess that he and Ms. Mousy are the oldest ones in this group.
Bjorn, who is standing beside me taking it all in, says, “Is there a vending machine in this place?”
I’m beginning to think Bjorn might be infected with a tapeworm but decide not to say anything. If I do, I know he’ll have me handling his poo as well as his pee and I don’t want to go there. So I fish in my purse, hand him some change, and direct him down a hallway off the lobby. “Halfway down that hall,” I tell him. “By the bathrooms.”
“Oh, good,” he says, taking the money. “That will work out well because I need to go lay some cable.”
I shoot him a puzzled look. “Lay some cable?”
“Yeah, you know, punch a dook?”
I stare at him, confused.
“Pinch a loaf?” he says.
With that one I finally catch on, but before I can indicate so, he throws his hands up in the air and yells, “I need to take a shit. Okay?”
The entire room falls into a sudden, awkward silence and everyone turns to look at me and Bjorn. We stare back for a few beats and then Bjorn turns and shuffles off down the hallway. Though it seems his outburst provided a distraction, rather than calming the crowd, it gives one of them an opening for an attack.
Ms. Mousy takes her suitcase-sized purse and smacks the crap out of the closest Barbie doll twin, who shrieks and lunges at the woman with her hands extended like claws—albeit well-manicured claws flawlessly painted in Mojave Desert Red. I half expect the other Barbie doll to join in but instead she grabs her twin and pulls her off Ms. Mousy.
“Let’s take a breather, shall we?” the second, saner twin says to the other two women. “We’re all adults here. Why don’t we try to behave so?” Her voice is smooth, silky, and very sexy. I see Hurley staring at her with keen interest and feel a sudden pang of jealousy.