A taxi dropped me at the county morgue. The main entrance was unlit. I peered through the window but couldn’t make out much — an empty reception desk, some green molded-plastic chairs. I rapped on the door and waited. Nothing. I knocked harder. I was about to ring for another taxi when a young bloke unlocked the door and stuck out his head.
“What the bloody hell?” he said.
“I’m here to identify my sister’s body.”
He stared at my scar, like everyone does when they first see the hideous thing, then his gaze darted erratically. “Oh, sorry, lady. But, yeah, like we open at eight o’clock. You’ll have to come back.” He lifted his shoulders in a halfhearted shrug.
A sweet, lemony cloud drifted over me. It wasn’t that the dude was smoking weed that ticked me off. It was his bloodshot and dilated eyes. I’d seen Shinju high enough times to guess he’d snorted heaven dust too.
I glanced at his name tag. “Look, Jeff, I don’t think I can build up the nerve again to do this.” It was a lie. I can face just about anything, but I had my reasons for being there.
He narrowed his eyes and peered at me. “Do I know you?”
“You do now.” I stuck out my hand, gave him a hurried shake, and stepped inside. “Kashiko Nakagawa. My sister drowned. Her body was found on the beach at the Mangrove Resort.”
He shook his head. “I shouldn’t be doing this. I could get in a lot of trouble.”
“World’s full of trouble, Jeff. And I’d feel just terrible if you lost your job because someone found out what you were really doing on your break. That would bring down a shitload of problems.”
He seemed to think about my words, then nodded slowly. “Right-o. Do you have a photo of the deceased?”
I opened my jacket and pulled out a shot Pop had taken of Shinju on an old lugger a few years back. She held a rice-paper parasol to protect her face from the relentless Australian sun. Jeff studied the photo as we walked down the corridor to the holding room. I gave him my sister’s name and he checked the labels on a couple of large metal drawers that lined the walls. When he got to the last drawer on the left side, he yanked it open.
Immediately the stench hit me. I clamped my hand over my nose.
“How’d you say your sister died?”
“Drowned,” I mumbled.
He tilted his head to one side. “No, I remember this one, heard the coroner talking about her. She was that famous model, right? She didn’t drown.”
He pulled back the sheet and my mind went blank. Shinju’s face, bloated and bluish, was pockmarked where the sea life I loved so much had taken nibbles from her flesh. Her dull hair was matted with sand and salt, and her usually powdered and perfumed skin smelled of rotting meat. A wave of nausea rolled over me.
“That’s her,” I whispered. “Pop’s little pearl.” I reached out and smoothed down her eyebrow. Her skin was cold and stiff, and fine sand rolled under my fingertips.
The reek wafted up again. I grabbed an aluminum basin just in time.
Jeff handed me a brown paper towel. “You know,” he said as he stared at Shinju’s picture, “I’ve been studying bone structure, and skulls and whatnot. You two could have been twins.”
“Yeah, we could have been.” I spat out all that was left of my overpriced star fruit. The paper towel was scratchy, but I wiped my mouth again anyway. Spotting a chair, I sat down, bringing the basin with me. Jeff brought me a cup of water.
“How’d the cops know to call my parents?” I asked.
“The cops at the scene thought they recognized her. Went to school with her, they said.”
Considering the state of Shinju’s body, it was a miracle anyone could have recognized her. Bile stung my airways and I was ready to get out of there. “Don’t I need to sign some papers or something?”
“You know, you could have waited until I fixed her up some before identifying the body. You didn’t have to come and see her like this.”
Yeah, I did. But I didn’t tell him that.
Jeff replaced the sheet, slid the steel slab back into the locker, and twisted the handle. He slipped papers from a folder onto a clipboard and told me to sign at all the X’s.
There was no place to sign on the first page, so I flipped to the next. CAUSE OF DEATH stopped me. I sped back to the first page and glanced at the document title. Jeff had accidentally handed me the Initial Autopsy Report. I stole a look at him. He was busy texting. Quickly I scanned the report. The last page was an eight-by-ten glossy. At first I thought the photo had to be a mistake. I stared at the object, amazed at what I saw.
After signing the proper paperwork, I handed Jeff some cash for his trouble and left. The taxi dropped me off just after six. My bike was still in the carport where I’d left it, but the front door of my tiny bungalow wasn’t. Smashed and splintered, it hung wide open.
I peered in. A tightness cinched my rib cage, constricting my heart. Overturned chairs, strewn cushions, and the contents of my travel duffel littered the room. I threaded my way through, stumbling over a potted orchid. A rattan chair broke my fall, and I lowered myself to the floor, fighting for air. My underwater training kicked in — slower, deeper breaths, relaxed muscles, a cleared mind. I scanned my tiny room. Whoever had broken in was gone, but fear returned and my heart raced again.
I called the cops. Then I crawled onto the slashed sofa and curled up at one end. I had just taken a breath when my hands started to shake. Weeks of physical labor aboard the Adelaide, the sight of Shinju’s body, and the break-in had taken their toll. I yanked a blanket from the floor and wrapped myself up tight to keep from shattering into a million pieces.
Closing my eyes, I recalled Shinju’s disfigured face. “Be careful what you wish for,” Pop liked to say. Well, my deep-seated hope had come true: my sister’s famous face was finally more hideous than mine. To see her spoiled looks had been my reason for going to the morgue. But nothing could have prepared me for what I’d seen. The long-awaited satisfaction didn’t come. Instead I felt my heart rend in two.
I must have fallen asleep, because shouts startled me awake. I pivoted my head backward on the arm of the sofa and viewed my ruined doorway upside down. Even distorted, I’d know Tom Lafroy anywhere. After all, I’d seen him from all angles, even half naked enough times. He carried a piece of door frame, picking his way through the room, calling my name. I leapt from the sofa and grabbed the knife on the coffee table I’d used to slice up my star fruit.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” I said.
He looked up, wariness on his sunburned face. “Kashiko, put down the knife.” His voice was soft, measured, and touched with just enough of his father’s Irish lilt to make my heart skip. “I just heard about Shinju.” He fumbled his words then, not sure what to say next. Let him squirm, I thought.
“Are you okay? Your da’s been trying to reach you.” Righting the wicker chair, he came closer. And I wondered for the millionth time if he’d ever really loved my sister.
“I’ll ring him,” I said.
“What happened here?” He swung his head around, quickly taking it all in. Reminded me of the way we pearlers search for oysters on the seabed.
“Maid forgot to show up. Now get out of my house.”
He shook his head. “You still hate me.”