But just when I thought I might be winning fate threw a spanner in the works in the form of the fire extinguisher he’d used originally. By rolling him I’d inadvertently put it back within his reach. With a roar of pain and effort he grasped the metal cylinder, hoisted it overhead and hurled it straight at me like a medicine ball throw.
His aim was spoiled by his sudden inability to use his stomach muscles to their full potential. Even so, the cylinder weighed close to thirty-five pounds. It hit me low — across the chest rather than in the head as he’d no doubt intended — but hard enough to send me tumbling backwards.
I tucked and rolled, got my forearms up and mostly avoiding the damn thing landing directly on top of me. The extinguisher landed just below my sternum and toppled, skimming the side of my head as it went, rebounding off into the darkness.
Nevertheless, it knocked the wind out of me sufficiently to allow the intruder time to scramble to his feet and make a bolt for it. I heard him clatter away, gasping, while I took a vital couple of seconds to drag air into my spasmed diaphragm before I could follow.
Wary now of counterattack and with my head still ringing, I ran back through into the mortuary area taking great care at the doorway. I was slaloming between the empty stainless steel tables when I caught a peripheral glimpse of a figure sliding out of cover behind me. I crouched, had already started to turn when a voice cracked out:
“Hold it!”
And without needing to be told I knew the owner of that voice was either the best actor I’d ever come across, or he was holding a gun. There are not many people who can inject that kind of authority into their tone without firepower to back it up.
I froze, letting my hands come up and away from my sides to shoulder height. It was only then, as the red mist of combat dissipated like smoke, that I recognised the voice.
I let my hands drop back to my sides and turned around fully. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Marcus?”
He was indeed holding a gun, I saw, a big .45 calibre Colt 1911. It took him a moment to bring the muzzle up off target. He straightened out of a stance, relaxed his shoulders.
“I heard noise,” he snapped. “What happened?”
“We had an intruder,” I said, barely keeping hold of my temper. “But he’ll be long gone by now.”
“What was he after?”
I jerked my head back towards the ante room. “Come and see for yourself.”
Marcus let the Colt drop alongside his leg, his finger outside the trigger guard, and followed me through. We split at the doorway — me heading left, him right. He found the switch for the overhead lights without difficulty. They rows of fluorescent tubes threw long shadows over the stacked boxes. Their significance as all that remained of the dead was suddenly very apparent to me.
I glanced along each row as I passed — saw Marcus doing the same thing at the far end — but everything was undisturbed until we came to the one housing the newest arrivals. I reached the mess of spilled boxes first and squatted on my haunches to survey the worst of it.
“This your doing?” Marcus asked.
I looked up sharply to find him approaching. He was carrying the errant fire extinguisher in one hand.
“Not exactly,” I said, getting to my feet. “Although he threw it at me, if that’s what you mean?”
Marcus put the cylinder down. It landed with a solid metallic thump on the hard floor. He moved forwards, eyes on me intently. I almost stepped back in response to the anger I saw there, had to force myself not to flinch when he reached for me.
“Let’s see that.” It was an order, not a request.
His fingers were cool against my cheek as he nudged my face to the side, angling it to the light. He wiped his thumb across the corner of my eyebrow and I felt the rasp of dried blood I hadn’t realised was there.
“We should get that looked at,” he said.
I shook myself out of his grasp. “Later. It’s nothing,” I said, ignoring the radiating headache. “It was a glancing blow. If he’d caught me full on I’d still be unconscious.”
I’d once had my life saved by just such a fire extinguisher. I reckoned this made us even.
“Would you recognise him if you saw him again?”
“Probably,” I said. “Depends if he bruises easily, but I broke at least two of his ribs, lower left. That’s going to put a crimp in his day for a while.”
Marcus’s eyes narrowed as if trying to work out how much flippancy to ignore. Then he released me and nodded. “Good job.”
“No, not really,” I said grumpily. “If I’d done a good job I’d have him zip-tied face down on the floor right now and we’d know exactly what he was after.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Why go to the trouble of breaking in ’ere to steal from the dead,” Dr Bertrand demanded, “When we all know that items of value lie unguarded in the streets? It makes no sense.”
She finished applying adhesive Steri-Strips to close the small cut to my eyebrow and stepped back with a nod of satisfaction at her own handiwork.
My smile of thanks went unacknowledged, so I asked, “Do we know which boxes were disturbed?”
Joe Marcus hesitated for a moment then said, “They targeted the people found close by where we pulled Santiago Rojas out of the jewellery store. The family in the car, the couple found outside the store, a man on the sidewalk, plus two more in an art gallery on the opposite side of the street.”
“What was taken?”
He sighed. “That we don’t know. It’s all handwritten notes made by the recovery teams. Only as the victims are processed is everything photographed, formally catalogued and transferred to the computer system. There isn’t time to do it in the field.”
“Then they should make time!” Dr Bertrand said firmly. “As it is, we ’ave lost sources of valuable information. Without them, some of the identifications may be in doubt.”
She was clearly taking this as a personal affront. I knew from the dossier Mrs Hamilton had provided on the R&R staff that the doctor prided herself on her track record when it came to reconciling the dead.
“Alex, it’s close to a hundred degrees out there,” Marcus said, his voice reasonable. “The longer it takes for the bodies to be gotten back here and into cold storage, the harder time you’re gonna to have with ’em.”
She gave a very Gallic shrug, stripped off her gloves and strode away across the deserted mortuary to replace the First Aid kit.
I hopped down from the steel post-mortem examination table where I’d been perched, and hoped it was a good few years before I found myself on one again.
As Dr Bertrand made her somewhat flouncy exit, Riley appeared with a stack of three archive boxes piled so tall in his arms he had to walk sideways to see where he was going. The muscles in his stringy biceps stood out starkly with the effort.
“That’s everything gathered up,” he said, dumping the boxes onto the table I’d just vacated. “He’d even ripped the inventory sheets off the outside of the boxes. Thorough bugger, wasn’t he?”
“Not as thorough as he would have liked to be,” I said. “Let’s hope he left us something behind.”
“Wallets and purses are gone,” Riley said cheerfully. Most you’ve got is some jewellery and personal items.”
“Is there a ruby engagement ring?” I asked. “It should have belonged to the woman from outside the jewellery store.”
“Half a mo,” Riley said, unstacking the boxes and removing the lid of the bottom one. He rummaged around inside, moving bags of clothing and shoes until he came to a bunch of smaller clear plastic zip-lock bags. I saw earrings in one, a thin gold watch, and finally a ring.