Chapter Five
Ezra
Idon’t get Jett’s obsession with the Tarot. I mean, I don’t get Jett in general. They’re always a shade too friendly, and they’ll give me this look like they know more about me than I want them to. The thing that really pissed me off this time, though, was not that they gave me The Devil card.
It’s that The Devil had that dead woman’s face, blue eyeshadow and all. Had to be a mind trick. She’s going to haunt my dreams if I’m not careful.
And for fuck’s sake, I really wanted a fucking cappuccino.
Since I can’t have one—or at least can’t have oneyet—I dodge raindrops and find my little nook between buildings. I’ve done my three days of penance so now I’m free to light up.
I fish this morning’s half-smoked butt out of the pack and try to pretend that a deep drag will wake me up as well as caffeine. Jk. It won’t but a guy can dream.
At least I’m out of the rain and most of the wind, so I puff away. By Sunday I’d managed to eke out a few moments ofI’m not completely freaking out.Then this morning James Smith is still in the morgue. The cops asked us to hold on to him until a couple of detectives examine him, and just that easy, I’m back to being a ball of nerves.
Damn well better happen today.
I take one last drag, drop the butt, and step on it to put out the cherry. When I crouch down to pick it up—can’t litter—someone’s there.
I lurch forward, coughing, terrified that I’m going to see Murder Dude. Like maybe he really is haunting me. It’s not him. It’s Damon. He’s holding a cup from Brew on the Hill in my direction. I straighten, trying to pull myself together. His smile holds a tinge of embarrassment.
“Sorry,” he says. “Jett told me where to find you.”
How the hell did Jett know?I clench my teeth until I’m able to give a nearly sincere, “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
I take the cup and he lifts his own like we’re going to toast. “I guess I’ll see you... uh... “
I don’t help him out by filling in the blanks. “Probably, yeah.”
He gives me a look like he wants to say something else, but with a little headshake, he takes off. I stand there for another couple minutes. The cappuccino is warm and fragrant, and while I should be touched by his consideration, all I really want to do is cry.
Don’t be nice to me. Shit. I need to stick to dead people.
The rest of the day is busy, especially since I keep getting interrupted by a pair of police detectives who want anything we have on Murder Du—I mean, James Smith. I don’t even mind the interruptions, because at least we’ll be able to move the body when they’re done. They tell me they got an anonymous tip about a crime he may have committed, and I smile and nod and try not to make my relief too obvious.
One of the detectives is especially persistent. Black, mid-thirties, with a flat-top military haircut and a jaw just as square, he makes it clear he’ll find the victim or know the reason why. He asks for the guy’s personal belongings and is clearlyunimpressed with the small plastic bag I hand him. “The guy was a hit-and-run,” I say. “All we have is what he wore when they picked him up.”
He hefts the bag. “Seems like it should be more than this.”
To appease him, I double-check the storage area. I’m not a total asshole and I do want to help but my good intentions come up empty.
His frustration almost makes me want to tell him what the victim looks like. Except he’ll never believe me, and I’d out myself as the anonymous tipper. Nah, I’m just glad they’re looking into it, though their presence confirms that my buddy James never did time for the crime, which is annoying as fuck.
Does it really matter that my act absolved a man of one of the most heinous sins you can commit? His sins weigh on me, an ugly bulk that three days of penance didn’t entirely get rid of. Worse, the thought that he got away with it rots in my gut like a bad tuna sandwich. For something this big, I should probably plan on three weeks of penance instead of three days, which, hell no. I’ll meet St. Whoever at the Pearly Gates in whatever shape I’m in when I get there.
Heaven is for the Karens and the Justins of the world. I’m just going to do whatever I can to make sure the woman he murdered gets some kind of justice.
Geneva’s got the day off. The other morgue tech, Shanny, likes to work alone, which is fine by me. Dr. Chen is doing a post on a guy who came down from the CICU early this morning, and Shanny insists she doesn’t need my help. That puts me at the desk, flipping through charts to try to look busy. My cappuccino’s almost gone and if my knee were vibrating any faster, it’d pound right through this ugly linoleum floor.
Detective Determined and his partner are tricked out in hazmat suits, pawing over the body of James Smith. Am I nervous that they’ll notice his shortened pinky nails? A little. I’mnot sure what good my little stash of detritus will do, but I’m glad I’ve got it.
“What time is he going to get picked up?” the detective asks. He’s got his hands on his hips, making his wide frame that much wider. If we were in a wrestling match, he’d squash me like a bug.
I stand, so at least I’m closer to his eye level. “I’ll call Renton to come get him whenever you’re done.”
“Should have gone to Harborview for autopsy,” he snaps. I choose not to respond. Not my circus.
