Shivering, Ava took in the subtle-to-the-point-of-bland décor, the anonymously pleasing print on the wall, her carry-on propped in the far corner, the channel list and room service menu and four of her nineteen lip balms on the bedside table.
Right. The Hyatt. Nestled in the hell on earth that was Bloomington, Minnesota. It wasn’t ten years ago, it was now. Danielle had been dead ten years; the memorial was yesterday. The ME was a broad-shouldered odd duck who had wonderful dark eyes, a genius niece, a yellow lab, and a maybe-friend named Abe, and Danielle had known something was going to happen.
She knew. And you blew it off as teen angst.
Ava swung her legs around until her feet were on the floor but didn’t trust herself to stand just yet. Danielle’s face on that last day haunted her, simultaneously knowing and bored.
But not afraid.
Resigned.
She dug her fingers into the furrows of her forehead and bent at the waist. You’re reading into it, she thought, staring at the dark blue carpet. The conversation didn’t go like that. You came over to hang out and scarf pizza and figure out the schedule and when the pizza was gone, you were, too.
No … that wasn’t exactly … wait, was it?
You’re trying to feel useful because, back then, you weren’t useful to anyone. So your subconscious served up version 2.0 of that last talk to trick you into thinking you know something that you don’t.
That’s all.
(That wasn’t all.)
No, that wasn’t all. Danielle had been waiting for something, had given off an air of palpable doom.
Oh, come on. What teenager isn’t convinced at one time or another that dire forces are aligned against them?
Right. Except … her friend had been dreading something that last day. And because neither she nor Danielle knew it was the last day together, they’d done what they always did: talked about everything and nothing. The killer might be somewhere in the midst of all their babble. Or if not him, then his motive.
Ava realized she was on her feet but had no memory of standing. She had to tell someone. No. No need to be coy: she had to tell Tom Baker. If nothing else, she owed him a follow-up.
Why? Because you had a dream about a conversation that never took place? And because he’s got shoulders for days and a narrow waist and a wonderful rumbly deep voice and kisses the way gourmets cook, you voice-kink floozy?
Well, yes.
So call and leave a message. If he thinks it’s worth a follow-up, he’ll reach out.
Not good enough. She’d promised to help and, dammit, may well have information that could be helpful, dammit, and she needed to find Tom and bring him up to speed, dammit! (Also, she had seventy-two hours to kill, no pun intended.)
Not because he was interesting, although he was. But because once he knew what she
(dreamed)
did, they might be able to get something done. This time she wouldn’t wonder if she could have done more because she had done more.
So she’d go see Tom. And would respect his efficiency by offering to buy him an early dinner in the process. Because he’d probably like a meeting/eating combo. Because of the efficiency!
But you don’t give a shit about eff—
Efficiency!
Twenty
THE LIST
Update Tom
Call union rep back
Order black dress
Lotion
Stay up late to avoid faux-prophetic dreams about Danielle
“Well, hiya!”
Ava blinked. Apparently when you came to the morgue during reasonable hours (as opposed to following the coroner like an easily distracted stalker having an ice-cream-truck flashback), you were greeted by a pleasant young woman who exuded positivity and favored pastels.
“What can I do for ya?” Argh, so much bright-eyed enthusiasm! And pink! She was wearing a pale pink silk T-shirt beneath a darker pink blazer, which should have made her look like an inverted tulip, but instead the contrast with her dark skin was striking in all the best ways. She was the picture of health, too, with blueish corneas, dark eyes, and a bright smile. She looked like she spent her spare time shooting commercials touting the benefits of drinking milk.
“Hi. My name’s Ava Capp. I’m hoping to see Dr. Baker.” Before the assistant could chirp the inevitable question, she added, “I don’t have an appointment. But it’ll only take a minute.” Unless I take him to an early supper, in which case it could take hours. Maybe days! Wait, what’s my endgame here?
“Actually, Doc Baker’s just finishing up some paperwork before heading out. Let me just check in and see—aaiiee!”
“Hello, Ava.”
The assistant, Darla Tran if the nameplate was accurate, had twisted around in her chair to glare up at Tom. “Swear to God, Doc, I’m putting a bell around your neck!”
“No, thank you. I would find that intensely irritating.”
“Ya know what else is intensely irritating?”
“You did sort of loom up out of nowhere,” Ava pointed out. “I didn’t even hear you walk over.”
“It’s my footwear.” Tom smiled down at his feet. “These particular soles muffle my footsteps.”
“Oh. That’s great, I guess. If gliding noiselessly through the morgue is the goal.”
“It’s like working for a cat,” Darla declared. “A clumsy one.” Ava made a great effort and did not snicker. “No offense, boss.”
“None taken. Ava, you wished to see me?”
“Yeah, if you’re not busy. Or at least not too busy. I thought of something that might be useful.”
He tilted his head and studied her. She must have been downwind (did you still call it “downwind” when there was no discernible wind?), because she realized all over again how good he smelled, like soap and clean skin. And how the hell did he manage that, given his day job?
Darla must have been wondering the same, because she tilted her head to one side and asked, “You napped in one of the drawers again, didn’t you, Doc?”
“Abe maintains he can effectively cool our home by simply closing all the curtains. This is false. The air-conditioning unit arrives the day after tomorrow.”
Slept … in one of the drawers. Slept in one of the drawers? THE DRAWERS? Oh my God, he’s so weird and cool. Literally.
“How … how does that work?” Did he keep pajamas at work, too? And a toothbrush? Did he set an alarm? Had someone ever mistaken him for a dead body? So many questions.
He blinked. “I get sleepy. I lie down. I rest. I rise.”
It’s aliiiiiiiiive! “Yep, sounds about right,” Ava lied, because it sounded deeply screwed.
“I’d say it isn’t as weird as it sounds,” Darla said, “but that would be a big fat fib.”
“Ava, you have information you think might be useful?”
“Huh? Oh. Sorry. Distracted by the reveal of your nap habits. But yeah, I had some thoughts.”
“I’d like to hear them.”
“Oh. Yes. Well…” Do I just blurt out my dream right here in front of Darla? See if I can damage her positive outlook? Although if her boss snoozing with the cadavers didn’t damage it, what the hell would? An audit? Plague? “Did you want to grab a bite? And talk it over?”