highway.
They rode in silence. The Office of the Chief Medical Examiner was actually in
Farmington, almost forty miles outside New Haven. The morgue, thought Alex. I’m going to the morgue. In a Mercedes. Alex thought about turning on the radio—the old kind with a red line that glided through the stations like a finger seeking the right spot on a page.
Then she thought of Darlington’s voice floating out of the speakers— Get out of my car, Stern— and decided she was fine with the silence.
It took them the better part of the hour to find their way to the OCME. Alex wasn’t sure
what she’d expected, but when they got there she was grateful for the bright lights, the big
lot, the office-park feel of it all.
“Now what?” said Dawes.
Alex took the plastic baggie and the tin they’d prepared from her satchel and wedged
them into the back pockets of her jeans. She opened her door, shrugged off her coat and
scarf, and tossed them onto the passenger seat.
“What are you doing?” asked Dawes.
“I don’t want to look like a student. Give me your sweatshirt.” Alex’s peacoat was thin
wool with a polyester lining, but it screamed college. That was exactly why she’d bought it.
Dawes seemed like she wanted to object, but she unzipped her parka, shucked off her
sweatshirt, and tossed it over to Alex, shivering in her T-shirt. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
“Of course it isn’t. Let’s go.”
Through the glass doors, Alex saw that the waiting room had a few people in it, all trying to get their business done before closing. A woman sat at a desk near the back of the
room. She had fluffy brown hair that showed a red rinse beneath the office lights.
Alex sent a quick text to Turner: We need to talk. Then she told Dawes, “Wait five minutes and then come in, sit down, pretend you’re waiting for someone. If that woman
leaves her desk, text me right away, okay?”
“What are you going to do?”
“Talk to her.”
Alex wished she hadn’t wasted her coin of compulsion on the coroner. She had only one left and she couldn’t afford to use it to get past the front desk, not if the plan went the way she hoped.
She tucked her hair behind her ears and bustled into the waiting room, rubbing her arms. A poster had been hung behind the desk: SYMPATHY AND RESPECT. A small sign read,
My name is Moira Adams and I’m glad to help. Glad, not happy. You weren’t supposed to be happy in a building full of dead people.
Moira looked up and smiled. She had some hard-living lines around her eyes and a cross around her neck.
“Hi,” Alex said. She made a show of taking a deep, shuddering breath. “Um, a
detective said I could come here to see my cousin.”
“Okay, hon. Of course. What’s your cousin’s name?”
“Tara Anne Hutchins.” The middle name had been easy enough to come by online. The
woman’s face grew wary. Tara Hutchins had been in the news. She was a homicide victim,
the kind that could draw crazies. “Detective Turner sent me here.”
Moira’s expression was still cautious. He was the lead detective on the case and his name had most likely been in the media.
“You can have a seat while I try to reach him,” said Moira. Alex held up her phone.
“He gave me his information.” She sent another quick text: Pick up NOW, Turner. Then she slid to the call screen and dialed on speaker. “Here,” she said, holding out her cell.
Moira sputtered, “I can’t …” But the faint sound of the phone ringing and Alex’s expectant expression did the trick. Moira pressed her lips together and took the cell from
Alex.
The call went to Turner’s voicemail, just as Alex had known it would. Detective Abel
Turner would pick up when he damn well felt like it, not when some pissy undergrad told
him to, especially not when she demanded it.
Alex hoped Moira would just hang up, but instead she cleared her throat and said,
“Detective Turner, this is Moira Adams, public outreach at OCME. If you could give us a