Gregg Hurwitz - Last shot

"Don't know."

"Can we find out? And what happened with Tess's shrink?"

"The usual," Guerrera said. "I reached a couple of counseling centers in the area, patient confidentiality, blah blah blah. That nut ain't worth the cracking time, socio."

"Did you get Tess's autopsy?"

"He handed the job off to me." In his best Billy Bob Thornton, Denley added, "Ah like them purty pictures, mm-hm." He scurried off. "Lemme grab the file."

The door banged open, and Dray strode in, Tyler koala-hooked to a hip, her other arm pinning down an investigation file.

"You got it?" Tim asked.

"I got more than that." Dray set Tyler down, slapping fives and exchanging hugs with some of the guys. Ty promptly crawled over and undid Bear's shoelaces.

Denley watched Tyler with a smile. "How is the little man?"

"Handful." Dray snatched the autopsy report from Denley. "What's this?" She started to thumb through it as Tyler sat on Tim's shoe, affixing himself to his leg.

One of the transfers-a mustached kid out of the Cincinnati office-said, "That contains some pretty gruesome photos, ma'am."

She looked up from the open file. A few of the deputies chuckled. Denley raised his eyebrows and stepped back from the line of fire.

"During both of my C-sections, I had my bladder in my lap," Dray said. "Don't tell me about gruesome."

Zimmer whispered something to the newcomer, who flushed and got busy on a nearby phone. The deputies dispersed, and Dray rolled a chair over, facing Tim, Bear, and Guerrera and executing a behind-the-back blind snatch of the pencil that Tyler's teeth were about to clamp down on.

"The good thing is," she said, "there was an investigation into Tess's death, however superficial, before the suicide ruling closed the matter. Elliott worked the intro between me and the case detective, and so I got a thorough background. First, about the victim: Tess was single-divorced-no relationship to speak of, not much money. She had a very ill seven-year-old son, some kind of genetic disorder. Bad news. She picked up an accounting degree online after he was diagnosed and went from a waitress gig to running a dentist's office. If I were prone to drawing conclusions, I might say she was seeking ways to maximize her income to pay for the kid's medical treatment. And if I were a chauvinist, I might point out that there are some money-generating activities that can lead to pregnancy, but then I'd have to offend myself, so I won't."

Bear said, "Not married, knocked up, broke, desperate, sick kid-it adds up to a convincing suicide."

"Convincing?" Guerrera said. "I don't believe a woman who was pregnant would commit suicide." His accent got stronger with the machismo.

"How many times you been pregnant?" Dray asked. "Not as much fun as it looks. Now, the good news is the pregnancy bought us a more thorough investigation, as we see here." She tapped the autopsy file with her short-trimmed nails. "The detective dotted his i's, wanting to keep anyone from crying Laci. It was an early-term, seven weeks, so Tess likely knew about it, though from interviews on file, no one else did. Obviously, if we could find the-and I use the term in its strict zoological sense-'father,' we'd be in good shape, but the detective got nowhere on that either, so for now I'll put it on my wish list next to 'Footage of Suicide.'"

One of Zimmer's prostitute informants hustled past them toward his desk.

"Lady haff short dress," Tyler observed.

Bear craned his neck. "She sure does."

Dray said, "You know what else he likes? Bourbon and unfiltered Luckies." Bear shrugged apologetically, and she continued, "Blood-flow pattern shows she was alive at the time of the shooting, so it's either what it looks like or someone knew what they were doing. She did have gunshot residue on her left hand. As Bear pointed out, there's a good case to be made for a suicide. But here's what I don't like. One: no suicide note. As we all know, women-especially women with kids-leave notes. If only to register their final complaints."

Tyler held out his arms, and when Tim hoisted him into his lap, he rested his soft, warm head in the hollow of Tim's neck and curled a tiny fist around Tim's thumb. Tim tipped his nose to the downy white hair, caught the scent of no-tears shampoo.

Dray continued, "Problem two: She seemed to have a very close relationship with her son, but she left her body for him to find. She made some arrangements for the night of-he was at a sleepover up the street-so why let him walk home and see the aftermath?"

"Maybe it was a fuck-you to the kid," Denley called out from his desk. "His condition's wearing her down or something."

"Like that metalhead in Calabasas," Bear added. "Shot himself in front of the Christmas tree."

"That's right-more male," Dray said. "Females tend more passive-aggressive and considerate. They prefer the rented motel room, the laid-down shower curtain, even, so no one has to clean up after them."

Tyler started fussing, straddling Tim's thigh and sliding around like a boneless chicken. Tim set him down. "Was the gun she used registered to her?"

"I'm not done counting yet," Dray said. "Three: slightly odd angle for the shot. Judging from the spatter and the drainage, her head had to have been turned so her chin was parallel to her shoulder. Not impossible certainly, but why?" Tyler squirmed on the floor, babbling something, and she replied, "I know, baby, I'm hungry, too. We'll have some Goldfishies in a minute. Four: The detective found a red smudge at the curb outside her house above a sewer grate. Bright red." She moved some stacks to the floor, clearing space on the workstation, and then set down the investigation file and produced a few crime-scene photos. A splotch of vivid red stood out against the white concrete. Perspective shots located the mark at the curbside edge of the neighbor's house, in front of a stand of juniper. A good lurking site.

"Looks like model paint, almost," Tim said.

"They took it to the lab on the off chance it proved to be blood. The results were weird. It contained, among other things, food ingredients"-biting her lip, she flipped through some pages, using her leg to shield Tyler from crawling under her chair-"sweetener and gelatin. It was still wet the night of. The detective thought whatever it was, it might have come from the shooter's vehicle. The neighbor remembered a car parked there, but nothing more. She just saw shadows and a big hood ornament."

"A Rolls?" Tim offered. "Jag, maybe? What?"

"Dunno. She said bigger than normal ornaments, like the size of a bowling ball. But she's about a hundred and eighteen years old, so I'm not too excited about her account."

"Where's the evidence?"

"In the storage locker at the lab."

"We'll get Aaronson on the stain, see if he can pull a rabbit for us. Now, the gun-"

"Yes, it was registered to her. A Glock 19."

"I'd expect her to have a revolver. Easier."

Bear nodded at Tim's Smith amp; Wesson wheel gun, snug in the holster. "Not everyone's stuck in the 1860s, Rack."

"She's a gun gal," Dray said. "Which means the gunshot-residue analysis on her hand is inconclusive. She had an ammo card for the Littlerock Canyon Gun Club, which showed she'd shot there just the day before. In his statement the range operator there said she's pretty good, learned from her brother in the marines."

Guerrera finished with the autopsy glossies and passed them to Tim. A pale version of the face Tim had first seen gummed to the wall of Walker's cell. Strong residual powder burns and a star-shaped hole at the left temple indicated that the muzzle had been touching the flesh. Her features had been pressed out of shape by the explosion-nothing obvious, but a subtle shifting of the position of the nose, the levelness of the eyes, the cant of the mouth-a minuscule yet grotesque reskewing that spoke to the destruction beneath.