Tess Gerritsen - Peggy Sue Got Murdered

M. J. opened the file. It was, indeed, one of Ratchet's cases. She had seen this file before; she remembered it now. This was the Jane Doe of the glorious red hair, the marble skin. The page from the central ID lab was clipped to the inside front flap, with a notice of a fingerprint match. The corpse's name was Peggy Sue Barnett. She had a police record: shoplifting, prostitution, public drunkenness. She was twenty-three years old.

"Do we still have the body?" asked M. J.

"No. There's the release authorization."

M. J. glanced at the form. It was signed by Wheelock the day before, releasing the body to Greenwood Mortuary.

"I called it a probable barbiturate OD," said Ratchet. "I mean, it seemed reasonable. There was a bottle of Fiorinal next to her."

"Were barbs found in her tox screen?"

"Just a trace."

"No needles found on site? No tourniquet?"

"Just the pills, according to the police report. That's why I assumed it was barbs. I guess I was wrong."

"So was I," she said quietly.

"What?"

She reached for the telephone and dialed the police. It rang five times, then a voice answered, "Beamis, Homicide."

"Lou? M. J. Novak. We've got another one here."

"Another what?"

"Zestron OD. But this one's different."

She heard Beamis sigh. Or was that a yawn? "I'm real interested."

"The victim's name is Peggy Sue Barnett. She was found in Bellemeade-a week before the others. And get this-she was set up to look like a barbiturate OD."

"Are you going to tell me what is going on?" whined Ratchet.

M. J. ignored him. "Lou," she said. "I'm going to stick my neck out on this one." She paused. "I'm calling it murder."

Beamis tossed the police file down on his desk and looked across at M. J. "Dead end, Novak. No motive. No witnesses. No signs of violence. Peggy Sue Barnett was a loner. We can't locate even a single relative or friend."

"Someone must have known her."

"No one who'll come forward." Beamis leaned back in his chair. "We're stuck. If it's murder, then someone's committed the perfect crime."

"And chosen the perfect victim," said M. J. She looked at Shradick, who was hunched at his desk, making a ham sandwich disappear. "Vince? You talk to Greenwood Mortuary'?"

"They've had no calls, and the burial's tomorrow. But someone did pay the expenses."

"Who?"

"Anonymous. Envelope stuffed with cash."

M. J. shook her head in disbelief. "And you guys aren't chasing that?"

"Why? Not a crime to pay for a woman's burial."

"It shows that someone knew her. And cared about her. Don't you guys have anything?"

"We know she lived out in Bellemeade," said Beamis. "Had an apartment on Flashner and Grove. We asked around the building, and you know what? No one even knew her name. They'd seen her come and go, but that was it. So much for witnesses."

"How did she get the drug?"

Beamis shrugged. "Maybe she bought it off Esterhaus. Or got a free sample in exchange for, uh, services."

"Prostitution?"

"She'd been busted for it before. It's hard to teach an old dog new tricks, pardon the double entendre."

"So we're back to blaming Herb Esterhaus?"

"I don't know who else to blame. It's a dead end for us."

For Peggy Sue Barnett as well , thought M. J. She remembered the woman's flame-colored hair, her porcelain beauty, shrouded in the cold mist of the morgue drawer. Not the sort of looks that went unnoticed in this world. Surely there'd been friends, lovers? Men who'd known the pleasures of her company, if only for a night. Where were they now?

A woman dies, and no one seems to notice . She thought about this as she walked through the police station. She thought about herself, wondered how many would notice her death, would come to her funeral. Ratchet, of course. Wheelock, out of duty. But there'd be no husband, no family, no giant mounds of flowers on the grave. We're alike, Peggy Sue and I. Whether by choice or by circumstance, we've made our way alone through life .

She stopped at the elevators and punched the down button. Just as the floor bell rang, she heard a voice say behind her, "Well, speak of the devil."

Turning, she saw her ex-husband emerge from the chiefs office. You wouldn't come to my funeral, either , she thought with a sudden dart of hostility.

"My, what a nice scowl you're wearing today," said Ed.

They both stepped into the elevator and the doors slapped shut. He was looking dapper as usual, not a scuff on his shiny Italian shoes. What had she ever seen in him? she wondered. Then she thought, morosely, What had he ever seen in her?

"I got what you asked for," he said.

"What?"

"The name of the cop who arrested Esterhaus last year. You still want it, don't you?"

"Who was it?"

"The name was Ben Fuller, narcotics detail. A sergeant with eighteen years on the force. He filed the arrest report. Possession of three live marijuana plants."

"Did Fuller also arrange the release?"

"Nope. Feds did. They stepped in and pulled their ex-witness out of the fire. So you can drop the conspiracy angle. Fuller had nothing to do with it."

"Can I see his Internal Affairs file?"

"Won't do you any good."

"Why not?"

The elevator doors slid open. "Because Ben Fuller's dead," he said, and walked out.

M. J. dashed after him into the first floor lobby. "Dead? How?"

"Shot to death in the line of duty. He was a good cop, M. J. I've talked to his buddies. He had a wife, three kids, and a whole drawer full of commendations. So lay off the guy, okay? He was a hero. He doesn't deserve some broad with an attitude mucking up his memory." With that, Ed went out the front door.

M. J. watched her ex-husband stride away down the sidewalk. A broad with an attitude. Is that what I am ? she wondered.

She stalked off to her car.

Traffic was heavy on Dillingham, and she didn't have the patience to deal with it. Every red light, every idiot making a left turn, seemed to jog her irritation up another notch. By the time she got back to the morgue, she felt like a menace to the public. So I'm a broad with an attitude. So what ? she thought as she went into her office. There she halted in amazement.

Two dozen long-stemmed roses sat in a vase on her desk. "What the hell's this ?"

Ratchet stuck his head out of his office and called out sweetly: "So who's the new lover boy, Novak?"

She slammed the door on his laughter. Then she sank into her chair and sat staring at the roses. They were gorgeous. They were blood red, the symbol of love, of passion.

M. J. hated roses.

Once, Ed had sent her roses, that very same color, just before he'd asked for a divorce.

She dropped her head in her hands and wondered morbidly what sort of flowers Adam Quantrell would send to her funeral.

Her dark mood lasted all afternoon, through the processing of a hit-in-the-crosswalk old lady, through hours of paper catch-up and court depositions. By the time she drove through Adam's stone gate that evening, she was good and ready for a warm hug and some pampering. Or at the very least, a stiff drink.

What she found instead was Isabel's Mercedes parked in the driveway.

M. J. got out of her car and stood for a moment by the Mercedes, gazing in at the leather upholstery, the kidskin gloves lying on the front seat. Then, in an even blacker mood, she went to the front door and rang the bell.

Thomas opened the door and regarded her with surprise. "Oh dear! Did Mr. Q. neglect to give you a key, Dr. Novak?"

M. J. cleared her throat. It had never occurred to her to simply walk in the door. After all, it wasn't her house. She was a guest and would always feel like a guest. "Well, yeah," she said. "I guess he did give me a key."