Amanda Stevens - Gallagher Justice

“So we’re back to that again, are we? Let’s get one thing straight. I’m not Frank Quinlan.”

Well, on that , they were in perfect agreement.

As Doggett turned on his heel and headed for the kitchen, Fiona leaned forward slightly, watching him exit the room. He had a nice butt, and the fact that she noticed told her that she must, indeed, be just a tiny bit hammered. After a moment, she heard him fiddle with the coffee-maker as he tried to figure out the controls.

“Make yourself at home,” she grumbled, wondering if she had enough strength to make it to the bathroom, wash her face, and then crawl back before Doggett ever missed her. She decided she didn’t, and let her head fall back against the sofa instead.

When Doggett returned, he set a steaming cup of coffee on the table in front of her. “Drink it. Let’s get you sobered up so we can talk.”

“I’m not drunk. And, for God’s sake, do you have to hover over me like that? You’re not my mother.”

His lips thinned in displeasure. “No. But you’re reminding me a little too much of mine just now.”

Oh, God, she really was going to be sick. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He glared down at her, then shrugged. “Just drink the coffee.”

“When you stop hovering.”

He walked over and sank down in a chair opposite the sofa. “Better?”

She picked up the cup and sipped. The coffee was hot, bitter and strong. Just the way she liked it. The caffeine went straight to her head, and Fiona sat back against the sofa, cradling the cup between her hands.

After a moment, she glanced at Doggett. “Okay. Tell me why you’re here. Did you find Lexi?”

Something flickered in his eyes, a shadow that sent a shiver of dread up Fiona’s spine. “No, not yet.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “But I did manage to track down their roommate through a neighbor. Her name is Kelly Everhardt. She drove up to Wheeler on Sunday morning to visit her parents for a couple of days. She’s coming back sometime this morning.”

“Does she know where Lexi is?”

Doggett paused. “She hasn’t seen Lexi for nearly a week.”

A chill shot through Fiona’s heart. “Where’s she been?”

“No one seems to know. The roommate says she didn’t come home last Thursday night, and she hasn’t been seen since.”

“Has a missing person’s report been filed?”

He shook his head. “The roommate said Alicia didn’t want to get the police involved.”

“Why not?”

“Because she didn’t want their parents to find out. According to the roommate, Lexi has a habit of disappearing. Seems she got involved with a married man last semester, and the two of them used to sneak off for days at a time without telling anyone because he insisted they keep the affair a secret. The roommate says Lexi broke off the relationship before Christmas, but when she didn’t come home this time, Alicia was afraid she’d gone off with him again. The roommate said Alicia thought she could find her on her own, talk some sense into her, and the parents would never have to know.”

Fiona leaned forward and carefully placed the cup on the table. The sudden infusion of caffeine had given her a bad case of the shakes. “Did their roommate say who this married man was?”

“She didn’t know. She said Alicia didn’t know for sure, either, but she told the roommate she had her suspicions.”

“Do you think this guy could have had something to do with Alicia’s death? Maybe he was afraid she knew about him and Lexi.”

Doggett shrugged. “It’s possible. Right now it’s the only lead we’ve got. Hopefully we’ll know more after the autopsy.”

“Did you call Lori?” Fiona asked anxiously.

“I spoke with her a little while ago.”

“How did she take it? Is she...okay?” A stupid question. Lori Guest had just learned that one daughter had been murdered and the other one was missing. Of course, she wasn’t okay. She’d probably never be okay again.

Oh, God...

“She’s flying into O’Hare sometime later this morning,” Doggett said.

“Did you talk to her husband?”

“No, just Mrs. Guest.”

Fiona rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. “I’ve been asking myself over and over why Alicia called me last week, and now I think I know. She wanted me to help her find Lexi. When I didn’t call her back, she went searching for her sister on her own. And now she’s dead.”

“You’re not blaming yourself for that, are you?” Doggett’s blue eyes pierced through Fiona’s armor with hardly any resistance, and she found herself wondering, unaccountably and inappropriately, if there was a woman in his life.

“I know Alicia’s death wasn’t my fault,” she said with a frown. “But I’ll always wonder what might have happened if I had called her back. Maybe I could have helped her, and maybe she’d still be alive.”

“And maybe,” Doggett said in that deep, rumbling voice of his. “You’d be lying in the morgue with her right now.”

MEREDITH SWEENEY, the assistant ME, had Alicia Mercer’s X-rays waiting for Doggett a few hours later when he arrived at the Chicago Technical Park where the morgue was located.

He studied the skull X-rays. “Was I right about the bullet hole? A .45 caliber slug, right?”

Meredith shook her dark head. “No, but that’s what I thought, too, at first, so don’t feel bad. When I calibrated the hole, though, I found it somewhat smaller than .5 inches. The wound is more consistent with a .40 caliber or 10 mm bullet.”

Doggett glanced at her. “You sure about that?”

She shrugged. “You can measure it for yourself if you want.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” The information didn’t necessarily mean anything, but on the other hand, Doggett found it interesting. In recent years, .40 caliber weapons had come into wide use by law enforcement agencies all over the country, including the Chicago PD. Doggett’s own service weapon was a Glock 27, a piece favored by a lot of undercover cops.

“I wouldn’t get my hopes up for any kind of ballistics match,” Meredith told him. She pointed to the left side of the victim’s skull, in the area behind the eye socket where metallic density showed as white flecks on the X-ray.

“A lead snowstorm,” Doggett muttered.

“Exactly. You can actually see where the bullet disintegrated as it traveled through the body, which means it must have been partially jacketed.” She moved to another X-ray and indicated an anomalous object in the pelvis area. “I suspect this is where we’ll find the bullet, what’s left of it.”

Doggett nodded. “What about the bruises around her wrists?”

“Looks like he used a nylon cord, the kind you can buy in any hardware store.”

“And the mark on her shoulder?”

“We’ve sent a sample of the ink to the lab, but you can get stamp pads in any discount or office supply store, and those temporary tattoos are sold out of vending machines.”

“It’s the symbol that’s bugging me,” Doggett said. “Why a trident?”

“At least it’s not a swastika,” Meredith said dryly. “Or a pentagram. God knows we see our share of those.” She gave Doggett a moment longer to study the X-rays. “Are you staying for the autopsy?”

“Yeah.” It wasn’t just a matter of duty, but a matter of conscience. His way of paying respect to the victim. Doggett never walked out on an autopsy, no matter how gruesome.

Meredith nodded briskly. “Let’s get started then, shall we?”

Doggett followed her into the autopsy room where Alicia Mercer’s nude body waited for them on a cold, stainless-steel table.