Julia Penney - Her Sister's Keeper

“Thanks for the belated warning,” Kent commented. “Did you find any evidence of viral or bacterial infection in the other woman?”

T. Ray shook his head. “Nope, I didn’t, except for the secondary pneumonia. No reason why that young thing should’ve gotten so critically sick and died all alone at night. No reason at all for her vital organs to just shut down, that I could find. That’s why I’m thinkin’ poison.”

“But no evidence of foul play?”

“None. Blood was clean, body was clean. If it was poison, I don’t know what the hell it was, but give me five minutes with this one in the morgue and I can tell y’all whether it’s the same as the other,” T. Ray said.

Kent glanced around. A pacifier lay on the floor near the body. A baby blanket was draped over the desk chair. And a baby bottle half-full of milk was on the side table. “What the hell happened to the baby?” he muttered to himself.

“That,” Murphy responded, “is something we’re trying to find out as soon as possible. We’re hoping the infant is with its mother, but we can’t locate Ariel Moore to confirm that.” Murphy’s cell phone rang, and she turned away to answer it.

Kent didn’t bother to listen in. He was far more interested in gathering as much information, tangible and intangible, from the scene as possible. The two deaths bore too many similarities not to be connected. If T. Ray suspected poisoning, that meant someone had killed them. He knew the sooner he could start building a behavioral profile of the killer, the faster they could capture whoever was doing this and, hopefully, prevent more killings.

Members of the crime lab were entering the room in a steady stream, dusting for prints, shooting photos and hunting for any trace evidence the killer may have left behind. Soon, Kent knew, he would be perceived as in the way. Even in a state where people routinely took their pets to animal psychics, Kent’s particular contributions to the efforts of law enforcement were not always appreciated. Not everyone in the LAPD had reacted with enthusiasm to the addition of a forensic psychologist. Kent had been surprised and flattered when Murphy had stepped forward and requested he be assigned full-time to her department and, after a grueling six-month stint at the FBI facility at Quantico, given the official designation of a homicide detective to quell the growing departmental dissent. It was a move neither had ever had reason to regret.

He saw Murphy was off her cell phone and walked over to her. Knowing that her take on things was oftentimes dramatically different from his own, he wanted her initial reactions to the scene. Kent’s back was to the door and before he could ask the captain his first question, he saw Murphy glance over his shoulder and a look of irritation flash across her face.

“What’s she doing in here? This is a crime scene, not a sideshow.”

Kent turned and saw Melanie Harris standing just inside the suite’s bedroom door. It looked like he had caught her in midwave; her hand was raised but something had diverted her attention, leaving the elegant fingers floating in midair. Even as he turned toward her, he could see her eyes widening in shock. She took a sudden step backward, stumbled on the threshold and would have fallen if Kent hadn’t moved as quickly as he did.

It had been seven years since Kent had held a woman in his arms the way he was holding Melanie now. He carried the protesting woman from the room, vaguely aware of the wall of badges parting to allow him passage and Murphy’s angry voice demanding to know how a civilian had gotten access to the crime scene.

“Please, put me down, Dr. Mattson. I’ll be all right,” Melanie protested as he carried her into the adjacent bedroom. Kent set her down near the bed, aware that Murphy was right behind him.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he said.

“Go scope out that room, Kent,” Murphy interrupted before Melanie could respond. “T. Ray wants to bag the body and get started on the autopsy. I’ll get the paramedics to check her out.”

Kent took advantage of Murphy’s orders and fled the room, Melanie’s distress affecting him more than he liked.

“The pretty lady okay, Doc?” T. Ray’s crooning drawl greeted Kent as he reentered the crime scene.

T. Ray was standing beside the bed, alternately staring down at the body and then scribbling in his notebook. “She’ll be fine,” Kent responded, pulling on the latex gloves Murphy had handed him in the elevator, and wondering if the same could be said of him.

“’Course she will, my man. You caught her before she could hit the floor. Smooth moves for a Beverly Hills shrink.” T. Ray lowered his pen and projected a solemn, patronizing air. “Look, I’m real glad you took my advice about getting back into the social scene, but if this is your first date, y’all could be in big trouble with that one. Pizza parlor would’ve been a better bet.” A mock frown concluded this brief lecture, then T. Ray said, “You let me know when you’re done snoopin’ around, Doc, ’cause I’m itchin’ to get to work on this one.”

There was a room-service cart draped with a white linen parked near the door. A single long- stemmed rose, apricot-colored, in a slender glass vase with a spray of baby’s breath and a sprig of leather leaf, was on the cart, along with a covered plate, a napkin, still folded and unused, several pieces of silverware and a teapot with accompanying cup and saucer.

“What did she order for room service, T. Ray?”

“Looks like a bowl of clear beef broth, some soup crackers and a pot of ginger tea. Didn’t touch any of it, though. I’m not surprised. She must’ve been pretty sick for a while, judging from how dehydrated she is.”

Kent checked out the bathroom, noting the neat array of feminine toiletries beside the sink, and the thick terry-cloth towel, damp and crumpled in a careless heap on the floor after the victim had apparently taken a shower.

“Has the bathroom been checked out?” he called to T. Ray.

“Head to tail with a fine-tooth comb. You know how Murphy is. They’ve vacuumed for hair samples and sprayed for blood, videotaped, photographed, measured and sketched. Paw around all you want, Doc, just don’t touch the body. That’s my domain.”

Kent pulled his own notebook out, annoyed by the tremble in his hand as he wrote. Melanie reminded him of Susan. There was no use denying the way she made him feel, and it wasn’t just the beauty and grace of her. There was something else, some intangible quality he couldn’t quite put his finger on…. He moved through the guest room methodically, jotting notes and making sketches, his years of police work inuring him to the buzz and bustle of activity around him until he heard Murphy speak his name. He glanced up as she strode into the room.

“How’s it going, Kent?” she said, her words terse and her dark eyes flashing with a restlessness he’d grown used to over the years.

“I’m about done here.”

“Good. Your young woman’s asking to speak with you,” she said. “The paramedics have checked her over. She’s in a state of moderate shock, not surprising considering that’s probably the first body she’s ever seen. The next time you ask a woman out, I suggest taking her to the movie theater instead.”

“She’s not my young woman,” Kent said with a flash of irritation. “She’s just a client who gave me a ride to the scene and for some reason followed me up here.”

Murphy’s eyes narrowed skeptically. “Whatever you say. I’ll have one of the officers drive her home when she’s ready. She’s in no condition to sit behind the wheel of a car. She’s pretty shaken up, though she won’t admit it.”

“Thanks. And I’m sorry about her barging in like that. I don’t know how she ever got through the barricades.”