Faye Kellerman - Moon Music

“Sorry about that.”

“Who was she, Steve?”

Jensen licked his sour lips. “What are you talking about?”

“You know her. Why else would a vet like you puke—”

“Did you get a look at her face ?”

“Yes. It’s an abomination. Who was she?”

Trapped. Jensen rubbed his face. Better to head Rom off before he dug too deep.

Jensen coughed. “I think her name is … was … Brittany. Brittany Newel.”

“You think?”

Jensen was quiet.

“Age?” Rom asked.

A big sigh. Jensen said, “Maybe twenty-two … twenty-three.”

“Nice legs.” Poe stood up, brushed his pants off. “Dancer?”

“Yeah, I think she danced.”

“Show or lap?”

“Maybe both.”

“Remember which hotel?”

“God, it was so long … maybe Havana.”

“Is that where you met her?”

“Does it matter?”

“Now that she’s dead it does.”

Jensen’s eyes narrowed. He straightened his spine and loomed over Poe. “Are you questioning me?”

Poe shrugged off the intimidating body posture. “About her, yes. Not about her murder.”

Not yet.

The explanation did little to mollify Jensen’s anger. “I picked her up in a bar, Poe. Around a year ago. A quickie thing. Nothing long-term.”

“Long-term,” Poe repeated. “Aren’t you married?”

Jensen glared, then stormed out of the tent, bumping shoulders with Rukmani, spinning her sideways. He stopped instantly, turned around, came back inside. “God, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

Rukmani rubbed her sore shoulder. “What’s your problem?”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll live.”

Poe bent down, covered the body. “Are your guys coming, Doc?”

“Yes, of course. Takes a moment to unload the gurney, Rom.”

Jensen said, “What can you tell us about this, Doc? Other than the fact that the guy who did this must have lots of shit under his fingernails.”

“You think someone did this with his fingernails?” Poe asked.

Jensen said, “As opposed to …”

“A tool,” Poe answered.

“Not a sharp tool,” Rukmani said. “Too many jagged edges. Maybe a rake of some sort. Lots of parallel lines. You look at the tissue shreds under a microscope. If it was done with an implement, we’ll find bits of metal or plastic … or bits of fingernail. Someone very strong, with sharp, strong nails. Ah … the gurney cometh.” Rukmani smiled at Rom. “It’s kind of crowded in here.”

Poe cocked his head at Jensen. “Let’s go.”

Immediately, their faces were hit with gravel.

Poe shouted, “Talk in the car.”

They broke for the Honda. Once inside, they took a few moments, wiped sand and dust from their faces and mouths. Poe said, “You shouldn’t be on this case.”

“C’mon—”

“Steve, you have a problem. You fucked her!”

Jensen winced, brushed blond hair from his face. “You take me off now, it makes me look bad. C’mon, Rom. Toss me a bone.”

“Like?”

“Suppose I just get the basics. I’ll go over to the apartment and talk to her roommate.” A pause. “I really don’t know anything about her. Things like who her friends were, who her enemies were. You know. Just … the basics.”

Poe thought over the proposal. Pulling him off would point the finger. And then there was Alison … “Call up Patricia. You two can go together—”

“Oh, for Chrissakes, Rom—”

“For your own welfare, Steve.” To make sure you don’t rifle through her personal effects and pull incriminating evidence. “She’s your backup.”

Jensen spoke through clenched teeth. “Nothing personal about Fat Patty. I love Fat Patty. But I don’t need backup.”

“I’ll determine that,” Poe said. “Call up Patricia or go home. The choice is yours.”

Steve glared with irate eyes, trying to throw daggers into Poe’s orbs. A midget with a motherfucking Napoleon complex. Unfortunately, Poe sat in the catbird seat.

A moment passed.

“Go pick up Patricia,” Poe said. “Stop wasting time.”

Angrily, Jensen bolted from the car, slammed the door. Poe watched as Jensen’s Explorer skidded out from the sand, then tore down the road.

Minutes later, Rukmani knocked on the car window. She opened the door, slid inside the passenger seat. “He’s acting awfully pissy.”

“He knew her. The dead girl—”

“Wha—”

“He fucked her.”

Rukmani was quiet. “So maybe he’s acting guilty.”

Poe started snapping his fingers. “Nah, he didn’t do it.”

“You’re sure?”

“Well, I’m not positive of anything.” Still snapping. “But it doesn’t look like Steve’s style. He likes his meat young and alive. ”

Rukmani took his hands, held them in her own. “You’ve got more tics than a clock. You really should be on Prozac.”

Poe remained serious. “I should have pulled him off the case.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He shrugged. “Don’t know.”

“It wouldn’t have anything to do with Alison, would it?”

He jerked his hands away, but hesitated before he spoke. “Maybe … probably.”

Alison.

Poe said, “I figure let him run loose for a day or two. He’ll be watched. If he’s guilty, it’ll lead to something. If not, why screw him up prematurely? The man does have a wife and kids.”

A wife and kids.

“Despite what he thinks, I’m not out to ruin him.” A beat. “He does a decent number on himself without my help.”

Rukmani straightened her jacket. “Well, I’m off to the morgue. How about you?”

“Guess I’ll dig up a ghost named Brittany Newel.” He scratched his aquiline nose. “She might have been a dancer for the floor show at Havana. Might as well start there.”

Rukmani gave Poe’s long, lean face a gentle pat. “Evil critters out there, Rom. Watch your back.”

He nodded. Living in a city that never slept, her words were good advice.

It was well past three, so Alison knew Steve was working a legitimate case. Which didn’t surprise her, given the circumstances of the evening.

No matter how many times she bathed, it still remained with her. The smell of sweat, the taste of blood, the adrenaline rush that appeared from nowhere. Scratches scored her arms, chest, and back. Superficial. They didn’t hurt … would probably disappear in a day or so. But they looked suspicious. If Steve saw them, he’d ask questions. Like how did they get there.

As if she knew.

What was happening to her?

Washing and scrubbing. First with soap, then with alcohol, lastly with bleach. Burning and stinging her until she had to rip and tear at her skin to make it stop.

She thought a moment.

Maybe she had put the scratches there. With her nails. Or with her loofah. Or her bathing sponge. Or the thick tufts of steel wool.

Why was she doing this?

And still she felt horribly dirty … contaminated.

That was the key word.

Contaminated.

Thinking it over. Trying to make sense out of it all.

Which was a dangerous thing to do. To think. Instead, she should be doing her research. She should try to discover. Because there had to be reasons for everything.

Her research. It grounded her. All the information in the green book. It was all there. If she could just piece it together, she’d have answers.

She stood at the bathroom sink, her body covered in Steve’s oversized Turkish terry robe. Standing bulky and fluffy, like a snowdrift. More like the yeti of Las Vegas. Her wet blond hair was still knotted, her red-rimmed hazel eyes shelved with dark circles. Turning the cold-water tap on and off.