Carcass Trade by Noreen Ayres Page B

room, she opened a lower cabinet door and looked inside, then two more. At the far end of the room a life-sized plastic skeleton held a placard painted with a skull and crossbones. The sign is used for morgue tours for drunk-driving arrestees: YOU BOOZE, YOU LOSE .
    Dr. Schaffer-White found what she was looking for. She brought out a book. “I’m studying law. I don’t want to do this forever. We had some downtime today, then it got busy.”
    â€œLaw?”
    â€œKeep it to yourself, okay?”
    â€œYou got it.”
    â€œI think I like what you do better than what I do, Smokey. But then some people are never satisfied.”
    â€œWell, neither of us exactly hold the glamour jobs,” I said. “But hey. What do they say around here? ‘Five hundred a week and all you can eat?’”
    â€œ I don’t say it.”
    â€œPardon me,” I said, smiling. “Our victim. He died of the beating, then?”
    â€œHe died of a blow to the suprasternal notch, that hollow right here?” she said, and fingered the swale where the two collarbones meet. “Shatter that and all sorts of things collapse. Bones puncture vital blood lines. I saw one of these in med school, I’ll never forget it.”
    â€œThey have to use a special weapon?”
    â€œThe hand. The victim’s scalp had abrasions where someone grabbed him by the hair and pulled his head back. Someone else chops downward with the side of the hand,” she said, demonstrating. “I told your friend, ‘Your suspect will know martial arts.’” She sighed, patted her lab coat as if it had keys in it somewhere, and said, “You take care now, Smokey. I’ve got to run. One of my girls is sick and my husband’s having a tantrum. He’s a good father, but he can’t handle diapers and he can’t handle sick.”
    Before even reaching the end of the lot I phoned Ray Vega from my car and told him to get his fanny off the freeway and come see me.
    He said, “Are you crazy, girl? This is my night for stopping all blondes. Francine and me had a major fight. I need a new date.”
    â€œYou are really disgusting.”
    â€œAin’t I?”
    â€œBe a friend tonight, okay, Raymond?”
    â€œAll yours, babe. Where you taking me?”
    â€œHow about—?”
    â€œYou up for fish?”
    We met in a seafood eatery next to a topless joint named Captain Cream’s in a dark corner of a lot just off the freeway.
    Every time I see Ray Vega in his CHP uniform, I think he’s just so darned handsome, like a TV cop.
    I gave him a rundown of my day. “I still have baby pee on me, Raymond, from a little boy who won’t have a mother to diaper him in the morning.”
    He squeezed my arm that lay on the table. He was quiet for a while. The waitress brought us water without asking, a surprise after seven years of drought, and took our orders. When she left, I said, “That’s not all.”
    â€œWhat’s up? Tell your old buddy, or what’s a buddy for? Shakespeare say that or something?”
    â€œYeah, Shakespeare.”
    â€œSo, what’s eating you?” He watched a young woman come in, her tight beige skirt like an Ace bandage over her perfect thighs. The shade of her stockings matched. “Jesus,” Ray breathed.
    When I got his attention again, I told him about my brother phoning me Saturday; about our walk around the island and my deep fears. I said I sensed Nathan’s ex-wife/present lover was a murder victim, despite none of the numbers adding up, really. And then I said, “I want to go and violate procedure.”
    â€œYou’ve got to give me more than that,” Ray said, sipping off three inches of his ice water.
    â€œWhat I want to do, I want to go talk to her husband myself. See if he’s lying.”
    â€œWhy are you telling me this? You want my permission? Listen. You go messing around, you better