to people she loved. And it had.
Rounding a corner, she found Amy Tang at a drinking fountain. Tang was wearing black clothes and black eye makeup, and her hair looked punk. She practically had to stand on tiptoe to reach the arc of water. Spiky, the Goth Gnome.
Quit it, Beckett. "Lieutenant."
Tang touched the back of her hand to her lips. "This way. Cohen's about half finished."
"What did he find?"
"Stuff that falls on your side of the fence."
Tang led Jo into the autopsy suite. Jazz was playing on the boom box, Coltrane from the sound of the sax, cool and melancholy. Blue— the music, the surgical drapes, the mood. Cohen's red beard stood out in contrast. He was well into the dissection.
Jo slowed her breathing and pulled her emotions back to the quiet room where sights and feelings are muffled. Behind Cohen an assistant was weighing Callie's liver. Tang loitered in the corner, arms crossed, face cross. Jo approached the table.
Callie's toes were blue. Her runner's tan was dulling to gray. The red letters scrawled on her left thigh seemed to scream. Dirty.
The word was written with a severe slant, as if a left-hander had scribbled it without looking. Lipstick, no question.
Jo looked at Callie's face.
No wonder Gregory Harding had acted like an ass. He had seen this. It must have been like having a live electric cable jammed against the back of his head. Callie's face, a face sculpted by Michelangelo, was crushed.
"I suspect you may list cranial trauma as cause of death," she said.
Cohen pointed with his scalpel. "Air bag inflated when the car hit the bridge, and deflated almost instantly. It was useless when they hit the shuttle van. And she was already headed for an up-and-out by then."
"No seat belt."
"No. Her injuries were unsurvivable."
"Dr. Cohen?" Tang said.
He glanced at her. "I'm coming to it."
"What do I need to see?" Jo said.
"We discovered it during the external exam, when we removed her clothing."
He pointed at Harding's left arm. It lay against the table palm up.
Jesus.
Jo said nothing, but her temples felt tight.
Cohen's assistant turned around. "Ready for me to put these back?"
He had Callie's heart and lungs in his hands. Behind her, Jo heard a retching sound. She turned. Tang had jammed her hand over her mouth.
Cohen said, "Not in here, Lieutenant."
Sweat shone on Tang's forehead. Her eyes rolled back in her head.
"Crap," Cohen said. "Dr. Beckett, can you ..."
Jo was already moving.
Tang keeled against the counter like a crash-test dummy. Jo grabbed her under the arms and hauled her toward a chair. Her legs were like jelly. Jo plopped her down, slumped to one side.
"Put your head between your knees," she said.
The young cop's eyes were glazed and half open. Jo leaned her forward and pushed her head down between her knees to get blood flowing to her brain.
"She seemed fine," Cohen said.
"It happens."
Jo kept her hand on Tang's back. After a few seconds Tang's breathing deepened. She pushed Jo's hand away and slowly sat up.
"Welcome back," Jo said. "Have a nice trip?"
"I'm fine."
"Sure. Just take it easy."
But Tang was getting unsteadily to her feet. She brushed off the hand Jo extended and held on to the counter instead.
Cohen nodded at the door. "Dr. Beckett, you want to take the lieutenant where she can get some air?"
"It's the heat in here. I'll be all right," Tang said.
She had paled to a shade of glue. Jo took her elbow, held tight so Tang couldn't shake it off, and guided her out the door.
"Did you see it?" Tang's tone was tough chick, but her voice was mousy.
"I saw it." Jo heard her own voice, grim. "Second time today that word has shown up."
Tang looked at her, puzzled. "In the course of the investigation?"
"In the course of possible murder-suicide. What do you think that means?"
Four letters, on Callie's arm in black ink. On Maki's boat in gasoline. Pray.
J o took Tang to the lobby. The jack-o'-lanterns seemed to leer at
them. The detective's face
Rounding a corner, she found Amy Tang at a drinking fountain. Tang was wearing black clothes and black eye makeup, and her hair looked punk. She practically had to stand on tiptoe to reach the arc of water. Spiky, the Goth Gnome.
Quit it, Beckett. "Lieutenant."
Tang touched the back of her hand to her lips. "This way. Cohen's about half finished."
"What did he find?"
"Stuff that falls on your side of the fence."
Tang led Jo into the autopsy suite. Jazz was playing on the boom box, Coltrane from the sound of the sax, cool and melancholy. Blue— the music, the surgical drapes, the mood. Cohen's red beard stood out in contrast. He was well into the dissection.
Jo slowed her breathing and pulled her emotions back to the quiet room where sights and feelings are muffled. Behind Cohen an assistant was weighing Callie's liver. Tang loitered in the corner, arms crossed, face cross. Jo approached the table.
Callie's toes were blue. Her runner's tan was dulling to gray. The red letters scrawled on her left thigh seemed to scream. Dirty.
The word was written with a severe slant, as if a left-hander had scribbled it without looking. Lipstick, no question.
Jo looked at Callie's face.
No wonder Gregory Harding had acted like an ass. He had seen this. It must have been like having a live electric cable jammed against the back of his head. Callie's face, a face sculpted by Michelangelo, was crushed.
"I suspect you may list cranial trauma as cause of death," she said.
Cohen pointed with his scalpel. "Air bag inflated when the car hit the bridge, and deflated almost instantly. It was useless when they hit the shuttle van. And she was already headed for an up-and-out by then."
"No seat belt."
"No. Her injuries were unsurvivable."
"Dr. Cohen?" Tang said.
He glanced at her. "I'm coming to it."
"What do I need to see?" Jo said.
"We discovered it during the external exam, when we removed her clothing."
He pointed at Harding's left arm. It lay against the table palm up.
Jesus.
Jo said nothing, but her temples felt tight.
Cohen's assistant turned around. "Ready for me to put these back?"
He had Callie's heart and lungs in his hands. Behind her, Jo heard a retching sound. She turned. Tang had jammed her hand over her mouth.
Cohen said, "Not in here, Lieutenant."
Sweat shone on Tang's forehead. Her eyes rolled back in her head.
"Crap," Cohen said. "Dr. Beckett, can you ..."
Jo was already moving.
Tang keeled against the counter like a crash-test dummy. Jo grabbed her under the arms and hauled her toward a chair. Her legs were like jelly. Jo plopped her down, slumped to one side.
"Put your head between your knees," she said.
The young cop's eyes were glazed and half open. Jo leaned her forward and pushed her head down between her knees to get blood flowing to her brain.
"She seemed fine," Cohen said.
"It happens."
Jo kept her hand on Tang's back. After a few seconds Tang's breathing deepened. She pushed Jo's hand away and slowly sat up.
"Welcome back," Jo said. "Have a nice trip?"
"I'm fine."
"Sure. Just take it easy."
But Tang was getting unsteadily to her feet. She brushed off the hand Jo extended and held on to the counter instead.
Cohen nodded at the door. "Dr. Beckett, you want to take the lieutenant where she can get some air?"
"It's the heat in here. I'll be all right," Tang said.
She had paled to a shade of glue. Jo took her elbow, held tight so Tang couldn't shake it off, and guided her out the door.
"Did you see it?" Tang's tone was tough chick, but her voice was mousy.
"I saw it." Jo heard her own voice, grim. "Second time today that word has shown up."
Tang looked at her, puzzled. "In the course of the investigation?"
"In the course of possible murder-suicide. What do you think that means?"
Four letters, on Callie's arm in black ink. On Maki's boat in gasoline. Pray.
J o took Tang to the lobby. The jack-o'-lanterns seemed to leer at
them. The detective's face
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