home to your kids.”
“I will,” she said, and walked out the door just as her pager went off. “See. The sitter’s tracking me down as we speak. I’ll see ya tomorrow.”
“Right,” he replied, but she’d already disappeared beyond the desks and down the stairs. He was left alone in his office. He skimmed his E-mail, didn’t see anything of interest and figured he could read through the messages in the morning. He was bone tired and the thought of his recliner, a hot shower and a cold beer was inviting.
Maybe he should just go home. Get a fresh start on everything in the morning. He reached for his jacket as his phone rang. He snagged the receiver before it could jingle again. “Detective Reed,” he said automatically.
“You’re still there. Thought I’d probably get your voice mail this late.”
Reed recognized the voice as belonging to Gerard St. Claire, the ME. “Look, I’ve got a preliminary report on the case up north. I’ve been on the horn with the examiner in Atlanta.”
“Already?” Reed’s exhaustion dissipated.
“As I said, preliminary. Very preliminary, but we were told to put a rush on it. We already called Lumpkin County. But I thought you’d like to hear what we’ve got.”
“What is it?”
“We don’t know too much. Yet. The unidentified woman looks like she had a heart attack. We haven’t come up with anything that suggests homicide, although if she was originally stuffed in that box and buried alive, she could have had a coronary. We’re still checking but decomposition has set in and from the state of it, we’re thinking she’s been dead close to ten weeks.”
Reed was taking notes. Listening.
“The other woman is easier.”
Reed’s gut tightened.
“Cause of death for the more recent victim, the one identified as Barbara Jean Marx, was probably asphyxiation, but we’re still checking her blood and body for other wounds. Nothing’s come up as yet. She probably just suffocated in that box. Rigor indicates she was dead less than twenty-four hours. The body wasn’t moved, which is consistent with her dying in the coffin. No visible wounds, no blood aside from scrapes on her fingers from trying to claw her way out. One tattoo of a rose climbing up her spine.”
Reed remembered. Had traced the body art with his fingers. Jesus.
“She has a few bruises as well—we’re checking those out. It’s still too early to tell if there was a struggle. We’re looking at what she had under her fingernails, but as I said, no visible wounds.” The ME hesitated, but Reed sensed there was something more.
“Anything else?”
“Yeah. There’s something I thought you should know about the Marx woman.”
“I’m listening.” Reed sensed bad news was coming. Real bad. His skin tightened over his muscles and his fingers clenched around the receiver.
“She was pregnant.”
Reed sucked in a breath. “Pregnant?” No!
“Eleven, maybe twelve weeks along.”
Reed didn’t move. His breath stopped for a heartbeat.
“Could give you a motive.”
“Uh-huh,” he forced out, his pulse pounding in his brain. Bobbi? Pregnant? Three months pregnant? All the spit dried in his mouth. He remembered her in the hotel room on the island. Gauzy curtains fluttering on a breeze that smelled of the ocean. Her tousled dark hair, upturned nose, eyes smoldering with desire. “Was it good for you,” she’d cooed, her body still glistening with sweat. “Cuz, honey, if it wasn’t, we can try again.” She’d nibbled at his ear. Ever playful and blatantly sexual. She’d gotten to him. It had been early September…Labor Day weekend. He’d been able to look through the open window to the bay where sailboats skimmed the smooth water, their sails brilliant against an incredibly blue sky.
“We’ll x-ray the bodies and open ’em up while the lab work’s being done,” St. Claire was saying, cutting into the memory. “And we’ll try to get an ID on the other body.”
“Good.”
“I will,” she said, and walked out the door just as her pager went off. “See. The sitter’s tracking me down as we speak. I’ll see ya tomorrow.”
“Right,” he replied, but she’d already disappeared beyond the desks and down the stairs. He was left alone in his office. He skimmed his E-mail, didn’t see anything of interest and figured he could read through the messages in the morning. He was bone tired and the thought of his recliner, a hot shower and a cold beer was inviting.
Maybe he should just go home. Get a fresh start on everything in the morning. He reached for his jacket as his phone rang. He snagged the receiver before it could jingle again. “Detective Reed,” he said automatically.
“You’re still there. Thought I’d probably get your voice mail this late.”
Reed recognized the voice as belonging to Gerard St. Claire, the ME. “Look, I’ve got a preliminary report on the case up north. I’ve been on the horn with the examiner in Atlanta.”
“Already?” Reed’s exhaustion dissipated.
“As I said, preliminary. Very preliminary, but we were told to put a rush on it. We already called Lumpkin County. But I thought you’d like to hear what we’ve got.”
“What is it?”
“We don’t know too much. Yet. The unidentified woman looks like she had a heart attack. We haven’t come up with anything that suggests homicide, although if she was originally stuffed in that box and buried alive, she could have had a coronary. We’re still checking but decomposition has set in and from the state of it, we’re thinking she’s been dead close to ten weeks.”
Reed was taking notes. Listening.
“The other woman is easier.”
Reed’s gut tightened.
“Cause of death for the more recent victim, the one identified as Barbara Jean Marx, was probably asphyxiation, but we’re still checking her blood and body for other wounds. Nothing’s come up as yet. She probably just suffocated in that box. Rigor indicates she was dead less than twenty-four hours. The body wasn’t moved, which is consistent with her dying in the coffin. No visible wounds, no blood aside from scrapes on her fingers from trying to claw her way out. One tattoo of a rose climbing up her spine.”
Reed remembered. Had traced the body art with his fingers. Jesus.
“She has a few bruises as well—we’re checking those out. It’s still too early to tell if there was a struggle. We’re looking at what she had under her fingernails, but as I said, no visible wounds.” The ME hesitated, but Reed sensed there was something more.
“Anything else?”
“Yeah. There’s something I thought you should know about the Marx woman.”
“I’m listening.” Reed sensed bad news was coming. Real bad. His skin tightened over his muscles and his fingers clenched around the receiver.
“She was pregnant.”
Reed sucked in a breath. “Pregnant?” No!
“Eleven, maybe twelve weeks along.”
Reed didn’t move. His breath stopped for a heartbeat.
“Could give you a motive.”
“Uh-huh,” he forced out, his pulse pounding in his brain. Bobbi? Pregnant? Three months pregnant? All the spit dried in his mouth. He remembered her in the hotel room on the island. Gauzy curtains fluttering on a breeze that smelled of the ocean. Her tousled dark hair, upturned nose, eyes smoldering with desire. “Was it good for you,” she’d cooed, her body still glistening with sweat. “Cuz, honey, if it wasn’t, we can try again.” She’d nibbled at his ear. Ever playful and blatantly sexual. She’d gotten to him. It had been early September…Labor Day weekend. He’d been able to look through the open window to the bay where sailboats skimmed the smooth water, their sails brilliant against an incredibly blue sky.
“We’ll x-ray the bodies and open ’em up while the lab work’s being done,” St. Claire was saying, cutting into the memory. “And we’ll try to get an ID on the other body.”
“Good.”
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