Peggy Sue Got Murdered Read online

  But if Adam Quantrell took note of his surroundings, he did not comment.

  "It's down this hall," said M.J.

  Wordlessly he followed her to the cold storage room.

  She paused at the door. "The body's in here," she said. "Are you… feeling up to it?"

  He nodded.

  She led him inside. The room was brightly lit, almost painfully so. Refrigerated drawers lined the far wall, some of them labeled with names and numbers. This time of year, the occupancy rate was running on the high side. The spring thaw, warmer weather, brought the guns and knives out onto the street again, and these were the latest crop of victims. There were three Jane Does. M. J. reached for the drawer labelled 373-4-3-A. Pausing, she glanced at Adam. "It's not going to be pleasant."

  He swallowed. "Go ahead."

  She pulled open the drawer. It slid out noiselessly, releasing a waft of cold vapor. The body was almost formless under the shroud. M. J. looked up at Adam, to see how he was holding up. It was the men who usually fainted, and the bigger they were, the harder they were to pull up off the linoleum. So far, this guy was doing okay. Grim and silent, but okay. Slowly she lifted off the shroud. Jane Doe's alabaster white face lay exposed.

  Again, M. J. looked at Adam.

  He had paled slightly, but he hadn't moved. Neither did his gaze waver from the corpse. For a solid ten seconds he stared at Jane Doe, as though trying to reconstruct her frozen features into something alive, something familiar.

  At last he let out a deep breath. Only then did M. J. realize the man had been holding it. He looked across at her. In an utterly calm voice, he said, "I've never seen this woman before in my life."

  Then he turned and walked out of the room.

  2

  M. J. shut the drawer and followed Adam into the hall. "Wait. Mr. Quantrell."

  "I can't help you. I don't know who she is."

  "But you thought you knew. Didn't you?"

  "I don't know what I thought." He was striding toward the elevator, his long legs carrying him at a brisk pace.

  "Why did she have your phone number?"

  "I don't know."

  "Is it a business number? One the public might know?"

  "No, it's my home phone."

  "Then how did she get it?"

  "I told you, I don't know." He reached the elevator and stabbed the Up button. "She's a total stranger."

  "But you were afraid you knew her. That's why you came down here."

  "I was doing my civic duty." He shot her a look that said, No more questions.

  M.J. asked anyway. "Who did you think she was, Mr. Quantrell?"

  He didn't answer. He just regarded her with that impenetrable gaze.

  "I want you to sign anstatement," she said. "And I need to know how to reach you. In case the police have more questions."

  He reached into his jacket and pulled out a card. "My home address," he said, handing it to her.

  She glanced at it. 11 Fair Wind Lane, Surry Heights. Beamis had been correct about that phone prefix.

  "You'll have to talk to the police." she said.

  "Why?"

  "Routine questions."

  "Is it a homicide or isn't it?"

  "I don't know yet."

  The doors slid open. "When you make up your mind, call me."

  She slipped into the elevator after him, and the doors shut behind her. "Look," she said. "I have a dead body with no name. Now, I could just call her Jane Doe and leave it at that. But somewhere, there's someone who's missing a sister or a daughter or a wife. I'd like to help them out, I really would"

  "Fingerprints."

  "I've done that."

  "Dental X rays."

  "I've done that, too."

  "You sound capable. You don't need my help." The doors slid open and he stepped out. "It's not as if I don't care," he said, leading her on a brisk chase down the hall, toward the reception area. "But I don't see why I should get dragged into this, just because my number happens to be written in some-some restaurant matchbook. She could've gotten it anywhere. Stolen it-"

  "I never told you it was from a restaurant."

  He halted and turned to her. "Yes, you did."

  "No, I didn't. I know I didn't."

  He fell silent. Their gazes locked, neither one of them refusing to yeild ground. Even a guy as smooth as you are can slip up, she thought with a dart of satisfaction.

  "And I'm sure you're wrong," he said evenly. He turned and went into the reception area.

  Beamis said, "We got your message, M.J…" His gaze shifted to the man with her, and he reacted with surprise. "Mr. Quantrell. What brings you down to…" Suddenly he glanced back at M.J.

  "It was his phone number, Lou," said M.H. "But Mr. Quantrell says he doesn't know the woman."

  "Talk to her Lieutenant," said Adam. "Maybe you can convince Dr. Novak I'm not some ax murderer."

  Beamis laughed. "Novak giving you a hard time?"

  "Since I can see you two already know each other," said M.J. in irritation, "I'll just take Mr. Quantrell at his word."

  "I'm so relieved," said Adam. "Now, if you'll excuse me…" He gave M.J. a brief nod. "Dr. Novak, it has been…interesting." He turned to leave.

  "Excuse me, Mr. Q…?" called Beamis. "A word, please."

  As the two men moved to a far corner of the room, M. J. caught Adam's glance. It said, This has nothing to do with you.

  "We'll see you downstairs, Lou," Shradick said. Then he gave M. J. a nudge. "C'mon. You got anymore of that god-awful coffee?"

  She could take a hint. As she and Shradick walked to the elevators, she looked over her shoulder. The two men were still in the corner, talking in low voices. Adam was facing her, and over the head of the shorter Beamis, he caught sight of her backward glance and he returned it with a look of cool acknowledgment. The tension in his face was now gone; he was back in full control.

  In the elevator she said, "Okay, Vince. Who is he?"

  "You mean Quantrell?"

  "No, the king of Siam."

  "What's with you today? PMS?"

  "Who is Adam Quantrell?"

  Shradick shrugged. "Owns some pharmaceutical company. Cyrus, something or other."

  "Cygnus? He owns the Cygnus Company?"

  "Yeah, that's it. He's always in those society pages. You know, this or that black-tie affair. Surprised you haven't heard of him."

  "I don't read the society pages."

  "You should. Your ex was mentioned in 'em the other day. He was at some campaign benefit for the mayor. Had a nice-lookin' blond on his arm."

  "That's why I don't read the society pages."

  "Oh."

  They got off the elevator and headed to M. J.'s office. Mr. Coffee was doing overtime today. The glass pot had already been emptied twice, and what was left in it now looked positively vile. She poured out a cup and handed it to Shradick.

  "How does Lou know Mr. Society?" she asked.

  Shradick frowned at the evil brew in his mug. "Some private thing. Quantrell asked Lou for a little police assistance. Something to do with his daughter."

  "Quantrell has a daughter?"

  "That's what I hear."

  "He didn't strike me as the daddy type. Not a guy who'd let sticky little hands anywhere near his cashmere coat."

  Shradick took a sip from the mug and winced. "Your coffee's improved."

  "What sort of help did Lou give him?"

  "Oh, the girl dropped out of sight or something. You'd have to ask Lou. It happened a while back, before we got paired up."

  "Was he working South Lexington?"

  "Been on that beat for years. That's where his partner went down. Drive-by. Then I lost mine in Watertown, and Lou got stuck with me. The rest, as they say, is history." He took another sip of coffee.

  "Adam Quantrell doesn't live anywhere near South Lexington."

  Shradick laughed. "That's for sure."

  "So why did he tap a South Lexington cop for help?"

 
; "I don't know. Why don't you ask Lou?" Shradick's beeper went off. Automatically, he glanced down at the number blinking on his pocket pager display. "Now what the hell're they buzzing me for?"

  "You can use my phone."

  "Thanks." He reached for the phone and punched in a number. "Shradick here. Yeah, what's up?"

  M. J. turned her attention to the stack of papers on her desk. They were the request forms to be sent with the body fluid samples to the state lab. If she wanted to make the three o'clock pickup, she'd have to fill them out now. She sat down and began checking the appropriate boxes: Gas chromatography/UC; immunoanalysis. Every test that might possibly identify the drug that had killed Jane Doe.

  She looked up at the sound of footsteps. Beamis walked in. "Sorry to brush you off," he said. "It was sort of a personal matter for Mr. Quantrell."

  "So I heard." She resumed filling out the forms.

  He noticed the papers. "Is that for Jane Doe?"

  "Courier comes by at three. I know you want quick answers." She gathered up the slips, wrapped them around the test tubes, and stuffed it all in a lab envelope. "So here it is, off to the races." She dropped the bundle into the basket marked Pick up.

  "Thought you were going to run some tests here."

  "I'll do ' em when I do 'em. First, I've got deadlines on a few autopsy reports. Court dates coming up. And my ex has already sent me nasty messages over voice mail."

  Beamis laughed. "You and Ed still at each other's throats?"

  "Lou, love is fleeting. Contempt is forever."

  "I take it you're not going to vote for him."

  "Actually, I think Ed's got the right temperament for a DA. Don't you agree he's got that striking resemblance to a Doberman pinscher?" She went to the filing cabinet and began rummaging for papers. "Besides, Ed and the mayor deserve each other."

  "Aw, hell," grunted Shradick, banging down the phone. "Now we'll miss lunch."

  "What is it?" asked Beamis.

  "We just got a call. They found another one. Female, no signs of trauma."

  M. J. looked up from the file drawer. Shradick was already scribbling in his notebook. "Another OD?" she asked.

  "Probably. And my stomach's already growling." He kept writing in that matter-of-fact way of his. Too many corpses, too many deaths, and this is what it does to us, M. J. thought. A dead body means nothing more to us than a canceled lunch.

  "Where's the vic?" she asked.

  "South Lexington."

  "What part of South Lexington?"

  Shradick shut his notebook and looked up. "Same place we found the other one," he said. "The Projects."

  Adam Quantrell walked briskly across the street, his shoulders hunched against the wind, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his raincoat. It was April already, but it felt like January. The wind was cutting, the trees skeletal; people on the street wore their winter pallor like masks.

  He unlocked his Volvo, slid into the driver's seat, and shut the door.

  He sat there for a moment, safely hidden behind tinted glass, relieved to be in a place where no one could read his face, divine his thoughts. It was cold inside; his breath misted the air. But the real chill came from within.

  It wasn't her. At least I should be thankful for that.

  He started the engine and guided the Volvo into city traffic. His first inclination was to head for Surry Heights and home. He should call his secretary and tell her he wouldn't be in the office today. What he needed was a chance to regain his composure, something he'd lost when he'd first heard that doctor's voice on his answering machine.

  What was her name again? Novak. Yes, that was it. Vaguely he wondered what Dr. Novak's first name was, thought it had to be something blunt and to-the-point, like the woman. She was a straight shooter; he appreciated that. What he hadn't appreciated was her sharp eyes, her keen antennae. She'd seen far more than he'd intended to reveal.

  He merged onto the freeway. Still a half hour to Surry Heights. He wanted out of the city, out of all this gray and gloomy concrete.

  Then he passed a highway sign that said: South Lexington, exit 2 mile.

  What came next was a snap decision, a crazy impulse that rose purely out of guilt. He turned onto the ramp and followed the curve until it eased into South Lexington Avenue. Suddenly he was driving through a war zone. The area around the ME's office had been shabby, but at least the buildings were occupied, the windows intact.

  Here, on South Lexington, it was hard to imagine anything but rats residing behind all this red brick and shattered glass. He drove past empty warehouses and dead businesses, reminders of the city's better days. Two miles south, beyond the abandoned Johan Weir tannery, he came to the Projects. He could see them from blocks away, those seven gray towers propped up against an equally gray sky.

  They were relics from an earlier age, born of good intentions, but doomed by location and design. Built miles from any jobs, constructed of monolithic concrete, they looked more like prison towers than public housing. Even so, they remained occupied. He saw cars parked on the road, clumps of people gathered on corners, a man huddled on his front stoop, a kid shooting baskets in an alley hoop. They all glanced up as Adam drove past, every pair of eyes taking note of this territorial incursion.

  Adam drove another block, pulled over to the side, and parked in front of Building 5.

  For an hour he sat in his car, watching the sidewalks, the alleys, the playground across the street. Mothers shuttled babies in strollers across broken glass. Young kids played hopscotch on the pavement. Even here, he thought, life goes on. He knew people were watching him; they always did.

  Someone tapped on his window. He glanced out through the lightly tinted glass and saw a young woman. She had a wild mane of uncombed black hair, dark eyes, a white face heavily caked with makeup. Upon closer scrutiny, he realized it was just a young girl under all that rouge and powder.

  Once again, she tapped on the window. He rolled it down a few inches.

  "Hey, honey," she said sweetly. "You lookin' for me?"

  "I'm looking for Maeve," he said.

  "Don't know any Maeve. What about me?"

  He smiled. "I don't think so."

  "I'm open to anything. Indulge your fantasies."

  "I'm really not interested. Thank you." He rolled up the window.

  At once her smile transformed to a scowl. She muttered an obscenity, audible even through the closed glass, then she turned and walked away.

  He watched her blue jean-clad hips sway as she headed down the street, saw her pause by a gathering of young men. Automatically she tilted her head up in a smile. No interest there either. With a shrug, she kept walking.

  Something about that young woman-her raven-colored hair, perhaps, or that walk, announcing to the world: I can take care of myself, reminded him of someone. Dr. Novak, the woman with no first name. She had hair that color, a thick and glossy black, just long enough to lap at her shoulders. And her gait, what he'd seen of it in the dim basement corridor, had that confident spring to its step. He suddenly wished he'd told her the truth, about the matchbook, about Maeve. He knew she knew he'd been lying. It was necessary, to hide the truth, but he felt uneasy about it. And it troubled him that Dr. Novak now considered him some sort of miscreant, whose word was not to be trusted.

  Why should it bother me? I'll never see the woman again.

  At least he hoped he wouldn't. A trip to the city morgue wasn't the sort of experience he cared to repeat. He wondered how she could stand it, dealing every day with death, probing the contents of those ghastly refrigerated steel drawers. How did one live with the images? He himself was having trouble dealing with just that one image he'd confronted an hour ago-the dead woman, the one who'd been clutching the matchbook.

  Thank God it wasn't Maeve.

  He reached for the car phone, dialed his office, and told Greta he wouldn't be coming in. She sounded surprised; it was unlike him to skip work, even for a day. "Let Hal hold down the fort," he t
old her. After all, what were senior vice presidents for?

  Outside, a police car slowly cruised by and continued down South Lexington. Children, just out of school, skipped along the pavement, kicking glass. Adam told Greta he'd see her in the morning, and hung up the phone. Then, grim-faced, he settled back against the seat and resumed watching the street.

  Dr. Davis Wheelock, the chief medical examiner, had an office on the fourth floor, in a distant corner of the facility. It was about as far as one could get from the grim day-to-day business of the morgue and still work in the same building. The brass plaque on his door was a gift from his wife, who had been distressed by the cheap plastic version provided by the city of Albion. If one must be a public servant, so her reasoning went, at least one could do so in style.

  Dr. Wheelock shared his wife's view, and his office was a reflection of his expensive and eclectic taste. In various places of honor were displayed Kenyan masks, Egyptian papyruses, Incan statuettes, all acquired during his travels. The office faced east, toward the river. On this overcast day it was an unremittingly depressing view. The gray light through the window seemed to cloak Wheelock and all his primitive artwork in gloom.

  "Drug ODs are a fact of life in this town," said Wheelock. "We can't chase them all. Unless you're sure it's something new, I can't see getting distracted-"

  "That's just it," said M. J. as she sat down in the chair across from him. "I don't know if it's something new. But I think you should notify the mayor. And maybe the press."

  Wheelock shook his head. "Aren't you overreacting?"

  "Davis, in the last twenty four hours, I've had two come in, young women, no signs of trauma. Both found in the South Lexington area. Since they both had tracks on their arms and recent needle punctures, I was ready to call them ODs."

  "Heroin?"

  "That's the problem. I can't identify it. I've sent blood, urine, and vitreous to the state lab for immunoassay, but that'll take a week."

  "What have you run here?"

  "Thin layer and gas chromatography. Subject One had a positive ethanol. Subject Two turned up salicylates, probably just aspirin. Both subjects had the same peak on gas chromatography-it looks like a narcotic."