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  Kat moved on to the vagina and rectum. It was one aspect of the postmortem that made her uncomfortable, but only because two men were in the room. As she inspected the external genitalia, as she inserted swabs to collect body fluids, they were watching intently, and it was more than just Jane Doe’s privacy that felt violated. “I don’t see any evidence of sexual assault,” she said.

  She turned her attention to the head. Of all the parts of a corpse, the face is the most personal, and the most disturbing to contemplate. Until that moment, Kat had avoided looking at it too closely, but now she was forced to. In life, the young woman might have been pretty. Shampoo her hair, animate those facial muscles into a smile, and she probably would have caught the eye of more than a few men. But death had made her jaw droop, her mouth gape open, revealing coffee-stained teeth and a tongue dried out from exposure. It was a blank face, revealing no secrets.

  Neither did her cranium provide any answers. Kat sawed open the skull, and the brain within showed no signs of hemorrhage or stroke or trauma. It was a healthy-looking brain, a young brain, and it should have given its owner many more years of service. Instead that brain, with its lifetime of memories, was dropped into a bucket of formalin. And the body—what was left of it—would go into a refrigerated drawer, dubbed with the name shared by far too many other unidentified women who had come before her.

  Jane Doe.

  Kat was sitting at her desk later that morning when her phone rang. She picked it up and answered: “Dr. Novak, assistant ME.”

  “You left a message,” said a man. She recognized at once the voice from the answering machine. Its deep timbre was now edged with anxiety. “What’s this all about?” he demanded.

  Kat at once reached for pen and paper. “Who am I speaking to?” she asked.

  “You should know. You called me.”

  “I just had your telephone number, not a name—”

  “And how did you get my number?”

  “It was written on a matchbook. The police brought a woman into the morgue this morning, and she—”

  He cut in: “I’ll be right there.”

  “Mister, I didn’t catch your—”

  She heard the click of the receiver, then a dial tone. Jackass, she thought. What if he didn’t show up? What if he didn’t call back?

  She dialed Homicide and left a message for Sykes and Ratchet: “Get yourselves back to the morgue.” Then she waited.

  At noon she got a buzz on the intercom from the front desk. “There’s a Mr. Quantrell here,” said the secretary. “He says you’re expecting him. Want me to send him down?”

  “I’ll meet him up there,” said Kat. “I’m on my way.”

  She knew better than to just drag a civilian in off the street and take him straight down to the morgue. He would need a chance to prepare for the shock. She pulled a white lab coat over her scrub suit. The lapel had coffee stains, but it would have to do.

  By the time she’d ridden up the basement elevator to the ground floor, she’d rearranged her hair into a semblance of presentability and straightened her name tag. She stepped out into the hallway. Through the glass door at the end of the corridor she could see the reception area with its couch and upholstered chairs, all in generic gray. She could also see a man pacing back and forth in front of the couch, oblivious to her approach. He was nicely dressed, and didn’t seem like the sort of man who’d be acquainted with a Jane Doe from South Lexington. His camel-hair jacket was perfectly tailored to his wide shoulders. He had a tan raincoat slung over his arm, and he was tugging at his tie as though it were strangling him.

  Kat pushed the glass door open and walked in. “Mr. Quantrell?”

  At once the man turned and faced her. He had wheat-colored hair, perfectly groomed, and eyes a shade she’d never seen before. Not quite blue, not quite gray, they seemed as changeable as a spring sky. He was old enough—his early forties perhaps—to have amassed a few character lines around those eyes, a few gray hairs around his temples. His jaw was set with tension.

  “I’m Dr. Novak,” she said, holding out her hand. He shook it automatically, quickly, as though to get the formalities done and over with.

  “Adam Quantrell,” he said. “You left that message on my answering machine.”

  “Why don’t we go down to my office? You can wait there until the police—”

  “You said something about a woman,” he cut in rudely. “That the police brought in a woman.” No, it wasn’t rudeness, Kat decided. He was afraid.

  “It might be better to wait for Sergeant Sykes,” she said. “He can explain the situation.”

  “Why don’t you explain it to me?”

  “I’m just the medical examiner, Mr. Quantrell. I can’t give out information.”

  The look he shot her was withering. All at once she wished she stood a little straighter, a little taller. That she didn’t feel so threatened by that gaze of his. “This Sergeant Sykes,” he said. “He’s from Homicide.”

  “Yes.”

  “So there’s a question of murder.”

  “I don’t want to speculate.”

  “Who is she?”

  “We don’t have an ID yet.”

  “Then you don’t know.”

  “No.”

  He paused. “Let me see the body.” It wasn’t a request but a command, and a desperate one at that.

  Kat glanced at the door and wondered when the hell Sykes would arrive. She looked back at the man and realized that he was barely holding it together. He’s terrified. Terrified that the body lying in my refrigerated drawer is someone he knows and loves.

  “That’s why you called me, isn’t it?” he said. “To find out if I can identify her?”

  She nodded. “The morgue is downstairs, Mr. Quantrell. Come with me.”

  He strode beside her in silence, his tanned face looking pale under the fluorescent lights. He was silent as well on the elevator ride down to the basement. She glanced up once and saw that he was staring straight ahead, as though afraid to look anywhere else, as though afraid he’d lose what control he still had.

  When they stepped off the elevator, he paused, glancing around at the scuffed walls, the tired linoleum floor. Overhead was another bank of flickering fluorescent lights. The building was old, and down here in the basement you could see the decay in the chipped paint, the cracked walls; could smell it in the very air. When the whole city was in the process of decay, when every agency from social services to trash pickup was clamoring for a dwindling share of tax dollars, the ME’s office was always the last to be funded. Dead citizens, after all, do not vote.

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

  “It’s down this hall,” said Kat.

  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, the 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. Kat reached for the drawer labeled 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. Kat 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, Kat 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 Kat 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.

  KAT 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.

  Kat 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 a statement,” 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. Sykes 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, both of them refusing to yield 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.

  Sykes and Ratchet were standing by the front desk.

  Sykes turned to Kat and said, “We got your message …” 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 Kat.

  “It was his phone number, Lou,” said Kat. “But Mr. Quantrell says he doesn’t know the woman.”

  “Talk to her, Sergeant,” said Adam. “Maybe you can convince Dr. Novak I’m not some ax murderer.”

  Sykes laughed. “Novak giving you a hard time?”

  “Since I can see you two already know each other,” said Kat 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 Kat a brief nod. “Dr. Novak, it has been … interesting.” He turned to leave.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Q.?” called Sykes. “A word, please.”

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

  “We’ll see you downstairs, Lou,” Ratchet said. Then he gave Kat a nudge. “C’mon. You got any more of that god-awful coffee?”

  She could take a hint. As she and Ratchet 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 Sykes, he caught sight of her backward glance and 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?”

  Ratchet shrugged. “Owns some pharmaceutical company. Cyrus, something or other.”

  “Cygnus? He owns the Cygnus corporation?”

  “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 them the other day. He was at some campaign benefit for the mayor. Had a nice-looking blonde on his arm.”

  “That’s why I don’t read the society pages.”

  “Oh.”

  They got out of the elevator and headed to Kat’s office. The coffee machine 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 Ratchet.

  “How does Lou know Mr. Society?” she asked.

  Ratchet 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.”

  Ratchet 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.”

  Ratchet 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?” Ratchet’s cell phone rang. Automatically he glanced down at the number on the display and sighed. “Ratchet here,” he said. “Yeah, what have you got for us now?”

  Kat 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 identify the drug that had killed Jane Doe.

  She looked up at the sound of footsteps. Sykes 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 PICKUP.

  “Thought you wer
e going to run some tests here.”

  “I’ll do them when I do them. 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.”

  Sykes 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.”

  “Hell,” grunted Ratchet, snapping shut the phone. “Now we’ll miss lunch.”

  “What is it?” asked Sykes.

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

  Kat looked up from the file drawer. Ratchet 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, Kat 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?”

  Ratchet 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.