Reed said, “Good idea.”
“Ashley actually shot her?”
“She did.”
“Damn,” said Monchen. “That’s heavy.”
Reed looked at the van.
“Roger,” said Monchen. Saluting, he ran off.
Reed said, “Tomorrow it’s going to hit him. Not to mention her.”
The obvious question: What about you?
The obvious thing to say: nothing.
Maybe Reed was being considerate, maybe he shifted his weight to the left unconsciously. Either way, the space he created allowed me a view of Deandra Demarest’s body.
Mercilessly lit by an overhead fixture, she lay facedown on a brown carpet stained with red. Wearing what Binchy had described earlier: a black top that could’ve come from a bikini but might’ve been a bra, and cut-off denim shorts revealing crescents of butt-cheek. Bare feet. Clean feet. Blond hair fanning. Black polish on her fingernails. Not even a chip.
When I leaned in a bit closer, Reed didn’t stop me. Details seeped in.
Red sump at the base of the skull.
Five additional blood blossoms grouped near the center of her spine.
Rookie or not, Ashley Burgoyne was a crack shot.
Everything on tape, justification for the shooting seemed obvious. Though the damage situated on the back might prove problematic if someone complained.
I heard footsteps from the rear of the house, shouts of “Police, show yourself.” Then: “Clear here.”
“Clear.”
“Clear.”
A black-and-white had pulled behind the UPS van. Tyrell Lincoln led Phil Duke away.
Reed shook his head. “I was trying to keep her alive, Doc. Even with the cutter, I could’ve handled her.”
I said, “Tough decision on Ashley’s part.”
“If she actually made a decision.”
“Reflex move?”
“Happens. She’ll have to deal.” He looked over his shoulder. “L.T. let her clear. Maybe therapy, huh?”
Burgoyne stepped from the rear of the house, looking far too young and dispirited.
Reed said, “You okay?”
“Uh-huh.” Shaky voice. “Um... totally all clear. I’m supposed to wait in the van, now.”
“Then that’s what you do.”
She looked at Reed, lower lip trembling.
“Thanks for backing me,” he said.
Fighting back tears, the girl who’d shot a woman ran to the van.
“There we go,” said a voice nearly as deep as Phil Duke’s. Marlin Moroni came forward, holstering his Glock. “I’m keeping watch, here. Milo says you should meet out back, he thinks he found something, didn’t say what.”
Reed said, “Maybe a big ruby.”
“A ruby? Like a gem?”
“Yup.”
“Really,” said Moroni. “Any chance of buried treasure, also? Commission for a dedicated public servant?”
“If only,” said Reed.
“It’s always if only,” said Moroni. “That’s called real life.”
Reed and I headed down the driveway. A few steps took us to a tiny backyard. Exterior lighting fixtures shaped like tulips on stalks were in place but not in use. The sole illumination was the narrow, bouncing beam of Milo’s flashlight.
He said, “Can’t figure out how to turn the fixtures on,” and ran the beam across a fusebox on the wall, then over to a meager square of lawn. As perfect as the grass in front and backed by precisely cut beds overflowing with flowers.
Behind all that, reached by a brief brick pathway, was a greenhouse that spanned the entire rear of the property. Impressive wood-and-glass structure, a good eight feet tall, with a pointed finial adorning a shingle roof. More ornate than the house, far too large for the space.
Dim light and not much sound made for sensory deprivation. But a third sense was on full alert.
The reason Milo had called us back was clear.
The smell you never forget.
Moe Reed’s hand shot to his nose. “Oh.”
Milo’s nose was unprotected as he washed the panes of the greenhouse with his torch, highlighting smudges of condensation on the inner surface of the glass, dirt speckles, the contours of vegetative things pressing against panes like curious children.
Further scanning revealed flowers grayed by night. A pulpy-looking blossom so intensely orange, the color forced its way through nocturnal retinal cells.
Meanwhile, the reek grew, invading my sinus passages, climbing into my head, overtaking my brain. Then my gut.
The vile stink, something beyond rotten. Cooking and boiling over.
I suppressed a gag.
Moe Reed, habitually stoic, looked as if he was ready to hurl.
Milo turned to us. “Far as I can see the damn thing’s shut tight and it’s still getting through.”
Reed stepped back, managed speech. “Pretty rank, L.T.”
“You’re a master of understatement, Moses. Okay, I’m seeing two choices. The easy way is call the crypt and leave all the fun to the C.I.’s. Or, on the off chance there’s someone in there who needs saving, we go take a look ourselves.”
“Ricki Sylvester,” said Reed. “Saving a lawyer.”
Milo laughed. “Don’t tell anyone, Moses.”
Reed dredged up a smile and stepped back farther.
Milo whipped out a handkerchief, folded it double into a wad that he pressed against his nose.
Cotton seemed flimsy protection; he usually carries mentholated ointment for coating his nasal passages.
All the planning, you can’t think of everything.
He said, “Let’s try not to breathe,” and walked toward the greenhouse.
I bunched my jacket and pressed my lapel to my nose, decided that was awkward and worthless and pinched my nostrils shut with my fingers.
When I stepped forward, Moe Reed said, “You really want to, Doc?”
But he didn’t stop me and a few seconds later, I heard the sound of his footsteps, trailing.
Chapter 45
I was right behind Milo when he flung the greenhouse door open. Letting loose humid heat and putrescence that would’ve repelled Satan.
“Oh, God, the things I do for God and country,” he said as he stepped in.
The floor was brick, a central walkway between rows of wooden tables.
The reek seemed to have acquired solidity, jellying the air as it poisoned.
A whole lot of visual beauty made matters worse, though I couldn’t tell you why.
Pots on the tables, glossy and patterned intricately, housed palms, ferns, bromeliads, and other pineapple-like things. Plants with fleshy leaves, spoon-like leaves, spiky leaves, others filamentous and delicate as corn silk.
I spotted one of those red, heart-shaped things they sell in Hawaiian souvenir shops. The orange flowers I’d seen through the window belonged to a squat, spreading thing with hairy, leathery leaves.
A plant that resembled a bird’s head.
A vine that reached for the ceiling, sucker-like appendages gripping glass, an herbaceous octopus.
Something that resembled nothing I could classify.
Everything healthy, lush, thriving.
As we trudged slowly, a squirt of fragrance hit my nose. Sweet, exotic, tropical, facing up to the stink but dying quickly.
Another burst: gingery. That, too, lost out to the ambient toxicity.
Milo stopped, retched, coughed. Bent a bit, straightened, resumed the slog.
I found myself teetering. Reached out for the support of a wooden table, thought better of it and forced myself to keep going.
No one behind me. I half turned, saw Reed’s fleeing form. I sympathized but found perverse pleasure in that. Good to know something could get to him.
Milo took another couple of steps. His flashlight found something and he stopped, pointed, covered his entire face with the handkerchief then dropped it just enough to undrape his eyes.