“It’s your crime scene,” Parker said. “Take it. Don’t screw up, and try not to alienate more than three or four people. And remember, I’m watching you like a hawk. One wrong move and you’re a meter maid.”
Ruiz flipped him off and walked away.
“Yikes,” Kelly said. “Someone at Parker Center really hates you.”
“Honey, everybody at Parker Center really hates me.” He flipped up the collar of his coat and resettled his hat. “I’ll call you.”
He started toward the scene.
“Hey, Parker,” Kelly called before he’d gone ten feet. He looked at her over his shoulder. “Do you really live in a trendy downtown loft?”
“Good night, Andi,” he said, and kept walking.
The coroner’s investigator was going about his business of robbing the victim of the last of her dignity, cutting away her clothing to examine her body for wounds, marks, bruises, lividity.
“How long has she been dead, Stan?” Parker asked.
“Two or three hours.”
The man groaned and strained to turn Eta Fitzgerald’s body over. Two-hundred-plus pounds of literally dead weight. When she toppled, she knocked the investigator on his ass. Her throat had been severed nearly to her spine, and when she was rolled onto her back, her head almost didn’t come with her.
Ruiz cringed and muttered, “Madre de Dios.”
She turned milk white and came backward a step. Parker put a hand on her shoulder to steady her. “Your first cut throat?”
Ruiz nodded.
“You getting sick, doll?”
She nodded again, and Parker turned her and pointed her away from the immediate scene. “Don’t puke on any evidence.”
This was death at its most brutal. Parker knew plenty of seasoned veterans who tossed their dinner over a slit throat or a mutilation. There was nothing shameful in that. It was a horrific thing to see. That he had hardened himself to such sights sometimes made Parker wonder what it said about him. That he had learned to take his own advice and not make it personal, he supposed. That over time he’d developed the invaluable skill to disconnect the victim as a living person from the victim’s corpse.
Even so, this one rocked him more than average. Hours ago he had heard one wisecrack after another come out of this big, vibrant woman. Now there was no voice, only an anatomy lesson on the inner workings of the human throat.
The edges of the gaping wound had peeled back like delicate layers of lace trim, revealing a lot of bright yellow adipose tissue, the connective tissue where fat is stored. It looked like fluorescent chicken fat under the harsh white light.
There wasn’t much blood on or around the wound itself. A lot of it would have gone directly down the now partially exposed trachea into her lungs, drowning her. The carotid artery would have been spraying like a geyser. If it hadn’t been washed away by the intermittent showers, the crime-scene people would find spatter maybe six to eight feet from the body. A lot of blood had pooled under her as she lay on the broken pavement exsanguinating. Her chest was stained with it where it had soaked through her clothes, partially obscuring the small tattoo of a flame-haloed red heart just above her left breast.
All that blood, and depending on where the killer had been standing, he might have walked away with not a drop on him.
Ruiz came back with an expression daring Parker to make a joke.
“Have you got uniforms checking these other buildings?” he asked. “Someone might have seen something.”
She nodded.
“Who called it in?”
“I don’t know.”
Parker turned to Chewalski. “Jimmy?”
“One of our fine citizens,” the officer said, nodding for them to follow him across the alley.
As they approached the loading area of a furniture store called Fiorenza, a dark, huddled figure emerged from inside a large discarded cardboard box. As the figure unfolded, he became a tall, thin black man with long, matted gray hair and layers of ragged clothes. His aroma preceded him. He smelled like he’d been in a sewer for a very long time.
“Detectives, this is Obidia Jones. Obi, Detectives Parker and Ruiz.”
“I founded that poor woman!” Jones said, pointing across the alley. “I woulda tried to recirculate her, but I couldn’t turn her over. As you can see, she’s pacidermical in size. Poor creature, I axed her and axed her not to be dead, but she be dead anyway.”
“And you called the police?” Ruiz said, dubious.
“It don’t cost nothing to call 911. I do it every once in a while. There’s a phone on the corner.”
“Did you see what happened, Mr. Jones?” Ruiz asked, her face pinched against the smell of him.
“No, ma’am, I did not. I was indisposed of at the time of the hyenious act. I believe I’m consumptionating too much fiber in my diet.”
“I didn’t need to know that,” Ruiz said.
The old man squinted at her, leaning down into her face. “I believe perhaps you might be lacking in fiber. This could account for your expression.”
He looked at Parker for a second opinion.
“If it were only that simple,” Parker said. “How did you come across the dead woman, Mr. Jones?”
“I came back to my habitat, and I seen her laying right there after that car pulled away.”
“What car?”
“Big black car.”
“And did you happen to see who was driving that car?” Parker asked.
“Not this time.”
Ruiz rubbed her forehead. “What does that mean?”
“Oh, I seen him before,” Jones said matter-of-factly. “He came by earlier.”
“Would you know this guy if you saw him again?” Parker asked.
“He look like a pit bull dog,” Jones said. “Square head, beady-eyed. Undoubtedly of white trash hermitage.”
“We’ll want you to take a look at some pictures,” Parker said.
Jones arched a thick gray eyebrow. “At your station house?”
“Yeah.”
“Tonight,” he specified. “Whilst it’s cold and wet out here?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind much,” he said. “Do you all get pizza in there?”
“Sure.”
“Can I bring my bags along with me? All my accoutrementionables are in my bags.”
“Absolutely,” Parker said. “Detective Ruiz here will bring them for you in her car.”
Jones looked at her. “There might be some fiberous foodstuffs in there for you. You’re welcome to help yourself.”
“Yeah, great,” Ruiz said, glaring at Parker. “And Detective Parker can give you a ride.”
“No,” Parker said. “Mr. Jones would prefer to be chauffeured in the official police vehicle, I’m sure. Officer Chewalski might even run the lights for you,” he said to Jones.
“That would be very classy,” Jones said. “Indeed.”
“Let’s get your bags, Obi,” Chewalski said. “We’ll put them in the detective’s trunk.”
Ruiz looked up at Parker and mouthed, “I hate you.”
Parker ignored her. “One last thing, Mr. Jones. Around the time of the murder, did you see anyone back here on a bicycle?”
“No, sir. All them bicycle boys was long gone before that.”
“What about a small, boxy black car?”
“No, sir. Big car. Long and black as the grim reaper himself.”
“Thank you.”
“You are such an asshole,” Ruiz said as they walked back toward the scene.
“Consider it your penance,” Parker said.
“For being late?”
“For being you.”
27
The apartment was quiet and dark, the only illumination a white glow that came and went like a searchlight as rain-swollen clouds scudded across the moon. Jace prowled the small space, a caged animal too aware that enemies might be moving ever closer.