“So send us in the right direction. Do you know where she moved? Did she give you an address?”
“Nope. All I knew was what she told me, that she was moving to a house with a yard. Thought she was all that, you know? I said to her, found a sucker? A pimp? You know, trying to get the truth ’cuz I knew she was still hooking. And she says, no, she was making more money working less hours. I told her she was full of shit.” She shrugged.
“You didn’t believe her?” Lucy asked.
“I did,” Cora admitted. “But I thought she was into something. She aspired to be a high-paid call girl. I said to her, no one’s going to be paying top dollar for a two-bit whore. But she cleaned up, quit snorting—all her profits used to go up her nose.”
Maybe Meggie Prince didn’t know everything that went on in her building, or she lied a good game.
“I remember when she was in withdrawal,” Cora continued. “Her white bitch friend stayed here to keep Nicole straight. Never thought I’d see that goody-two-shoes stay overnight in this slum, but I guess people surprise you sometimes.”
Lucy asked, “Her friend? Does her friend have a name?”
“No idea. She was brave, I tell you, ’cause white girls don’t do well this side of town, know what I mean? But she stuck with Nicole for three days.”
“You remember what she looked like?”
“Blonde. Shorter than Nicole. Skinny. Dressed like a rich bitch slumming—new jeans, worn T-shirt, but it was designer shit all the way, and clean. She was sparkly clean.” She rolled her eyes and stuck gum in her mouth, cracking it loudly.
“And after this slumber party?” Genie pressed.
“They left. Both of them. Nicole gave her notice, but I don’t think she came back. Put all her stuff in a couple of boxes and disappeared.”
“And you have no idea where they went.”
“I said, a house with a yard. That’s all I know.”
“And you haven’t seen her since?”
There was something in Cora’s eyes that made Lucy think she had seen her. “Maybe not here,” she added, “but in the area.” When Cora didn’t immediately answer, she pushed. “She was murdered a few blocks from here.”
“Cora, this is important,” Genie said. “Have you seen Nicole Bellows anytime in the nine months since she moved out?”
Cora rubbed the sweat off her nose. “Yeah, I did. I saw her at the Big Boy two blocks over. Last night, ten or so. I work there part-time. I thought she was walking the streets again, but she wasn’t dressed for it. She was wearing a hoodie and it was a hundred fucking degrees. I cook in the back, wouldn’t have even looked twice except for the way she was dressed. Went up to her and said, Nic, long time, and she said, just passing through. That’s it. No how’s you been, nothing. She looked scared when I said her name, that was my first thought. Maybe some guy was hassling her or something.”
“Was she alone?”
Cora shrugged. “Far as I know.”
Genie said, “If you see the blonde, let us know.” They thanked Cora for her time, gave her their cards, and left.
“Hiding out,” Genie said. “Going back to her old neighborhood where she’d blend in.”
“Her description couldn’t have been more vague,” Lucy mumbled.
“People here keep their heads low. The law-abiding citizens don’t want any trouble, so they don’t make waves. Nine months ago? I’d say that’s a pretty good memory. Nicole hanging with a young, rich blond girl. I’d say drugs, except knowing what business Nicole was in I’m leaning toward call girl.”
“As opposed to prostitute?”
“Nicole walked the streets, but if she was smart and clean, she might have found an underground escort service. You know how many girls for hire there are in a town like this?”
“Unfortunately, I have some idea.”
“Sex clubs, escort services, streetwalkers. Doesn’t matter the means, there’s a lot of men willing to pay for sex.” They got back into Genie’s car. “I’ll put out some feelers, but I think we’ll come back with some pictures for Ms. Cora Fox and see what she remembers. I’m going to drop you off at the morgue. Call me if you learn anything important.”
* * *
Miles West was the deputy coroner assigned to the Nicole Bellows death investigation.
“Twice in two days after no word from you in months,” Miles teased her.
“I’m just lucky.” With cutbacks, there were fewer investigators with the coroner’s office, and senior staff like Miles West took more cases because their experience helped them close faster.
“This is an FBI case, too?” Miles asked.
“We’re working with DC on this one. It’s a bit unusual.” She didn’t feel the need to explain her odd position on this case. Instead, she showed Miles a photo of the dead rat and written message.
Miles closed his eyes, slowly shaking his head. “Retirement is looking better and better. Want my job?”
“Have one.”
“Well, there’s a job here if you want it. We miss you.”
“I kind of miss the place too.” Working at the morgue had been oddly comforting for Lucy. The atmosphere was calm, the people professional, and though every day was different, every process had an established routine. Every corpse was a mystery to be solved, whether the person died naturally, accidentally, or by violence.
Miles pulled the paperwork on Nicole Bellows. “Sheila’s team is prepping the body now. Prostitute, right?”
“We don’t know that she was still working,” Lucy said.
“Not saying it to be judgmental, Kincaid. No one deserves to die like that.”
“But it’s important that we find out definitively. I was hoping you could put in a good word and let me observe the autopsy.”
He laughed again. “I don’t need to put in a good word. Let’s get you suited up. Like every morgue in the country, we’re shorthanded. Your pathology certification is still valid. You worked with Sheila before.”
Lucy remembered Sheila. The morgue had high turnover among assistant pathologists because of low pay, budget cuts, and internships, but the senior pathologists tended to stay once they carved out a niche. As if to prove her point, when Sheila walked into the scrub room, the two assistants—one male, one female, both young—were unfamiliar to Lucy.
Miles said, “Sheila, you have an extra set of eyes. Your slit throat is a federal case now.”
“How’ve you been?” Sheila asked. She introduced Ann and Ben, two interns from the biology department at GWU. Lucy had been in their position not long ago.
They chatted while they scrubbed, and Lucy immediately felt comfortable in the familiar surroundings.
The ritual of an autopsy was almost soothing. The victim’s body had already been weighed, photographed, and cleaned—in a homicide, they scraped under the fingernails, processed the clothing, combed the hair, did everything to extract possible trace evidence, all of which was sealed and stored in an airtight chamber. Evidence with blood or wet biological matter was first dried to prevent mold and other contaminations.
The victim had been found in panties and a tank top, standard sleep attire for many women in a heat wave. Both were soaked in blood and now hung in the drying unit.
There was no doubt that Nicole Bellows had bled out from a severed artery in her neck when her killer slit her throat, but in a homicide, they needed to be thorough and determine if she’d been raped or beaten or drugged first. Biological trace evidence could lead to her killer; the coroner and forensic labs were an essential part of the investigative team, and working at the morgue last year had given Lucy a new, deeper appreciation for this vital part of homicide investigation.
Lucy stood aside and let Sheila do her job. The process was standard and they used a checklist to ensure they covered all their bases—if the case went to trial, everything they did now mattered that much more.