Always Kiss the Corpse (19 page)

The hearse turned right toward Coupeville. Nico said, “Which way now?”

Vasily pulled himself out of his memories and found the map. “Should be down off this road.” Past a hospital, a school, couple more streets. “Turn here.” He pointed right.

They found the offices of the County Seat. Nico pulled the hearse into a small lot at the side. Vasily said, “This won't take long.” He got out, headed for the main door, went in. Inner door to the sheriff's office and Vasily opened it. A few tired chairs, magazines on a coffee table—godawful place to work. The receptionist behind a desk turned to him, gave him a dazzling smile as her lovely thick hair settled on her shoulders. Too much eyebrow but the most gorgeous mouth. Maybe he'd come back to Whidbey when this Sandro business was settled. Her smile told him his chances with her would be pretty good. “Hello.”

“May I help you?”

The sign on her desk said Miss Brady Adam. “I need to speak with the sheriff.”

“You have an appointment?”

Damn, had Andrei made that call? Better assume so. “Yep.”

“Oh, you phoned him directly? This morning?”

“Yeah. Just to be sure.”

“I'll let him know you're here.” She got up. At the inner door, she knocked.

With appreciation Vasily noted the great hips and damn good ass held tight by that skirt—

She turned to him. “You may go in.”

As he passed he brushed his elbow against her upper arm. She didn't seem to notice.

Behind a desk sat the sheriff, a big man. “Come in. Sit down,” he waited as Vasily did, “what d'ya want to know about now?”

“Now?”

“About your goddamn mountains out of molehills case.”

“Look, I think you're confusing me—”

“Isn't that why you called?”

“What case?”

“The one your partner got so nosy about, the overdosed dead kid case, the mother doesn't know her own son case, the why you made an appointment with me case. That case.”

Vasily forced a smile. “Well that's what I'm here for—”

“You detectives have your nerve. I'm a municipal employee, for Coupeville, see? And I don't have hours and hours to hang around my office while you—what'd you say?—interview me.”

Not good. Andrei had said the detectives were done. Vasily's smile remained. “I think you've made a mistake. I'm not a detective. I'm a cousin of the dead man. I've brought a hearse, I'm here to take his body back to Seattle for the funeral.”

“Oh.” The sheriff stared at Vasily. “I see.”

Did he? “So if we can—”

“Not so fast. There's a right way and a wrong way to do things. Procedures.”

“So we finish the procedures quickly—”

“Nothing quick about procedures. Why they exist. Make sure everything's done proper.”

“Then let's get started.” Vasily smile was slipping quickly.

“I need to check some things out here. First of all, last I heard, the mother claimed the corpse was somebody else's.”

“That's all settled. It is Sandro Vasiliadis.”

“You got the certificate that says that?”

“His mother knows her son. She—”

“Didn't last time. Just denied it. I need an explanation for all that.”

“Sheriff, Sandro is Andrei Vasiliadis nephew.”

“I don't care whose nephew or great uncle the corpse is, I can't release it without proper papers. From what I see you don't have the papers.”

“I've got the hearse and the driver from the mortuary right outside.”

“Does he have the papers?”

“He's the mortuary official, for god's sake!”

“Won't do no good. I need papers to release a body.”

Vasily sighed, to control himself. “And where do I get these papers?”

The sheriff shrugged. “Anyway it don't matter whether you got papers or not, 'cause it's too late in the day and I can't release the body now till Monday morning.”

“Eleven
AM
is too late?”

“I got a busy day.”

A greater crime to beat the shit out of a sheriff than out of an average citizen? The desire was nearly overwhelming. “Where do I get these papers?”

“Municipal office, third door on the right.” The sheriff explained carefully, door by door, certificate by certificate, seal by embossed seal. “Come back Monday.”

Vasily got up. “This'll cause you trouble, Sheriff.”

The sheriff smiled. “Son, nothing causes me trouble.”

Vasily turned and left because he couldn't do anything else. He passed through the outer office but barely heard the lilting voice say, “Bye.”

≈  ≈  ≈

Anger and concern, tightly packed together, cramped the sheriff's gut the moment the door closed. Nobody threatened Burt Vanderhoek. If Brady hadn't been outside he might've softened the greaseball up some. But she didn't like that kind of stuff. Even if she did he wouldn't have bashed the guy around. Not here in the office anyway.

But the greaser had to follow the rules. Trouble was, Burt couldn't exactly say what the rules were. They'd know at the Municipal offices. Damn Greek family to blame for all this, the red tape they caused, specially if it really was their corpse. Just like everybody else, either breaking the law or thinking about doing so. Better call Carl.

Carl Assounian, the State Patrol officer overseeing the Vasiliadis case out of Oak Harbor, answered on the second ring. “Oh Burt. What's up?”

Burt laid out the visit from the Greek guy.

“You did it right on the button, buddy. Nothing I can help you with anyway, we're in the middle of a crackdown in Seattle. Tell you about it when I see you.”

Okay, Burt was off any hook he maybe hadn't noticed. He worried about Carl, though. The guy sounded under a strain, likely because he'd given up cigarettes. Or had he started again? Yeah, something weird about that body, mother not recognizing her own son. Maybe not her son? Bet she's lying about something, most people usually are.

A knock on the door. “Come in!” Brady, to say his other appointment had arrived, the detective from Islands Investigations International, a Mr. Franklin.

“Jesus,” said Burt.

≈  ≈  ≈

Brady, chatting with Noel before announcing his arrival to Sheriff Vanderhoek, let Noel know the man sounded out of sorts today, just been talking with someone who'd upset him, if Noel wouldn't mind waiting five minutes before going in? And if he could make the meeting quick—? Noel pretended to read a
Field and Stream
magazine while he waited. He glanced at Brady, engrossed by her computer screen. A traditionally attractive woman. On the web he'd found a phrase for her version of things sexual—terrible to generalize, but people do—a lipstick lesbian. Female-pretty in any man's eyes, and attracted to other women. He understood very little about who attracted whom. He had loved Brendan and that was that. He'd never love again.

Brady said, “I think he's ready to see you now,” got up, “as short as you can make it,” knocked on the door, and announced Noel.

Noel went in. Big man, like Kyra had said. Lots of dog pictures. He didn't stand, gestured Noel to a chair, and barked, “Okay, what now?”

“Just a few minutes of your time, couple of questions—”

“Your partner asked all the questions.”

“A follow-up. How do you know Sandro Vasiliadis was a heroin addict?”

“He died of it.”

“Yes, but—”

“Arm full of needle marks. That screams
addict
to me.”

“Was the syringe with the body?”

“Nope.”

“Any equipment?”

“Nope.”

“Do you keep tabs on the addicts in Coupeville?”

“Tabs?”

“Lists, or whatever. On who's using.”

“Nope. Anyway we don't have addicts in town. And the corpse wasn't from here.”

“Right.” No addicts in Coupeville? “I'd like to see the autopsy report.”

The Sheriff grimaced. “Gotta talk to Doc Ferrero about that.”

“You mentioned Vasiliadis' car. Where is it?”

“State Patrol's yard.”

“I'd like to see it. It's been fingerprinted and so on?”

He picked up a brass German Shepherd paperweight. “It's not been fingerprinted and so on.”

Noel sighed, and stood. Brady would be pleased at how quick he'd been. He wasn't pleased with himself; Vanderhoek was a bastion of non-information. “Thank you.” He headed for the door. He was pretty sure he heard the sheriff mutter, “Goddamn civilians.”

Brady turned out to be more relieved than pleased. “He's been in a foul mood for the past few days.”

“Thanks for the insight. See you.” Noel headed for the outer door. A thick gray rain beat against the glass. He turned back. “Too wet out there. May I wait here? Kyra should be by soon.”

“No prob.” Brady smiled prettily.

He checked that his cell was on; Kyra would phone when she finished.

≈  ≈  ≈

Vasily, sweating lightly, dialed Andrei's private line. He heard, “Yes?”

“I'm on Whidbey. Two things. Bad news.”

“Tell me.”

“The detectives are still on the case. The sheriff was expecting one of them when I came in. He thought I was the guy.”

“Then the woman detective lied to me last night.”

“Looks that way.”

“But Maria didn't hire them again. This makes no sense.”

“Maybe they're poking around on their own.”

“No. People don't work without pay.”

“Maybe island people do?”

Silence while Andrei thought. “No. I don't think so.”

“Then someone else hired them.”

“Could be.”

“Who?”

“Someone concerned. A friend of Sandro's.”

“Garth?”

A moment, then: “Not against Maria's wishes. Maria is done with detectives.”

“Then who?”

“Go to the funeral home. Read the guest book, see who was at the viewing. Maybe one of them. Find out who and convince them to fire the detectives.”

“Okay.”

“And the other bad news?”

“The Sheriff won't release Sandro's body till Monday. I have to fill out a bunch of papers.”

“Bring them here. I didn't want to involve anyone else but now I have to get Chuck. He'll deal with the legalities.”

“Chuck's good.” Vasily hesitated. “Andrei, I'm sorry about not getting Sandro back.”

“The body can wait. Just so long as the casket stays closed.”

≈  ≈  ≈

A gatekeeper, Kyra thought. If Triple-I grows, will we too need a gatekeeper?

Question: What's worse than a gatekeeper at the door?

Answer: Having no gatekeeper, which would mean we have nothing to hide.

This blonde one, about her own age, was called Dawn Deane according to the nameplate, but her tone shouted that sunset had arrived for Kyra's quest: “No, today isn't possible.”

Something about the reception room made it difficult for Kyra to come on hard. “I need very little time, it's for the benefit of one of your ex-patients, a few questions—”

“I can make an appointment for you early next week.”

“If you just explain to whoever's in that I—”

Ms. Dawn Deane, glancing at Kyra's card, spoke gently. “Ms. Rachel, each day the workload of the clinic is set up in advance. If you tell me when you can come back?”

As gatekeeper, the woman was good. Soothing voice, a match to this attractive room. Dawn Deane sounded as if she truly wanted to help. Yet behind the velvet desk sat a will of steel.

“Next week might be too late to help Sandro's friends. Time's important here.”

A wrinkle appeared on Dawn Deane's forehead. “Who did you say?”

“Sandro Vasiliadis.”

Dawn Deane looked sad. “Tragic.” She thought for a moment. “Excuse me. I'll see.” She headed down the hall to the right, knocked on a door, and disappeared. Kyra wondered if she should follow Dawn Deane and open the door. But the harmony of the waiting room insisted that any show of discord would work against her. This room knew how to keep people in their place. Offset lighting, soft carpet, serene seascape lithographs on the walls—each of them, she noted, numbered: 23/80, 17/30, and so on. No simple prints for the WISDOM clinic.

“Ms. Rachel, Dr. Jones can give you a few minutes.”

Kyra turned quickly. “Thank you.” A clever reception room. She'd been drawn from her mission.

“This way.”

Dawn Deane opened the door she'd disappeared behind earlier and gestured for Kyra to go in. The office felt even more comfortable than the reception room, not so much in appearance as in demeanor, as if the office had good deportment. With erudite tomes on dark wood bookshelves filling two walls, it felt like an intelligent place as well. The third wall was all window, a March garden outside, crocuses nearly finished, little blue and yellow iris spikes, the grass emerald through the rain. On the fourth wall, more lithographs.

The man behind the desk stood, came around, reached his hand. “Dr. Stockman Jones.”

She shook it. “Kyra Rachel, Islands Investigations International.”

Jones, about Kyra's height, near-spherical face, chubby, white shirt and silk maroon tie, said, “Please have a seat.” He returned to his desk's protection. His suit jacket hung on a coat rack. “You represent a friend of Sandro Vasiliadis?”

Kyra sat in a narrow, brown leather chair that seemed to embrace her. “Yes. My client is concerned about Mr. Vasiliadis' death.”

The circle face nodded itself into a globe of a head. “A tragedy. We at WISDOM had gotten to know him well.”

“Was he acting strangely in the last days of his life?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“My client has trouble believing Sandro wanted to kill himself.”