Always Kiss the Corpse (26 page)

Noel picked at a few last tidbits of salmon steak, baked potato and first of the season asparagus. They'd shared a bottle of a smooth Washington State Sauvignon Blanc. Samson's was indeed best appreciated by eating on the premises.

Kyra asked, “Do you know anything about guns?”

“No, do you?”

“No. And no desire to learn.”

“Okay, we stay away from cases involving guns.”

“How do we know what a case involves before we're on it?”

“Yeah.” Noel looked around for the server. Three minutes later he'd paid the bill and filed the receipt in his wallet.

Kyra put on her Gore-Tex and they dashed the two blocks through the rain. Back and dry, she asked, “Do you think Sandro was a threat to anyone?”

“Don't know enough to think.” Noel flicked on the gas fire. Then he sat down and opened his laptop. “First fact: Likely Sandro confided in only three people that he was becoming a woman, Ursula, Brady, Cora. Not Rudy or Garth or any of his family.”

“Women, not men. Less threatening, more sympathetic.”

“The Greek enforcer figured, wrongly, that Sandro had told Rudy.”

“Right. Three who signed the guest book get told to keep quiet or else.”

“Why only three?”

“Maybe he overlooked the doc. Could he know Brady and Ursula were a unit?”

Noel typed.

Kyra got up and paced. There wasn't much room. “Early March. A rain forest. Walking to the blockhouse, his shoes stay clean?”

“He didn't fly.”

“Carried.”

“By whom?”

“Someone he knew. Someone he didn't know.”

“He parked away from the door. No mud tracks.”

“Oh, I nearly forgot. Those women Sandro corresponded with on e-mail? One lives in Seattle and she's got a website. Chelsea. I set up a meeting time with her.”

“Who's Chelsea?”

“Someone with a soothing voice.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow at eleven.”

“No, when did you make it?”

“At Sandro's. When you were in the bathroom.”

“When I went back to get the name of the medicine in the cabinet. The liquid one.”

“I don't remember—”

“Hipoperc. No pharmacy or physician mentioned on the label.”

“Oh.” Noel typed.

“Hey, maybe Jerome can figure the medicine out. What did this Chelsea's site tell you?”

“She has a women's boutique.”

“Is she transgendered?”

“No idea.”

“What's her market?”

“Probably anybody who wants to buy. Whatever she is sexually, on her website she looks like a capitalist.”

Kyra thought about that. “What else did you find out?”

“The site's also meant for people who're thinking about or are in the process of or have already been transgendered. A chat group, questions and advice.”

“Like?”

“I didn't have a lot of time to look through.”

“How many people is she dealing with?”

“I'm not sure. Some could be the same people writing under different names.”

“What kind of questions?”

“Lots of stuff about dating and sex. Other than that, anything from the early scary—‘I feel like I'm a woman inside but I'm not sure and do I have to be castrated to find out if I was right and for god's sake what if I was wrong?' From that to someone who'd already become a woman, should she wear padded bras or get breast implants or find one of those bras that just pushed a lot of fatty flesh around so it looked like she was small chested but still had her own tits.”

“God.” A small shudder from Kyra. “You learned a lot in a short time. Freaks me out.”

“It doesn't take long.” Yeah, it'd be best for him to meet Chelsea alone without Kyra. He turned back to his computer notes.

Kyra shifted ground. “No underwear.” She fiddled with a curl of hair, stretched it out, let it snap back. “Bloated testes. Wouldn't he want more support than from sweatpants?”

“Maybe he liked roominess.”

“On another subject. Remember in the Gabriola case? How it's hard to distinguish between opiates without certain tests. When we hear from the coroner we have to find out if it was heroin for sure. Opium or, say, morphine. They'd each mean something different.”

Noel listed the clothes Sandro's body was dressed in; lack of mud on shoes; returning photo album; syringes, no dope; Chelsea and her address; hungry cats.

Kyra fished out her cellphone. “Chelsea at eleven? I'll try to see Vasiliadis after that.”

“No. Try for the same time. You'll be better one on one with him.”

She squinted at him. What about their working together preference? Did he want to meet Chelsea by himself?

Noel added Rudy's, Cora's and Ursula's being threatened to his list.

Kyra dialed, waited, asked for him, got him. “Mr. Vasiliadis? This is Kyra Rachel . . . Yes, that's right, the detective you tried to intimidate . . . I know, I know, but I'd like to meet with you tomorrow morning around eleven . . . Yes, about Sandro . . . I'll tell you when I get there . . . Eleven-thirty is fine . . . I have your address.” She broke the connection.

“Let's leave the accident-suicide theories for a minute.” She dropped the phone into her purse. “Could someone in Sandro's family have felt threatened enough to kill him?”

Noel raised both eyebrows. “You could ask Uncle Andrei.”

≈  ≈  ≈

Lorna's mind refused to concentrate on anything other than Terry at home, with Richard maybe getting ready for a guilt-ridden talk with Sheriff Burt Vanderhoek. All Lorna knew about the sheriff was he kept getting re-elected. He might not be entirely stupid.

Call Stockman, tell him about her chat. He'd been as concerned over Sandro, and then for Richard, as the rest of them. No, Stockman had a right to a quiet evening. Still, Lorna had to talk with someone. At eight she decided, and called. Answering service. She started to leave a message, then didn't.

Call Gary? He'd gone mercurial over the last week, his mood swings needing a shrink of their own. If she caught him on a high he'd talk her ear off. She tried to read some more. No good. She called Stockman again. Still no one home.

Okay. Gary. Probably wasn't there either. He picked up after three rings. “Gary? It's Lorna.”

“Oh. Hi.”

“Didn't expect you to be home.”

“Might go out soon. What's up?”

Nine-fifteen. Her colleague the swinger. “Look, I just had a heart-to-heart with Terry. She's very upset about Richard.”

“Still wants to talk to the cops?”

“She's convinced him to take his boat out Sunday and think it all through.”

“Yeah. Good.”

No high for Gary tonight, rarely so monosyllabic. “She thinks if Richard goes and spills his beans to our local guy, the sheriff, nothing'll come of it. She hears the sheriff's none too bright.”

“No. No good.”

“Might cauterize Richard's sense of being wounded.”

“I don't like it.”

Lorna waited. Silence. “Any other really superior ideas?”

More silence. At last he said, “I'll try to think of something.”

Talking to Gary was worse than talking to no one. “Okay, think of something.”

“I will.” Silence for maybe fifteen seconds. “See you.” The line went dead.

Lorna set the phone down too. Time to go home. She'd take a sleeping pill.

FIFTEEN

Yes, Richard had promised Terry, if he did any diving he'd be careful. It was still dark as he carried fins, mask and wetsuit below deck.
Panacea
, a 28-foot Carver Riviera, had gone into the water only two weeks ago, a warm, sunny February weekend. She was running sweetly—after a $1780 tune-up. Then for five days it rained, then all that business with Sandro, and Richard hadn't been out since. Raining again now. Tomorrow better be a great day. Damn Sandro.

When Richard and Terry had first come to Seattle, a colleague at the hospital and her husband took them out onto the Sound overnight. Richard became an instant motor-yacht person. He bought a used six-year-old Bayliner Ciera and turned himself into a nautical mechanic. But sailing out of Seattle every time he wanted to be on the water was a drag; too far from solitude. So he docked the Ciera at Coupeville's marina and they drove out most Friday afternoons. Then to overcome the miserable traffic on the I-5 he and Terry both managed to change their schedules to work weekends and be off a couple of days mid-week. Still not good enough. They needed a house on Whidbey itself. It was while they were buying the place that Stockman Jones approached him. Dr. Jones and his colleagues, Dr. Albright and Dr. Haines, were impressed with his work. Would Dr. Trevelyan consider preliminary discussions about coming in to WISDOM as a full partner? Their previous endocrinologist had taken a position in Kansas City. Richard and Terry discussed this. He explained to Stockman and the others that, seeing himself nearly into his sixth decade, he was giving more of his life over to enjoying as many non-professional days as possible—his house on the island, his boat, the open water. No problem, they responded, anything could be worked around.

So Richard joined WISDOM. It took less than a year for him to convince the others that their work would fare better on Whidbey Island: cheaper, larger properties, lower wages for staff, and with the clinic's reputation the clientele would flock to it. And Gary needed to get out of Seattle for his own reasons. Lorna realized she'd get about six times as much research space. Bonnie, Stockman's wife, took a little convincing, but on seeing the possibilities for revamping pieces of the island's Victorian architecture, she was won over. WISDOM came to Whidbey.

It had been good from the start. The four of them made a true team, an organism working towards a single end. Though in the last few days he'd felt less part of the team.

Panacea
had arrived in Richard and Terry's life the same month as the relocation of the clinic. No children or pets so they came to love the boat as their baby, joking that if they'd brought up three kids, their college educations would have cost less than what they poured into the boat.

Richard glanced at his watch. 8:24. A grim gray morning, damn misty rain. The detective had six minutes to get here.

≈  ≈  ≈

Kyra followed Dr. Trevelyan's directions to wharf #4, halfway down on the right. Crazy place to meet a doctor, in the rain. Why not over breakfast, talk while sipping hot coffee? She pulled her anorak high. Noel did the same. They marched down the wharf to a building at the end; a large sign promoted a huge shark skeleton inside. She turned left to the floating wooden branch wharves and counted because they weren't numbered. Dark and slippery. She shivered. At four she turned right. Halfway along, a man in jeans and weatherproof jacket stood on the rear deck of a solid-looking power boat. Yes,
Panacea
, printed across the boat's stern, and she recognized the man from yesterday. “Dr. Trevelyan. Kyra Rachel, and my partner Noel Franklin. Did I say that we are Islands Investigations International?”

“Yes, you did.”

He hadn't invited them onto the boat. “I'd like to talk with you about Sandro Vasiliadis.”

“Yes, you mentioned that.”

“Dr. Trevelyan, you saw him before he died. Possibly you were the last person to see him alive.”

“I saw him at four o'clock.”

“What was he wearing?” Kyra was asking the questions, Noel noted down the answers.

“A skirt and blouse, pantyhose.” He paused. “I couldn't tell you the color.”

“And he was upset?”

“Yes.”

“About?”

“His condition.”

“The state of his testes?”

Richard squinted at her. “What do you mean?”

Oh, he knew exactly what she meant. “Who might have supplied Sandro with the heroin that killed him?”

“I have no idea. None.”

Man standing on boat. Detectives standing on wharf. Oddly divided. She could barely see Trevalyn through the misty rain. “He was your patient.”

“He was, actually, the clinic's patient.”

“Can you tell me what kind of drugs was he taking?”

“I'm sorry, Ms. Rachel, I'm afraid that information is confidential.”

Noel glanced at his notebook, protecting the page from the wet. “Was he taking beta-GD and Percocet? Prescribed by you?”

Trevelyan scowled. A few drops of rain cascaded from his forehead down his nose. “How did you find that out? Have you been sneaking into his private life?”

“That information would be privileged, too.” Then Noel smiled. “But you could help us by explaining what those drugs do.”

“Also, he had one other drug, hipoperc, a liquid, no prescribing name, no dispensing information. Where did that come from?” Kyra punched. “And what is it?”

Richard sighed. “The poor man—”

“The drugs, Dr. Trevelyan?”

“Beta-GD is an artificial version of a hormone that occurs naturally in the human body. Percocet is a powerful pain reliever.”

“Sandro was in pain, then?”

“I've said so. At least the day he died.” He looked pointedly at his watch.

“Do you believe it was an accident?” Noel asked. “Or that he killed himself? Or—”

“I'm assuming suicide. But it doesn't matter, he's dead.”

“And the other drug—” Noel glanced again at his notebook, “hipoperc? The liquid Ms. Rachel has mentioned?”

Trevelyan squinted, then blinked a few times. “I don't know what that is.”

“Are you sure?”

“Is my name on the label?”

“No. But we found it with the other bottles. As my associate said” —clear the man was hiding something—“no prescribing or dispensing information. Just the word
hipoperc.
”