Angel Interrupted (3 page)

There, nestled under a protective layer of thorny branches and thick leaves, a mother rabbit had just returned to her nest of grass. Eight newborn kits crowded around her, seeking her warmth.

“They’re very good mothers,” the old lady whispered to her new friend.

Something profound rose in the man named Robert Michael Martin at her comment: sorrow, panic, need—emotions flared like a fire doused with gasoline before he pushed it all back into the past and concealed it with a rush of self-assurance.

I would have no time to wonder. The stillness of the spring morning was split by the sound of sirens, arriving from all directions. Their wails filled the air, terrifying the rabbits and flushing birds from the brush. Even I, so used to sirens when I was alive, felt a dark cloud pass through me.

“Oh, dear,” the old lady said.

“We’re too late,” Robert Michael Martin said in despair. “He’s taken someone.”

“You don’t know that,” Noni said firmly. “It could be a fire.”

It was not a fire. I reached the scene well before the pair hurrying across the park behind me. But it was a not a kidnapped child, either. Squad cars were converging on a cottage across the road that bordered the playground in the park. Already, there were three first responders at the curb and more arrived within the minute. Whatever had happened was bad—and the possibilities were made worse by the fact that the cottage did not look like a crime scene at all. It seemed more like a perfect home for happy endings. It was a white-clapboard, copper-roofed house only one story high, a modern fairy cottage among the larger homes surrounding it. The yard was well tended and in full spring bloom, though its glory would not survive the day. Already, heavy-booted patrolmen were trampling the grounds as they stretched crime scene tape from corner to corner, barricading the cottage inside a perimeter of officially sanctioned space that none could cross but the anointed.

And me, of course. No crime scene tape could stop me.

Unseen, I entered the house and found a tidy home with pink-painted walls and plump furniture heaped high with pillows. There were family photos displayed on shelves and fresh flowers in a vase set on a delicately carved table in the foyer.

Death waited a few feet beyond.

I felt it before I saw it: a flat, cold void, as if in taking life away, death had taken all the oxygen and light with it.

Death is always startling, even when you live in it. Sprawled across a pastel carpet lay the body of a small woman. In her stillness, she seemed as frail as a broken-boned bird. She had been dead for some time, perhaps as long as a day. No trace of life lingered around her.

She was lovely even in death. Her delicate face showed few wrinkles, and her dark hair flowed out behind her in thick, chocolate waves, luxurious in a way that seemed obscene in the face of death. Her skin was pale and she was dressed in the floral scrubs of a nurse. She had not voided, as so many others do in death, and I was glad for that small dignity.

Her mouth was slightly open, as if she were waiting for a kiss that would never come. Snow White without her prince. Her eyes stared up at the ceiling, as if looking through infinity and beyond. In her right hand she clutched a small, gray pistol. It was a delicate weapon that looked like a toy. But she was proof the gun was real. A bullet hole bloomed neatly in the center of her right temple, as precisely defined as if a surgeon had drilled a hole there. It seemed impossible that such a tiny opening had taken her life in an instant, but I had seen such deceptively neat wounds before. I knew they had the power to obliterate all.

As I grew accustomed to the heaviness of death, I sensed the undertones beneath it. Emotions filled me, giving me a glimpse of what her final moment had been like. I felt, strangely, a strong vein of deep love but, most of all, betrayal of the most terrible sort.

What had happened here?

Blood had seeped out in a halo around her head, staining the carpet beneath. A patrolman was kneeling by the body, examining it with the curiosity of someone confronting death for the first time. He touched her left arm, then lifted it by the wrist and checked for a pulse, even though she was clearly gone. He let the arm flop back down, out of place, and then moved to her right side. He touched one of her fingers, curled around the gun, checking it for rigor, pushing it away from its original position without realizing what he had done.

I had been careless like that once, I knew. But I still wanted to take the gun out of the dead woman’s hand and shoot the guy right then and there for maximum stupidity.

“What the hell are you doing, Denny?” a voice cried out from across the room. Excellent—maybe I wouldn’t have to shoot the dumb bastard after all. Maybe his partner would do it for me.

An outraged black woman in uniform stood at the edge of the carpet glaring down at the wide-eyed patrolman. “Get away from the body,” she ordered him. “Go stand over there by the door and remember
exactly
what she looked like when you first got in this room, because Gunn is going to lay you out.”

Gunn? My heart skipped a beat. Maggie was on her way.

“I didn’t touch anything,” the patrolman mumbled.

“I saw you touch her hand.”

“I was checking to see if she was breathing,” he said defensively.

“I ought to do the same for you. There’s no blood getting to your brain. Get over there.” The cop shuffled, ashamed, to a corner of the room. He mumbled something as he passed her, but his partner was in no mood to hear it. “Hell, no,” she said to him. “You’re going to tell them yourself. Look at the body, you dumbass. You might have just screwed up evidence we needed to tell us whether this was murder or suicide.”

She was right. There was something odd about the curve of the dead woman’s right arm and the way she held the gun. I’d seen many an unhappy human blown to the other side by a self-inflicted gunshot. They dropped like rocks in a pond, arms flopped out in instantaneous surrender to death. I’d never seen a suicide with an arm curved as gracefully as a ballet dancer’s. Something was off.

I tried to read the emotions lingering in the room more closely, but the emotions of the living interfered. Already, crime scene specialists had started to flood into the house, including several I recognized. Peggy Calhoun, an older woman just a few years from retirement, had arrived, even though she usually stayed in the lab to supervise her less-experienced colleagues. Her cat’s-eye glasses dangled from a chain looped around her neck and, as always, she had orange lipstick smeared on her teeth.

“What are you doing here?” the female cop asked her.

“Gonzales sent me,” Peggy explained, naming the department’s commander which, in our town’s case, meant the de facto chief of police, since our chief had long since slid into a state of moldy senility after five decades of distinguished service. I knew Gonzales wouldn’t wait much longer before he went for the top job.

“What’s Gonzales got to do with the victim?” the cop asked.

“He knows her.”

The cop stepped back, ceding the crime scene to Peggy’s expertise. But Peggy looked around the small house instead. She saw the unlived-in bedrooms and the single place setting still on the kitchen table from breakfast. “She lived alone?” Peggy asked the cop.

“Looks that way. No sign of anyone else. All the clothes in the closet look like hers. A couple prescriptions in the bathroom are made out to her, nothing big. Mild antidepressants, I think, that’s all. I checked her bureau drawers myself.” The cop looked at Peggy meaningfully. “I thought another woman should do that, know what I mean?”

Peggy nodded, understanding.

“None of the usual, you know, toys or anything. No guy stuff left lying around, no signs of outsiders at all, except for the photos.” She nodded toward a shelf where younger versions of the dead woman posed with relatives at graduations and birthday parties. “It’s not going to be easy telling all those people she’s gone. I’m hoping they live out of town so someone else has to do it.”

Peggy’s eyes filled with tears. I was surprised. She’d seen many a crime scene before. She bent over the body to disguise her lack of composure, and was examining the carpet for trace evidence when the female cop announced, “Doc and Gunn just arrived. Plus that slimy new partner of hers.”

Maggie.
Salvation had arrived.

Maggie entered a crime scene the way she entered a church. She stopped on the threshold to gather herself, emptying her mind of all else so she could be a worthy receptacle for what she learned inside. She calmed her thoughts, steadied her heart, and opened herself up to absorbing gifts beyond the tangible. With reverence and humility, she then stepped inside, determined to do her best.

Her eyes went to every corner of the room, cataloging everything. Well, everything but me. Though I could follow her every move if I desired, Maggie could not see me. At best there were times, I thought, when she sensed my presence or I felt a connection binding us across our worlds. But mostly I was little more than an observer to her competence as a detective. She was all I had failed to be.

The young patrolman in the corner could not meet her eyes. Maggie noticed, and the smallest of frowns flickered across her face. “Has anything been touched or moved?” she asked, without judgment, knowing that keeping her anger under control was the best way to preserve the truth.

“I’ll let Denny tell you for himself,” the black cop said as she headed outside to help corral the onlookers who were already clogging the sidewalk and driveway.

Maggie stared at Denny, waiting. He blushed. “Just do your best to remember exactly what it was you might have touched or moved,” she said quietly. I could feel the cop’s world shrink to Maggie and nothing else. She had that effect on people, and it made her one hell of an interrogator. The beat cop’s heart rate slowed, and he searched his memory carefully. He wanted to help and it did not hurt that Maggie, my Maggie, was as fine a specimen as the human race could offer. She was not beautiful, nor even pretty, by most people’s standards. Her face was plain, her hair an ordinary brown. But she was in incredible physical shape, and she moved through the world like a panther might cut through the jungle—focused and utterly unafraid.

Denny was staring at her arms. She wore a sleeveless black blouse, and her muscles were perfect.

“Your name’s Denny, right?” Maggie said more loudly. “Help me out here, Denny.”

“I picked up her left arm,” he finally said. “To check her pulse and make sure she was dead.” When Maggie nodded, as if understanding, he continued. “I guess maybe it slipped out of my hand and I let it flop a little?” He looked like he might faint.

“Flop how?”

Denny leaned over the body, trying to remember. “It was straight by the body when I first picked it up, very straight, almost like someone had pulled it into place.”

“Good,” Maggie said. “What about the other arm, the one with the gun?”

“I touched her hand, a little. The finger was coiled around the trigger. I thought it might be dangerous.”

“And that’s it?” she asked.

Denny nodded.

“Thanks. We can take it from here.”

Maggie knelt next to Peggy Calhoun, the crime lab head, and the two women began to whisper in low tones, conferring over what they had just heard. Denny, ignored, headed out the door—but found a less forgiving detective blocking the way: Maggie’s new partner, Adrian Calvano.

“Way to fuck up a crime scene,” Calvano told the terrified patrolman as he scurried past. “Hope you enjoy walking the beat.”

“Give it a rest, Adrian,” Maggie said automatically, her mind on the body before her. She sounded like she said that phrase a lot.

What a jerk Calvano was. How could Gonzales have made him Maggie’s new partner? Adrian Calvano was an unctuous douche bag I’d hated when I was alive and now loathed well into the afterlife. He’d never missed an opportunity to tear someone else down, be it partner, perpetrator, or passerby. I hated him for so many reasons it was hard to keep track. Replacing me as Maggie’s partner was just the latest one. For one thing, Calvano was in his midforties, but had stayed thin and still had all of his hair. He probably dyed it, since it was still jet black, but you couldn’t quite be sure. He wore it brushed straight back like he thought he was some sort of Italian count. Women loved it. Women loved
him.
The rest of the word thought he was an asshole.

Maggie deserved so much better.

“Adrian?” Maggie asked. When Calvano, a world-class ass-kisser, responded right away, I realized she was the senior officer on the case. That made me feel better. I was sure Calvano hated taking orders from a woman. “I need you to screen and interview all those people standing around outside,” she said. “Talk to her neighbors. The usual. Peter’s filming them, but I need you on it. Find me people who know the victim, who can tell me about her life.”