Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) (18 page)

Maybe i
t’
s the cop.
 

My heart leaps, then stops.  I remember his messag
e—
call me before eleve
n—
and I want to run. 

I ca
n’t
—

I’
m not read
y
—

Robi
n
—

“
Who is it, Brick
?
”

“
I did
n’
t ask.  I leave new clients to you
.
”

Jaw drop.  We have
n’
t had a new client in months.
 “
New
clients
?
” 

Brick smiles.
 “
Nice teeth.  Nicest
I’
ve ever seen
.
”

My gut flip-flops. 

So the co
p’
s found me here?

“
Okay,
I’
ll . . . take care of it
.
” 

I struggle to recall his smile, but it was too dark in Oma
r’
s last night to see the Viking cop.  I turn and rock down the hallway, a gut-knot gathering.  I
t’
s him.  Who else could it be?

Correcting my limp, I sigh.  At least when
I’
m hauled out in cuffs,
I’
ll be clothed this time, not like last night. 

“
No, screw that
!
”
 
I dump my backpack and pull off my hoodie. 
I’
m wearing my dance
r’
s body tights underneath, the black scoop-neck top molded to my ribcage.  He liked my ladies last night, so maybe I can use them to distract him again today.

Feeling better equipped to meet Detective Hawks, I hurry toward the front office, planning my next move. 
I’
ve got to take his focus off Robin.  As Berta Colb
y’
s daughter,
I’
ve learned how to use my body to get what I want.  And right now I want my brothe
r—
and m
e—
to stay out of jail.

Chapter 15

Bite Doc waves me in with barely a hello. 
I’
m pretty sure h
e’
s saying something like
,“
Go screw yourself, Detective Hawks
,”
but I ca
n’
t hear because h
e’
s mumbling.

Exercising my will power and choosing not to be ruffled by the man, I marvel at the do
c’
s lab.  I love a well-organized morgue, the cadavers lined up in neat little fridges, row on top of row.  Makes it easier finding the bodies.  But in here, the temperatur
e’
s a few degrees below the morgu
e’
s, and I wonder why.  And wh
y’
n hell does Bite Doc need all these freezers? 

“
Shall we
?”
he asks, loping to the center of his lab and stopping near a stainless steel table.

“
Yeah
,”
I say.  Ther
e’
s charm between those bushy eyebrows, I tell myself, then stifle a chuckle.  There is no fucking charm anywhere near this man.  Bite Do
c’
s a cave bear: simple.

Like two burglars casing an empty house, we go to work, our focus on the task at hand.

“
Tell me anything at all about our perp, and
I’
ll buy you a lifetim
e’
s supply of beer
,”
I say, hoping to scare up some of the cave bea
r’
s charm.  Instead, I get a stare the equivalent of a surly paw swipe.  When I start to plunk the folder filled with color photos of Megal
o’
s last vic down onto Bite Do
c’
s stainless steel table, he catches the envelope midair, before it touches his sterilized work area. 

“
Sheesh
,”
he says, frowning and pushing a dry hank of yellow hair from his flushed forehead.
 “
I do
n’
t drink spirits, Detective Hawks, but
I’
ll settle for a new microscope
.
”

“
Yo
u’
ve found something already
?”
I ask, feeling instantly hopeful but cautious.  Bite Do
c’
s one squirrely bastard, but I figure he must have some new evidence, or he would
n’
t have made such a deal with me.  I
t’
s like gambling, betting
I’
ll have to buy him a microscope.  And Mormons do
n’
t gamble. 

“
You got a deal, Doc
,”
I say, taking a stool.
 “
You show me some new evidenc
e—
usabl
e—
and
I’
ll buy you a microscope
.
”
 
I
t’
s hard to keep calm, thinking he might have something, but I manage.
 “
Wha
t’
ve you found
?
”

“
Patience
,”
Bite Doc says, maneuvering several photos into position on the tabl
e’
s top.

Yeah, tha
t’
s my nickname.  Mr. Patience.
 

Waiting while he putters around arranging the photos, I check my cell phone for messages.  Having DeeDee run a check on Alain
a’
s and her famil
y’
s backgrounds,
I’
d also ordered a check on Bite Do
c—
in case. 

When yo
u’
ve been in Homicide a while, i
t’
s hard to tell when to start checking backgrounds and when not, but when there is no evidence everyon
e’
s a suspect.  I
t’
s anachronistic, but I do
n’
t rule anyone out, not until
I’
m sure I can.  I
t’
s almost counter intuitive, but aside from the fact h
e’
s a Mormon and unmarried and spends all his time locked in this lab, Bite Do
c’
s a perfect candidate to cover up a crime involving serial biting.  I do
n’
t expect anything to show up in his background, but my job is like a docto
r’
s.  Making a diagnosis means ruling out everything tha
t’
s not wrong with the patient, in order to find out wha
t’
s wrong.  In this case,
I’
ve got to rule out everyone who is
n’
t a suspect before I can determine who is.  Bite Do
c’
s no exception.

Damn.  My Bureau of Criminal Investigation report on Bite Do
c’
s not ready.  Wishing BCI had a better turn-around time, I re-holster my cell phone.

“
Ahem
,”
Bite Doc says, acting perplexed that
I’
ve taken to the modern habit of checking my cell phone with others present.
 “
Le
t’
s get on, shall we
?”
he says.

Now h
e’
s the one in a hurry? 

Put off by his arrogance, or belligerenc
e—
maybe bot
h—
I stare at the stainless steel table I almost sullied when I tossed my folder on it.  Bite Do
c’
s got all the photos neatly labeled and laid out for my inspection next to the bones of Meera, Megalo Do
n’
s first vic.  When Doc Smalley finishes with the latest vi
c’
s autopsy, impressions of her gnawed flesh will join Meer
a’
s on the stainless steel table.  Bite Doc will add yet more sets of impressions and molds to his impressive collection, and h
e’
ll take hundreds more photos.

“
When you and I are done, my new partne
r’
s bringing your employee back here from the reception area for questioning
,”
I tell him.

“
Uh-huh
.
”
 
Bite Doc does
n’
t ask.  Other than Aurelia Moreno, h
e’
s only got one other employee.  I watch his face carefully, looking for any telltale facial tics or signs of discomfort with my interviewing Alaina.  Seeing none, I drop my gaze to the color photos lined up on the table next to Meer
a’
s remains.  Bite Doc wo
n’
t have to worry about naming the vic in these photos.  Sh
e’
s got a name: Angie Dawn Miller.

Doc lifts his head, catches my gaze.  Impassive, he clears his throat.
 “
I take it, since yo
u’
re interviewing Miss Colby, that sh
e’
s involved with this
?
”
 
He nods toward the photos of Angie Miller. 

“
She is, Doc
,”
I say, carefully not going into how Alain
a’
s involved, not with the man who, although unlikely, is nevertheless a possible suspect.  He has a right to ask.  Sh
e’
s his employee.  I have the right not to answer.  Sh
e’
s my possible witness, close friends with my vic, Angie Miller.

“
Wha
t’
ve you got, Doc
?”
I glance conspicuously at my watch. 

“
Your perp likes to locate marks on the shoulder
.
”
 
He puts two photos of the latest vic and Meera next to each other, and we both bend our heads and look.
 “
These are evidence of ecchymotioca
,”
he says, pointing. 

“
What the fucking hell, uh, sorry, Doc.  I do
n’
t mean to offend, but wha
t’
s ecch
y—?
”

“
Ecchymotioca.  The
y’
re suck mark patterns made by your perp.  He makes them after biting.  The
y’
re for inducing sadistic sexual gratification
.
”

“
I see
.
”
 
Suck marks I understand from practical experience.
 “
Doc,
I’
m into biting and nibbling as much as the next guy, but a fine line exists between sexual pleasure and sadism
.
”

Doc nods, but does
n’
t respond.  H
e’
s out of sync with my humor, trotted out for male bonding purposes.  I can save it, though.  I
t’
s wasted on him.

“
What . . . are these suck mark patterns telling us
?”
I ask, deferring to Bite Do
c’
s superior knowledge.  If I did
n’
t know better,
I’
d swear h
e’
s messing with my head, taunting me.  What I ought to do is fake a reason for probable cause and have my buds from Cinci PD get a warrant and raid Do
c’
s freezers.  That would teach him to be more respectful of his inferiors.

“
Here
,”
he says, pointing with the scalpel to a bite wound on Meer
a’
s shoulder
,“
we see a foot pattern, like bird tracks in the snow
.
” 

Careful not to touch the stainless steel exam table, scratching it and setting Doc off, I ease off the stool and bend for a closer look, eager to confirm his analysis.  Five deep gouges fork like toes at the end of two parallel bite wounds.  The pattern repeats itself all over Meer
a’
s right shoulder, but not the left, which is gnawed to mush.  I
t’
s the same pattern as the one in the recent vi
c’
s photo of Angie Miller, which DeeDee and I puzzled over earlier at breakfast. 

“
By damn, Doc, yo
u’
re right.  H
e’
s got a foot fetish
.
” 

Again, I can relat
e—
uncomfortably.  I like wome
n’
s toes and polished toenails, preferably a sparkling Apache red, like the Ferrari sitti
n
’ in my garage.  Doc Smalle
y’
s not said i
t—
not onc
e—
but each new gift feels like a bribe for my affection.  I leave the car there collecting dust thick enough to grow Midwestern corn.  I
t’
s obscene, against everything my mother has taught me.  I do
n’
t take bribes for my affection, not in my personal life, and damn well not in my professional life.

Fighting heartburn, I ease up a bit on Bite Doc.  I
t’
s not easy knowing Megalo and I share the same fetish, but unlike him, I like my women alive when I suck or nibble their toes. 

“
Doc, you think many guys have such a strange . . . fetish
?
”  

Bite Doc avoids answering. 

I wait him out.

“
Ah
,”
he says at last, impatient.
 “
So here, on this young lady, as with Meera, we also have a bite-wound pattern that forms what looks like a foot
.
”

I compare Meer
a’
s and Angie Mille
r’
s photos.  The skin on both vic
s
’ shoulders, even on Meer
a’
s cocoa-colored skin marred by bite wounds and decay, appears a sickly bluish gray.  But the bite wounds, the suck marks, show up a brilliant red in the deepest part of the parallel bite marks forming the foot.  Then they fade to a fiery pink in the five outer areas, the toes or the areas surrounding the gouges, where the teeth punctures are less deep.  Everywhere else, Megalo Don has just gnawed indiscriminately.  Nevertheless, the pattern on both vic
s
’ shoulders is eviden
t—
and identical.