Sighs Matter (12 page)

Racketeer
Large-breasted swindler.

One winter, when John Quincy Mortimer was a kid, he’d seen a ball of snakes under his father’s house. Shiny and writhing, they’d squirmed over the dirt like a living tangle of black wire. He’d never seen anything like them since, but he felt them now, in the pit of his stomach.

He tilted back in his executive swivel chair until it squeaked like an angry hamster, nearly toppling him ass end over teakettle. Quickly righting himself, he remembered how often he’d heard that phrase growing up.

Mind how you go, you clumsy little good-for-nothing, or you’ll trip over your own feet and fall ass end over teakettle!

His face heated. Father would be ashamed of what his only son was doing, lying, cheating, putting the time-honored Mortimer name at risk. Gripping the armrests, he righted himself and cursed out loud, the harsh words bouncing off the walls of his spacious office as though the very air around him condemned him for his misdeeds.

But they weren’t misdeeds, not really, not when you stopped to consider the good he was doing. For a higher purpose. For
humanity
. After all, the donors
were
already dead;
they
didn’t care. He was doing the world a favor, truth be told. Sure, he made a little money at it, but that was simply his due, for the contribution he was making to science and medicine.

Mort adjusted his perfectly knotted tie and wiped the sweat from the back of his neck.

Bloody hell, why had he let himself get talked into this? At first, the money was nice, and there was so much of it! But now, things were getting complicated. Too many people were involved, and his partner wanted to go national.
National
, for Pete’s sake! That meant the big boys. Guys with muscles and guns, long rides to the river in black limos, wearing cement overshoes. The
fuhgetaboutit
guys—except if Mort screwed up, they wouldn’t
fuhgetaboutit
,
ever
, and he’d be in it cheek deep.

In order to keep those boys happy, the take was going to have to increase a thousandfold, maybe ten-thousandfold for all he knew. This was all getting too rich for his blood. He was small-time all the way. Small-time worked, the risks were minimal, the take modest but safe.

Leaning forward, he fiddled with his rosewood desk set, rearranging the two pens until they stood at right angles to their hand-carved holder. There. Perfect.

Maybe he should get out now, he thought, if he still could, if his partner would let him. He had more money than he knew what to do with, and he sure wasn’t gettin’ no younger. He could retire, go traveling, maybe take Sadie with him—if she was nice to him again.

Normally, he wasn’t a violent man, but Sadie dumping him like that—and in front of three other people, including that lumberjack who’d driven her home—that was enough to make even a pacifist double his fists.

A quick rap on his door had him straightening in his chair. He folded his hands in his lap, blew out a breath, and called, “What is it, Min?”

The door opened, and his secretary peeked in.

Mindy Ketterer, forties, loyal, hardworking, greeted him with a polite mouth-only smile. Her dull brown hair was short, her too fair skin not at all flattered by an unbecoming cut. Behind thick glasses, her equally dull brown eyes swam and blinked. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say anything, a man shoved past her, and she retreated behind the door like a shy turtle closing up shop.

Mort shot out of his chair. “It’s all right, Min,” he rushed, keeping his instinctive fear under wraps.

When she peeked around the door, he gestured for her to close it. She cast a wary glace at the visitor, then did as Mort asked.

As soon as she’d gone, he said, “What in the hell are you doing here, LeRoy? We agreed we should
never
be seen together, and now Mindy—”

“Forget what I said,” the man bit out. “And forget that stupid wide-assed secretary of yours. We need to talk.”

Mort’s after-hours business associate invariably spoke to him as though he were an irritating child who must be put in his place. He felt his temper rise, but worked to keep it in check. Pursing his lips, he combed shaking fingers through the few strands of hair gracing his head. He had to tread carefully—Kevin LeRoy could be a real bastard. The one time LeRoy thought Mort had cheated him, the guy smacked him so hard, it had nearly broken his nose. He still couldn’t smell the flowers in the viewing room.

Kevin LeRoy, if that was indeed the man’s name, which Mort doubted, strolled to the mahogany wet bar by the room’s single window and yanked the cabinet door open as though he wasn’t a guest, but lord of the manor. In fact, he generally behaved as if everything belonged to him, from liquor to people. Retrieving a half-empty bottle of Glenlivet, he splashed a couple of ounces into one of the crystal tumblers sitting on the marble bar top.

“Little early in the day, isn’t it, LeRoy?” Mort said, though his own throat was damn parched at the moment.

As he sipped the scotch, LeRoy turned toward Mort, one eye narrowed. “Tell me about your girlfriend, Mortie.”

“Sadie?” Mort shrugged, shoved his hands in his front pockets, and walked over to the landscape hanging above a deeply cushioned sofa. Gazing at the tasteful and serene watercolor, he said lightly, “Ex-girlfriend. I ended our relationship. Broke it right off.”

“Did you now.” LeRoy seemed to consider this for a moment as he took another sip of scotch.

Turning from the painting, Mort tried to confront his partner head on, but ended up investigating the man’s tie knot instead. Imported silk, no doubt. LeRoy had very expensive tastes.

“Why do you care about my personal life?” Mort asked as casually as he could. “It ain’t got any bearing on—”

“The hell it doesn’t.” LeRoy slammed his drink down on the bar, causing the amber liquid to slosh over the sides of the glass onto the marble, then drip onto the imported carpet. He either gave no notice, or didn’t care.

“You took her out there, Mortie. Didn’t you.
Didn’t you?
”

Mortie knew where
there
was, but it hadn’t been any big deal at all, and she certainly hadn’t seen anything. He was fairly certain she hadn’t, anyway.

“Oh, that,” he said with a relieved sigh and a falsetto laugh that bordered on nervous tittering. “We were out for a drive in the country and I realized I’d misplaced my cell phone.” He shrugged. “You can’t get a signal worth a damn out there, what with it being so far down in the valley, so I set it down in the lab and must have forgotten—”

“I don’t give a shit about your cell phone, Mortie. How much did she see?”

Mort licked his lips and eyed LeRoy’s glass of scotch.

“We were only there a couple of minutes,” he insisted. “She stayed in the car the whole time. I-it was nearly dark. I swear, she didn’t see diddly.” Pausing, he swallowed, more anxious now. “H-how did you know about—”

“Do you think you’re the only moron I’ve got on the payroll, Mortie?” LeRoy bellowed, his eyes narrowing into angry slits. “Not a thing happens in this operation that I don’t know about. It doesn’t matter whether she stayed in the car or climbed right inside a cadaver drawer. Now she knows the place exists, and she can point the cops to it, and put
you
at the scene, you stupid bastard.”

Mort’s uneasiness grew and he loosened his collar. “She couldn’t possibly remember—”

In less time than it took him to finish his thought, LeRoy crossed the room. The flat of his palm against Mortie’s chest, he shoved him against the window and glared down into his eyes. At the back of his head, the glass cracked, and Mort felt a stab of pain. Fearing LeRoy would shove him through the window, he stumbled, “Wh-what do you want me to do?”

“You’re not going to mess this up for me. I have a lot at stake here, and you are
not
going to blow this.” Glaring into Mort’s eyes, he rasped, “Make her forget. Make her forget,
everything
.”

“Wh-what? Y-you mean . . . no, you
don’t
mean . . .”

“I
do
mean,” he snapped. “One word out of her could ruin it all, and I’ve worked too hard, taken too many risks to have some old lady spoil it. This is my last chance, Mortie. Everything’s at stake here.” Lowering his voice, he whispered through clenched teeth, “You don’t know. You have no idea . . .”

Apparently thinking better of his remarks, he let his voice trail off. A strange light came into his eyes, his brow creased, and for a moment he seemed to appear . . . desperate.

Slowly releasing Mort, LeRoy backed away, polished off his scotch, then moved to the door.

“If you fail,” he said with a tilt of his head and a casual smile. “If I have to do it, I won’t stop at her, I’ll come after you next. Got that, partner?”

“Miss Lancaster,” Taylor said, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. “I don’t want to be rude, but do you think you can put Hitch . . . elsewhere?”

Like, in the oven.

“I’m so sorry, Detective,” Sadie said. “Is Hitch bothering you?”

Forcing a polite smile, he said, “A little.”

Taylor stared at the bird; the bird stared back.

Sadie—and the loquacious Hitch—sat on the couch in the living room as Taylor attempted to explain the situation at hand. The problem was, whenever he tried to make a point, the parrot became loud and intrusive. The old lady must be so used to the chatter, she didn’t hear it anymore, but the bird was driving Taylor friggin’ nuts.

“. . . McKennitt . . . McKennitt . . . men are such bastards . . .”

From her chair in front of the fireplace, Claire snorted.

Sadie touched her fingertips to her mouth and chuckled. “Men aren’t really bastards, Detective McKennitt.”

“I know,” he said dryly.

Hitch eyed him as though he had his doubts.

“Hitch,” Sadie admonished. “You’re being a very bad bird. Hush up now, or I’ll have to put you in your cage.”

“Attica! . . . Attica! . . .”

Ignoring Hitch, Sadie smiled at Taylor as she clasped her thin hands in her lap. “African Grey Congos have the intelligence of a five-year-old child and pick up new words all the time. He should calm down soon. Please explain to me again the meaning of the term
disarticulation technician
, Detective McKennitt.”

Even at her age, Sadie Lancaster’s youthful beauty was still in evidence. While the passage of time had softened her features and added wrinkles to her brow, her skin remained flawless, her cheeks plump and rosy. Eyes that had once lit up the screen had faded to the brown of autumn leaves. She had been Hollywood royalty through three decades, and her manner indicated she believed she still reigned.

“Simply put, Auntie,” Claire said, “a disarticulation technician harvests knee and shoulder joints, and sometimes spinal columns from human cadavers.”

Sadie’s eyes widened. “Whatever for?”

“To sell,” Taylor said. “Medical schools use the joints to teach students how to perform surgery. It’s the disarticulation technician who actually removes, or harvests, these parts, usually under the auspices of a Willed Body Part order from the deceased or his family. All perfectly legal.”

Sadie lifted her chin, arching both brows as she put two and two together. “And Mortie is involved in doing this without a Willed Body Part order. That is to say, illegally.”

Taylor looked at Claire, then back to Sadie. “We believe so, but we don’t have any proof. Since he does this just prior to cremating the bodies, there’s no way of knowing for sure. There is little legislation in this state regarding harvested body parts, and the process is not very closely monitored, so only a complaint gives the authorities a heads-up that this is happening.”

“And you’ve had a complaint.”

“A few days ago, we received an anonymous tip that Mortimer may somehow be involved. The investigation is still in its early stages.”

“Why can’t you just go in and bust the smarmy little creep?”

Taylor smiled. “Mortimer doesn’t have the skills required to do the actual disarticulation himself. We don’t know yet who’s doing them, or where they’re being performed. And we don’t think this was his idea. We believe he has a partner.”

“You’re right,” Sadie agreed, nodding her silver head. “Mortie doesn’t have the brains or the cojones to do something like this on his own.”

“If we simply bust him, he may not roll over on his partner,” Taylor explained. “We think the partner has several operations going, even to the point of bringing bodies in from out of state, harvesting the parts, then disposing of the corpses either by cremation or by dumping. At the first sign of trouble, the partner could disappear and still be in business at another location, allowing Mortimer to take the fall. Mortimer probably doesn’t even know his real name, and we don’t want to risk losing the lynchpin of this whole operation by moving too quickly.”