Part 10 (1/2)

”Or he didn't know her at all,” Christine put in. ”And he didn't guess she'd have prints on file. He removed parts because he wanted to, because it made sense to him. Though usually they take something more-melodramatic. A breast, or the heart.”

Theresa sighed. They could stand there and throw out theories all day, for all the good it would do them. ”True. Okay, let me know if there's anything else you find, or that I can find out for you.”

”How about who killed her?”

”Give me time.”

”Oh, and before I forget,” Christine said, ”happy birthday.”

So much for time.

CHAPTER 12.

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 23.

1935.

Helen had already eaten. James didn't care, didn't feel hungry anyway. He washed the table free of every speck of toast and jam and then spread out the coat, faceup. It smelled a bit musty but not offensive, with an almost chemical scent. The second victim, the one who most likely owned the coat, had had leathery-looking, almost tanned skin. No one at the scene knew what could have caused that. James had never seen anything quite like it, not even during the Battle of Belleau Wood. Twenty-six days with no place to put the dead had given him a close look at the stages of decomposition. It had also given him a reason to become a cop, figuring that if he could withstand that experience without losing his mind, he could withstand anything.

Except the lines.

”What's that?”

Helen leaned against the doorjamb, soft brown hair back in a braid, flannel nightgown reaching her ankles. He didn't dare tell her the origin of the coat. Helen didn't like to hear about his job at all; his exploits as a Marine on a heroic field of battle made good dinnertime conversation for their few friends, but not breaking up a brawl or wrestling with a teenage house thief. Especially if the story involved blood, immoral behavior, or dirt.

Besides, he wouldn't know where to begin describing what he'd seen on that hill. ”I worked on a burglary case this evening.”

”Wash that table good when you're done. And there's coffee in the pot, if you want to warm it up.”

”Thanks. Is Johnny sleeping?”

”Like the baby he is,” she joked. Helen was a decade his junior, and it had taken seven years of marriage to conceive John; no matter what else occurred she and James remained united in their adoration of the towheaded infant-even if Helen had expected more amenities in a marriage to a man with a steady job. She winced as someone thumped a chair on the floor in the apartment upstairs. ”Even through the Taylors' nightly argument.”

”Good.” He bent over the coat once more. Walking home from the station he had formed more theories about how the bodies came to rest where they did. Perhaps the killer had thrown them from the trains and then jumped himself, or perhaps he had dragged them down the hill fully dressed, removed the clothing at the scene, and took most of it away with him. That way the skin would not have been scratched or poked.

Helen said, ”Have you heard of Fiestaware?”

”Hmm? No.”

She pulled out a chair, sat down, then must have caught the faint funk of the dead man's coat and pushed herself backward a foot. ”It's a new line of dishes. They're heavy pottery and they come in all these bright colors.”

”Honey? Do you have a magnifying gla.s.s?”

She left the room, returning with the round gla.s.s and a magazine, already opened to a dog-eared page. ”See? This is Fiestaware. It should be available around Christmas.”

He glanced at the ad featuring a tomato-red plate, glossy, concentric circles the only design element. Tacky, he thought, but knew better than to say so. ”Looks kind of-garish.”

”Bright,” Helen corrected him. ”It would give the kitchen some color.”

He glanced around. ”You wanted everything white. You said it was sanitary.”

The magnifying gla.s.s confirmed his observations. No slivers of weeds or broken leaves. This coat had not been dragged down the hill or thrown from a train. The guys at the scene were right. This monster had carried both men, both nearly as tall and a little heavier than James, a considerable distance.

”It is sanitary. But it will also make the dishes stand out.”

”What's wrong with china?” He should just shut up, he knew, but failing to keep up-to-date with Helen's budget could have consequences, and besides, he needed to get this conversation over with so he could concentrate.

”China's old-fas.h.i.+oned. You can't have a spaghetti party on china.”

”Now we're having people over for spaghetti?”

Back in her chair, she flipped another page in her magazine but declined to show it to him. He knew it would feature a photo of a group of well-dressed, laughing people eating the Italian import, another new craze that didn't appeal to him.

He turned the left front pocket out, slowly pus.h.i.+ng the fabric out from the inside, with the gla.s.s held above it. Lint, a dried and crumbled sprig of clover, and some brown shards. He moved the gla.s.s up and down to bring them into clearer focus, decided they were most likely tobacco. He had rolled enough cigarettes to know. ”Do we have an envelope?”

”Yes. Why?”

”I need to put this in something. To keep it.”

She looked up from the magazine. ”Pocket lint? You've been reading Sherlock Holmes stories again, haven't you?”

”Helen!”

”I have two envelopes left and I need one to pay the electric bill.”

He couldn't argue with that. ”All right. How about a piece of paper?”

”I keep some sc.r.a.ps in the knife drawer.”

When James had folded the motley collection into the center of a department store advertis.e.m.e.nt, he turned his attention to the right pocket. A hole had worn through the thin cotton, and nothing save some fuzz remained. Items in the pocket would have fallen into the lining. He flipped the coat open.

Helen sighed audibly. ”It would be nice to have a spaghetti party,” she said now. ”It would be even nicer to have some friends to invite to it.”

”Sure.” He patted the lining with his fingers, detecting a coin, a stick-like object, and two small, hard nubs. Now, how to get them out?