Part 7 (1/2)
Nick examined the toes of his dress shoes and slipped a hand in one pocket. ”Let's just say that Dominique would be in a regular morgue, if the law didn't think she died under mysterious circ.u.mstances.”
I nodded, my throat too tight to speak.
With every floor the elevator climbed came a stronger smell of disinfectant.
We got out on the sixth floor where no amount of the stuff would be able to cover the smell of death.
Kyle began to pace the length of the mahogany- trim waiting room, circa 1930. Hands behind his back, he was so focused on the black-and-white floor tiles, he seemed to forget our existence.
”Kyle,” I said. ”Why didn't you identify your mom last night?”
He closed the s.p.a.ce between us and wrapped his arms around me, his body wracked with one tightly wound s.h.i.+ver. ”That would have made it real.”
I had no control over the sob that rose in me.
Maybe I was older than him, after all. On the other hand, maybe when we lose our mother, we're all ten years old inside.
”Jaconetti?” a suit across the room called. ”Is that you? I heard you were in town today.”
A couple of men in FBI-type suits came to shake Nick's hand. ”Did the Bureau send you?” a fed with a buzz cut asked.
Nick performed the introductions, but I was so freaked at being in a forensics morgue, Dom's body stiff and cold nearby, I keyed into Kyle's fear of making it real.
Foul play had contributed to Dominique's death, I thought, absorbing the info, maybe for the first time, and as I did, I saw her switching those jars. Why?
Then I realized the intros were over and I had no names to put with faces. So I examined Nick's cronies, specifically their hair, or their lack thereof, and dubbed them Buzz and s.h.i.+nola.
”DeLong,” Buzz said to Kyle. ”So you're family? My condolences. We're looking into the lost diamonds. The boys in blue over there are investigating cause of death. Don't worry. We'll compare notes.”
Hah. I knew from Nick and Werner that these two diverse arms of the law both wanted to come out on top. Both wanted to be the ones who solved the case. In other words, they wouldn't like sharing info, and there would be no fraternizing without persuasion.
Nick gave me a rea.s.suring look. I gave him a trusting nod.
A woman in medical whites came out and motioned Kyle forward. He hesitated, looked back at me, and I took his arm to accompany him into a smaller office.
When we got there, Nick came up beside us.
Eve waved through the gla.s.s from beside the elevator. I didn't blame her for standing as far back as she could.
The a.s.sistant medical examiner, according to her badge, showed us a photograph that I didn't at first recognize.
When I did, I found myself floaty and leaning hard into Nick at my back, his hands tight on my arms. He squeezed them harder and harder. The uncomfortable constriction was the only thing that kept me from pa.s.sing out. Smart fed.
”Can we have a gla.s.s of water over here?” he asked.
Man, he knew me well.
Even as I sipped the water, I tried to talk myself out of floating to the floor in blessed oblivion. This is not about you, Cutler, I told myself. Get a grip.
In the photograph, the blotches on Dominique's face ranged from burgundy to purple, the skin around her eyes the worse, her nose, cheeks, and lips triple their normal size.
That ghost hadn't been kidding. She had lost her earthly beauty in a very big way. Sadness took over my weakness and the sight of her made me mad. I was gonna find the sonofab.i.t.c.h who did this to my friend.
Kyle cleared his throat more than once and swallowed hard before he could get his jaw to work. ”She looks like she was stung by bees.”
”Can you give me a positive ID?” the woman asked. ”Is this Dominique DeLong?”
”Yes,” Kyle said with a catch in his voice. ”That's her.”
”And you are?” the examiner queried, as she filled out a form.
”Kyle DeLong, her son. May I ask what killed her?”
”I'm sorry. It's not up to me to say. I do the preliminary lab report. My boss does the official medical examiner's report. The FBI and the police put that together with officers' and detectives' reports, witness statements, and evidence, and then maybe they tell you what happened.”
I tore my gaze from my poor beautiful friend's marred face. ”But you do think it was murder?”
”It doesn't matter what I think, Ms. DeLong.”
I didn't correct her a.s.sumption that I was family. What did it matter?
She turned to Kyle. ”I can tell you that with your ID of the deceased, we've finished and we'll be releasing Ms. DeLong to the funeral home within the hour.”
”Good,” Kyle said. ”I made arrangements this morning.” He took out his cell phone and called the funeral parlor. Closing it, he said, ”The wake and interment service are tomorrow.”
”Why so soon?” I asked.
”I want it dignified. It'll be more respectful and less like a circus, if we keep the spectators down to a minimum. The longer we take, the more fans show up.”
”Right. Of course.”
Nick continued to hold me as we went to meet Eve in the waiting room. ”Who would want to harm Dominique?” I asked.
Kyle made a mocking sound. ”I'm afraid the list is as long as my arm.” Then he opened that arm, and Eve walked into it.
Fifteen.
They came as if there might never be anything like it again: They were in mod clothes, Victorian suits, and granny gowns, old west outfits, pirate costumes . . .
-CHARLES PERRY The doorbell to Dom's Fifth Avenue mansion overlooking Central Park began to ring at seven, and frankly I feared that it would never stop.
The characters who came to offer Kyle their condolences outlandishly attempted to outdress each other, and would once have been called the ”radical chic.”
At another time in fas.h.i.+on history, the faux-grieving rubberneckers vying for a glimpse at the twisted steel of Dom's metaphorical but deadly ”car accident” were known as Bohemians.