Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) Page 16

  “You’re coming along swell, honey,”Doc says, cajoling the vic like she’s a brood mare about to give birth.

  Impatient, I watch the vic’s mouth start winching open, releasing post mortem fumes despite the embalming fluid pumped into her, again, by Doc instead of the funeral home because of the duration of Angie Miller’s stay here in the morgue, which could be a while.

  She’s in a state of arrested post-mortem decay. Her skin’s dried out, desiccated and falling from her bones. Her body fluids are turning gaseous despite everything Doc’s done for her. I’ve got on my cotton face mask, thankfully, and I’ve swiped on my Vick’s mustache, but there’s no avoiding the deathly scent of her, or the sickly sweet disinfectant Doc’s sprayed on her body. And all that does nothing to combat the smell blowing from Angie’s mouth like fumes from raw dead meat.

  A cold breath from the grave, I can’t help thinking. Recalling Doc’s motto over the morgue’s door—cadavers are people, too—I buckle down and start inspecting Angie’s mouth.

  “She hasn’t had much time to dry out,”Doc says, defending the fact she’s not looking up to snuff. What he’s really telling me is that her facial tissue has yet to contract, pulling her eyeballs into the eye sockets.

  In life, she’d been pretty. She was twenty-one, Alaina’s age. I should feel guilty digging into Alaina’s past, but I don’t. It’s my job, and I’m damn good at it. I’ve learned she wants to make a tryout video for the Rockettes’ jump-the-line competition. She’s athletic and can dance, or so Wes tells me, but with those surgeries I hope she knows she’ll never become a Rockette. Every girl who practices ballet loves to make a video for the tryout, though.

  The two victims were, like Alaina, coeds and dancers at Omar’s. These commonalities focus my mind on my present task: I want to check to see if Bite Doc was right, if Angie Miller’s teeth were taken ante mortem. Is she missing the same teeth Meera is missing? Getting this info will help me answer whether NPD has a bona fide serial killer on our hands. Most of the time, I’m sure Bite Doc’s cheese has slid clear off his cracker, but this time, no. Either Bite Doc was spot-on, or he’s hiding something. Question is: what?

  I mull these and other issues over, waiting for Doc Smalley to remove the last bit of thread. When he eases a stainless steel speculum inside Angie’s mouth, I bend for a closer look. Could Bite Doc be Megalo Don? I’ve kicked this question around, but not too seriously. Yet I’m not taking chances either way. I need to rule him out—or in—as a suspect, and quickly. I glance at the clock on the wall and then down at the vic’s shoulder. Time’s running out.

  What’s driving Megalo Don to gnaw on these women?

  Angie Miller, like Alaina, was a topless dancer at Omar’s. But there all similarities, and details I can use as points of comparison between Megalo’s vics, end. Angie Miller was a vanilla blonde with a lush young cheerleader’s body, same as vic number two’s. Trim at twenty-two, Angie’s body would have gone fleshy after childbirth, if she’d lived. Alaina, on the other hand, is dark haired, and taut and low slung with a serious athlete’s torso and thighs and calves: a Ferrari to Angie’s Cadillac. Other than the fact they both danced at Omar’s, the two share little in common. And Meera, NPD’s first vic, also has nothing other than age in common with Angie Miller and Alaina Colby. Until we figure out Meera’s identity, no one can say where she even worked.

  Like the throb from an old wound in my hip, one question plagues me. If Bite Doc is Megalo Don, what’s his motive?

  “This’ll speed things up,”Doc says, winching Angie’s mouth open wider with the speculum and then stepping back like he’s unveiling a painting at the Louvre.

  The vic’s mouth drifts open, like she’s enjoying a gaping yawn, awakening from a nap. Fortunately for us, her eyelids are glued shut, so I don’t have to look into her shocked sad gaze as I’m inspecting the interior of her mouth.

  “Here you go, son.”

  I accept the penlight magnifier Doc shoves into my hands. Holding my breath against the deathly sickening raw-steak, the meaty smell, I peer inside the vic’s mouth.

  “Bingo,”I say. Angie’s upper maxilla, left quadrant, first and second bicuspids as I’m facing her, are missing. “Was there ante mortem blood in her mouth?”

  “Filled with it,”Doc confirms. “Took me a while to clean her up so I could even look,”he says, looking proud of his bastard son’s quick mind.

  I can tell he knows precisely how Angie’s teeth were removed, but he gives away nothing. Like I said, in here he’s all business. He’s a drunk, womanizing lech, facts no one questions. But he isn’t putting evidentiary analysis into my hands. It’s his job to figure out the cause and manner of death. It’s my job to figure out who killed Angie Miller and why.

  “They’ve been cut out?”I ask, peering with the pen light into the vic’s silenced mouth, fighting my urge to dwell on what a tragedy this is for Angie Miller and her family.

  “Yep. Used a surgical knife.” He points to cuts along the gum line. They run up into the jawbone. “I sure as hell didn’t make those with my needle,”he adds.

  I straighten. “I’m done.”

  “Uh-huh,”Doc says, lost in a fog and already figuring how to restore his previous handiwork, the rewiring of her facial maxillary. When he pulls the speculum out, Angie’s mouth drifts open. “Don’t worry. I’ll re-set her face, son,”he says, his voice spurious, colluding with me now and casting yet another favor my way. “Her folks won’t know we’ve had an unauthorized look.” Watching as the slack mouth yawns, he says,“But if you’d have asked me, I would’ve told you how those teeth came out.”

  “I’m grateful for the favor . . . Doc, but I’d never ask you to do that. Anyway, I had to see for myself.” Shaking my head, fighting sadness at the tragedy humans visit on each other, I shrug and turn away from Angie Miller’s cadaver.

  “Right. I understand,”he says. “I’m proud of you, son. Real proud.”

  “Bastard probably got off watching her scream,”I say, concluding my evidentiary analysis. “Just cut out her teeth and listened to her scream.”

  “Catch him, will you? He’s one ruthless bastard. I want to see his ass fry. Besides”—Doc Smalley glances at the clock—“he’s costing me a shitload of overtime.”

  I tear off my surgical gloves, then the mask and gown, and toss them in a hazardous waste container. “Thanks for letting me take a look. It’s more of a favor than I expected.”

  “My pleasure. You got time for a beer at the country club?”

  “Nah, sorry, but I’m still on for breakfast tomorrow, though.”

  “Good.” He starts wheeling away Angie’s gurney.

  “Did Doctor Verbote stop by here today?”I ask.

  “Sure did,”Doc says, stopping to answer my question. “Meyers practically ordered his ass down here first thing this morning. He took impressions before I sewed shut her mouth and set her face.”

  I file the info away. When I’d met with him this morning, Bite Doc knew Angie’s teeth were missing and how they’d been removed. So why didn’t he just say so? Did he think I needed to see for myself? Or is he messing with my head?

  It wouldn’t be the first time a perp’s taunted me. The thought hardens my resolve to nail Megalo Don.

  “Aren’t you going to cover her?”I ask, noting the vic’s exposed shoulder.

  “I’ll do it when I close her back up.”

  The Millers’ daughter’s body is laying on a gurney in the morgue, her shoulder and other parts gnawed like an unfinished pot roast. All the while, a sick bastard is running around getting off on some other young girl’s pain. I point toward the framed motto above the door. Cadavers are people, too.

  “Well, dammit, son, you areexasperating,”he says, and smiling he pulls the white paper sheet over Angie’s face, her mouth frozen wide in a silent scream.

  “See you tomorrow morning at breakfast. You’re buying.”

  “Sure thing, Doc.” Dad. I try it on for size. It fe
els . . . weird.

  Unable to make up my mind whether to go home or have a few brews with friends, I realize finally what’s going on with me, why I feel so cranky. I’m consumed by this case. I won’t stop to eat or sleep until I’ve nailed Megalo. I’ve got a to-do list longer than my arm, so socializing is out for now. Maybe forever if I don’t get something on Megalo Don.

  Chapter 25

  Leaving Newport, I take the Big Mac across and hit the river’s Ohio side twenty minutes after leaving Doc Smalley at the morgue. Realizing I’ve not eaten, I decide to hit Popeye’s for some fried chicken. Dinner and life as usual will be spent in my car, where I’ll catch up on phone calls.

  “Yeah, Hawks,”I tell myself,“you are living the life of a dick now, ain’t you, buddy?”

  What’s Megalo’s motive? The question plagues me, my mind wandering over the investigation’s progress, or its lack thereof as I head for Popeye’s. I’ve verified what Bite Doc said about Angie Miller’s teeth being cut out ante mortem, so I’m more obsessed than ever with figuring out what’s driving Megalo Don.

  Meera’s missing her first and second bicuspid, upper maxilla, right quadrant. Angie’s missing the same teeth, left quadrant. This makes two of sixteen female victims, just as Bite Doc said. Wanting to get Wes’ take on all this, I call him and bring him up to speed.

  “So other than Meera and Angie, where are Megalo’s other vics?”he asks.

  “Why’s that so important right now, Wes?”I fire back.

  “Wish I knew who they were,”Wes says. As frustrated as I am, he’s searching for the same thing I feel is important: motive. Why?

  “I don’t know where his other vics are,”I say, truthful. “One thing’s sure, though. This son-of-a-bitch isn’t stopping any time soon. Those women are out there, and you and I both know he’s got them targeted.

  “Can you do me a favor?”

  “Name it,”Wes says.

  “Find out what Hollow Volume Overlay is.” I explain my visit with Doc Verbote and his work with HVO to identify and compare bite wounds on Meera and Angie Miller. “I specifically want to know its evidentiary value, Wes, whether we can use it to get Megalo’s ass prosecuted.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “Thanks, Tiger,”I say. “Later.”

  Letting my thoughts drift, I recall Angie Miller’s frozen mouth, the fact she was a co-ed and the same age as Alaina. This makes me want to drive straight back to that crack house where I dropped off Alaina. I know I pissed her off good, but I don’t care. She has no business involving herself in a homicide investigation. That’s my job. What’s not my job is the feeling I need to protect her, but not the way a cop would one of Omar’s dancers. I need to protect her. It’s personal.

  I swing through Popeye’s drive-through. Thinking I’ll call Alaina later and apologize for being overly blunt, I dig a drumstick from the takeout chicken dinner and check in at home.

  Judge Hawks answers my call. “Dad, I can’t stop by this evening, so can you pass some info to Mom for me?”

  I fill him in on Vine Works’ progress.

  Vine Works is Mom’s charity foundation. She named it Vine Works because the Hawks Opera House, the one she’s tasked me with restoring, is located on Vine Street, and its purpose is to give youths who’d never get the chance the opportunity to“climb and grow,”my mom says. They’ll use the revitalized Hawks’ Opera House to practice theatre arts and dance.

  “I’ve got my architectural engineer and the historical society talking finally,”I say,“so we’re moving forward with restoration of the original hardwood floors.”

  “Good job,”my dad says. “When we’re done with this project, it will keep several generations of Cincinnati youth off the streets,”he adds, sounding proud.

  For a second, I imagine Alaina dancing not on the cheap stage at Omar’s but instead on the one I’m having restored. The coupling of my vision of Alaina’s delicious body, with the fantasy of her dancing on stage at Hawks Opera Houses, stirs a new fire in my already heated belly.

  “Always leave the world a better place, son.”

  Noshing another drumstick, I mull over Dad’s advice. It’s pithy, but that’s my dad, the one Babbs married. To him, life is easily summed up: do good. But my life isn’t so simple. I didn’t graduate King’s Point and then decide not to go to law school expressly to piss off my old man. I tried. But after a semester wasted at Chase Law School, I figured things out: some guys do good, and I’d like to think I’m one of them, but I’ve got a dark side, one Judge Hawks frequently berates.

  Leave the world a better place.

  How about using the world well before leaving it? To me, this seems a more personally enriching game plan. Being lucky, I’ve claimed all the booty I can, thanks to a ripped body and enough common sense to hide my dark side from women I’ve gotten close to.

  “The legacy you leave behind matters,”the judge continues lecturing. Stopping the last drumstick from my Popeye’s chicken dinner on its way to my lips, I wonder if Doc Smalley’s mom gave him the same lecture because, for all I know, he’s got more women in his past than I do and, possibly, several bastards like me running all over Kentucky.

  “Remember that, son. You’re always focusing on your legacy,”Judge Hawks adds, jolting me back from my reverie.

  What legacy do I wish to leave behind?

  “Sure, Dad. Talk to you later. Be sure to give Mom my progress report on Vine Works.”

  Dodging a garbage truck, I flip off the driver, and then return to my obsession: Alaina Colby. She grew up in a little burg called Goshen, Ohio. Thinking over her hometown and comparing it unfavorably to mine, I savor the chicken’s aftertaste, and think of Alaina’s rosebud breasts. They look exactly like the woman’s in La Fornarina, Raphael’s painting of his mistress.

  When I dropped her off at Stoke Farrel’s apartment, she’d leaned into the window and kissed me hard.

  I groan. Why’d I piss her off with that remark about her harem outfit? I wasn’t trying to insult her. I was warning her off this investigation, damn little hothead. From the moment she limped into the copy room demanding another look at Angie Miller’s photo, I knew she was hell bent on working herself into this investigation. That will cause more problems than it solves for us both and put her at risk.

  And I give a damn why?

  I start looking for motive for my own irrational attraction. I talked to Alaina’s student advisor, who told me she’s majoring in criminology with a minor in dance. Maybe that’s what’s driving my fixation. I love dancers. They treat their bodies like temples, literally. And I have every intention of worshipping Alaina’s. I stop noshing a drumstick, arrested by an irritating thought. What if she’s got a boyfriend?

  I let the ugly thought drop and pick up another. I’m twenty seven. Alaina’s going to be twenty-two. What if she doesn’t like older men?

  I want to get her something for her birthday, but what do you give a girl you’ve just met and barely know, but think you’re going mad for?

  The Welcome to Ohio sign pops into view, suspended above the Big Mac, a spot my bruised heart lurches to and then perches when I wonder jealously if Alaina has a boyfriend. Hellfire, I think, a jolt of lust bouncing my heart back into place in the middle of my chest, but leaving the rest of me—including certain body parts I’ve no mind to control—rising.

  I’m Aidan Hawks. What woman wouldn’t want me?

  * * *

  The Buick glides off the Big Mac into downtown Cincinnati.

  I’m winged Eros, Greek god of love. Of courseAlaina wants me. When she’d bumped my hand from her shoulder down onto her breast, I’d felt the electricity. I was dying to take her, right there in the Buick’s front seat, in front of God and everyone, in broad daylight. All that stopped me was imagining the newspaper headlines—Cop Arrested for Public Indecency—and my parents’ mortified reaction, if I’d been caught.

  And then—that kiss. She’d leaned in the window of my Buick and kisse
d me, unaware the pressure she’d intended to hurt me had instead turned me on. Right then, I’d formulated my plan: I would have her.

  Alaina’s student advisor also told me Angie Miller was helping Alaina make a video to enter the Rockettes’ jump-the-line competition. I admire her resolve. With a disability like hers, she’s still shooting for the stars, but she’s not going to get that movie made, not with Angie murdered, unless I help her—

  That gives me an idea for her birthday present. But my plan requires I straighten out the mess I’ve created by ordering Alaina to keep off the investigation. Or was it the remark I made about her skimpy harem outfit that pissed her off?

  Women. Impossible. But oh so incredibly mouth watering wonderful.

  My cell phone rings. Maybe it’s DeeDee, wanting phone sex.

  “Yeah?”

  “Hawks,”Captain Meyers bawls,“meet DeeDee over at Omar’s. We got another fresh one.” The captain then orders,“I also want to see your mug in my office tomorrow morning at oh-eight hundred. We’ve got a review meeting on with Megalo Don, and I want to hear all you’ve got so far.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be there.”

  “Prick,”the captain says under his breath.

  “I know who the prick isn’t,”I say, letting on I think we’ve disconnected from our call.

  “What’d you say, Hawks?”

  “Oh, Captain Meyers, you still there? I didn’t know—”

  Exiting onto Columbia Parkway, I loop back around and get back on Interstate 471 South and head back toward Newport. Something’s pinging my brain, turning the Popeye’s fried chicken and biscuits I just wolfed down into acid reflux. Did Captain Meyers just order me to meet DeeDee at the crime scene? Why would he do that? I’m lead on this case. Double-D’s my rook. So what’s she doing there before I am?

  Hell fire. What are those two up to?

  Pissed off, feeling blind sided by Meyers and my rookie, I hatch a quick plan for damage control and call DeeDee. “You busy tomorrow night?”