Soul Food Read online

  Is this the type of perdition where I could end up if Wolfe gets me thrown off the force? No, I probably wouldn't have the qualifications.

  It's a cubicle hell, permeated with a false neighbourliness. The kind of thing you need to fake, as an unspoken agreement to avoid your neighbour lunging at you with the scissors. It never quite reaches the eyes, where you can see their determination to beat the sales targets of their colleagues. Sort of a more aggressive version of a police squad, but thankfully less well armed.

  I'll have to remember to check if the fatal wound could have been made by scissors.

  Markham, her supervisor, shows us to her desk. Constant glances back to ensure we're still with him, and the traditional nervousness certain types get in our presence. Not necessarily suspicious, but I give him the look that says I suspect him of something. If nothing else, it's entertaining. Although he does seem to be getting a bit worked up.

  'What do you do here?' I ask. Talking about work can calm people. Distracts their mind from the neuroses elicited by police-public interactions.

  'Bleeding edge audio technology,' he says. Relaxing slightly, but with a kind of practised tone. 'Mainly to the entertainment industries. This branch is the sales office for the region.'

  'Ms. Mortimer was a seller?'

  'A consultant. She had the technical aptitude to deal with clients who required more details of the technology than a sales person needs to know.'

  That could explain part of her bookshelf. 'Had she been here long?'

  'With the company, about four years, I think. At this office, only a few months.'

  'Prior to that?'

  'This was her desk,' he indicates an uninhabited cubicle. 'Prior to this she was based at our central office, in Boston.'

  The cubicle has little that immediately shouts out it's a clue. Plenty that screams for release from this hell, but I'm no saviour of office supplies.

  Jake sits and starts fiddling with her computer. We haven't been told we're not permitted, and I'll try to hold Markham's attention so he doesn't think of saying anything of the sort.

  'Why did she move here?'

  Markham's mouth goes a moment with nothing coming out as he looks at Jake. But he soon focusses on the question, and me. He gives an awkward shrug. 'Central office assigned her here.' And he isn't the type to question central office.

  I get the impression he didn't know her too well. The distress he's trying to project feels forced. As though it's what he thinks he's expected to show for one of his staff who's died. Good. If he's focussed on selling that lie, it should make others more obvious. Not that I suspect he knows much worth hiding.

  'We'll need a rundown of her recent workload,' I say. 'And a schedule of any meetings she attended in the last week.'

  He hesitates, probably uncertain what he can share. 'I'll see what I can arrange.' Or what someone senior will allow. He obviously needs permission to do anything. He's just an office manager.

  'And to speak with her colleagues.'

  'Certainly.' He's less equivocal on this. It's more certainly within the bounds of his authority. And it means we won't be talking to him, which'll suit us both. 'If you're okay here, I'll go and arrange for the information.'

  'Thank you for your help.' Always a good idea to put them at their ease. Leaves them off balance if you need to go at them hard later.

  Her workspace is relatively clear. Again, no pictures. Or any sense of personalisation.

  A work diary. Entries in some kind of shorthand, so I'll wait for the official stuff on her appointments and compare it.

  The stationary doesn't look particularly suspicious.

  'Anything?' I ask Jake.

  'No sign anything's been tidied up this morning, so probably nothing that interesting. I'll give it a quick once over though, then join in questioning the neighbours.'

  I leave him to it. Watching over his shoulder is rarely educational.

  The nearest neighbour, Sara, seems more genuinely shaken by the news than Markham. And less uneasy at being questioned. 'Did you know her well?'

  'Not really. It's more of a shock than...' She waves vaguely. 'You know.'

  I nod reassuringly.

  'We'd chatted a bit, but she wasn't the sharing type. She was enthusiastic, though, and always seemed busy.'

  'Did she ever talk about her late husband?'

  The surprise on her face answers that. 'I didn't know she'd been married, let alone widowed.' She glances away. 'Maybe that was why she kept so busy. There always seemed an edge to her determination. Maybe she was using work as a distraction. I don't know. I didn't really know her.' She looks apologetic. 'So why am I so distraught?'

  'It happens. Shock at these things affects people differently.' And some of us not noticeably. 'Was there anyone here she was close to?'

  'Not that I know. She always seemed to be on the move. Friendly enough, but...' She shrugs, helpless to find the words.

  A laugh draws my attention to where Jake is questioning another neighbour. Or hitting on. He'd better get more than her number.

  'Had her demeanour changed in the last week?' I ask Sara.

  She considers the question a moment. 'I didn't notice anything.'

  'Do you know what she was working on?'

  'No, sorry. We never really spoke much about work, now I think about it. I knew in general what she did, but none of the specifics.'

  There doesn't seem much she can offer, and I'm starting to doubt there's much here at all. Mortimer seemed to ghost through work as much as she had her apartment. And maybe ghosts were all she was interested in.

  'Learn anything?' I ask Jake as we leave the building.

  'She doesn't seem to have been much for socialising. Annie found her fairly standoffish.'

  'Annie?'

  Jake gives me an innocent look. 'I put people at ease. They're more open than when faced with your whole intimidation thing.'

  'I wasn't intimidating there.'

  He gives me a dubious look. 'It's how you are. I'm not knocking it. The supervisor would have been more resistant to giving up information if you hadn't loomed over him. Your presence means we don't necessarily have to vocalise threats.'

  Okay, I cultivate a healthily intimidating demeanour. It helps with the job. But it's not always on. Is it?

  'Anything on the computer?' I ask.

  'Just work stuff. I forwarded a few things to my account in case they weren't included in what Markham provided, but it might take some work to get my head around what she actually did there. You learn anything?'

  'Not really,' I say. 'Something feels off though. I don't know. I'm having trouble picturing her. It's like she was focussed on her work, apart from her obsession with Madame Anastasia.'

  'Ways of dealing with her grief. Presumably that would also explain her moving city.'

  'Two apparent obsessions,' I say. 'And from what Madame Anastasia said, she didn't seem to be dealing with her grief. So how come it didn't show at work. Nobody seemed to know she'd been married.'

  'Some people can compartmentalise.'

  'Compartmentalise where? Her home looked as barren as her desk. If she'd tidied the pain away, then she did a thorough job. Too tidy a job. With no spill-over, except when it came to talking to her dead husband.'

  'We've only been on the case a couple of hours,' says Jake.

  That's true. And that the killer isn't yet obvious could be a good sign, though not so much for the stats. There may prove an interesting mystery in this after all.

  7

  The open plan desks of the homicide squad room are somehow more homey that the cubicle hell where Mortimer suffered. It's engulfed in a far more comfortable atmosphere of surrender and nihilism.

  Of course, the open nature of the place is mainly so we can watch each other - cops being by nature suspicious types - and so the captain can watch all of us from her corner office.

  It's quiet now, most of the others out working. The only sound is from Daniels in the f
ar corner, writing a report at a rate of maybe a word a minute. The tapping doesn't even keep to a pattern. Sometimes he'll find the next key in only a couple of seconds, then takes ten off to congratulate himself on his speed. I think he's writing up his report on the Zodiac killer.

  While I say the other detectives are out working, they could just be getting some decent coffee. Rather than face the cheap substitute the department must get at bulk discount. From a pharmaceutical testing facility. There's half a dozen health violations in every cup. Mmm, tasty. And chewy, if you end up with yesterday's brew.

  The silence does little to help me think. Too few facts. And from the look on Jake's face as he glances around his monitor, I have the feeling I might not like the facts we do get.

  'I think I know who owns the hotel,' he says.

  Is he waiting for a prompt? 'It was difficult to find?'

  'There were a few shell companies and dead ends.' Which is why I leave the computer stuff to him. He's better following trails there than I am.

  'And the winner is?'

  'Bartholomew Stone.'

  That gets my attention. 'Let me get this straight. A body was left in a derelict hotel owned by a criminal.'

  'Is that suspicious?' Jake asks with an innocent expression.

  'Obviously so.'

  'Too obvious? Criminals can be dumb.'

  'Generally those who end up inside. He used to be a cop.' A tap draws my attention to Daniels. 'Which doesn't necessarily negate the dumb.'

  'Because he wasn't a detective.'

  'Which doesn't necessarily negate the dumb.'

  Jake grins. 'So what do we think? Left as a message to Stone? Or did he use it as a temporary dump spot, but it was noticed before he could have it moved? I can't see him leaving bodies lying about in a place so easily linked to him.'

  'It's possible someone wants us looking at him,' I say. 'That'd make sense of the body being found. More so than him leaving it there so long. The blood flow would have dried up before daylight, so it could have been moved. Still, he may know who would be inclined to do such a thing. Might be worth a conversation.'

  'Whoa,' says Jake, growing concerned. 'Would that be wise? I could ask around in organised crime, see what they know.'

  'And risk being warned away from Stone before we've had a chance to go near.'

  'You do remember IA is watching? It may be more than a slap on the wrist if we go question him.'

  True. But this is where the case is leading. 'It's a lead in the case. Why shouldn't we follow it?' Because it could cause us trouble.

  'Your habit of shooting people.'

  'I haven't shot you.'

  'Yet. But you've drawn more than a few bullets in my direction. You find anything?' He nods at my monitor, hoping to end this path of the conversation.

  'Only more questions. I've looked at Mortimer's social media.' That much I can just about manage. 'Looks like Mortimer's her maiden name. But I can't find her married name. Husband was Jerry, but I don't see any mention of his surname.'

  'She could have kept the surname even when they were married.'

  'Sure,' I say. 'Couldn't find a marriage license.' Which may be beyond the limits of my capabilities. Especially without his surname. 'There's pictures of them together. But something about it all feels wrong.'

  'Wrong how?'

  'I'm not entirely sure. Lifeless. Like a showroom of a life. Not an everyday thing.'

  'Some people use social media as a kind of brochure for potential employers. Look, I'm down with modern tech.'

  'Glad I'm not on the job market.'

  He considers it a moment. 'Given your skill set, probably not something that'd help you anyway. Anything particular wrong with the stuff?'

  'The pictures feel staged. The two of them together. Labelled as being over the course of a couple of years. But while their appearances change slightly, they don't really. In heavy clothes on a skiing holiday, in little on a beach. But skin tones are constant. Hair doesn't seem a different length, even if it's worn differently.

  Jake rounds the desk as I speak, and examines the pictures himself. 'Give me a minute,' he says, returning to his seat.

  I do so, letting the information soak in. In other words, doing little but wonder what a known criminal has to do with all of this.

  'You're right,' he says. 'They're photoshopped. Placed onto the backgrounds. Could all have been done at the same time. I'm not sure whether they were together or not. It'd take a closer study to tell, if you think it'll be relevant.'

  'Not sure it is at the moment. If the pictures are faked, is the marriage?'

  'You think they weren't actually married? Or weren't even together?'

  'Either's possible.'

  Jake frowns. 'If they weren't together, then is he dead? And if not, why go to a medium?'

  'She may or may not have faked a husband. And may or may not have faked a dead husband. The only evidence of the marriage appears to be on her profile, and what she told the medium. So does she actually believe her husband was real, or was she faking it? If she's not crazy, then maybe she's trying to prove Madame Anastasia's a fraud.'

  'With the online forgeries being there to provide misinformation for the fake medium, to catch her out.'

  That doesn't sound right. 'Why drag it out? She could surely have revealed her as a fraud after the first session.'

  'Blackmail? It'd be a good reason to kill her.'

  'Possibly. Although murder seems a bit excessive for being revealed as a fraud most people would think you were anyway. Unless the confrontation caught her off guard and she overreacted. Which still wouldn't explain the delay. We should check for any history of mental illness anyway.'

  'I did it in the standard search,' says Jake. 'Got nothing. Which doesn't mean much, especially if she's not local. Some places have haphazard information sharing. And her not having been committed wouldn't mean she isn't insane. You've seen this city. Crazy's the new black.'

  'Any record of her having a car?' I ask.

  Jake frowns at the change in tack. 'Nothing I could find. Though she does have a license. Why?'

  'She lives and works a fair way from the hotel. It isn't near her regular route, or any recent meetings. And not on any convenient route from the areas she usually goes, especially not at night. Wonder how she got there.'

  'I'll have someone check with cab companies for drop-offs in the area. And they can check the bus route.'

  'She look like a bus user to you?' I ask.

  'Not really. Might make her more noticeable. And it's not as though I'm intending doing the legwork.' He taps on his keyboard for a minute before looking up. 'What about a company car?'

  'Worth asking. I'll get on to them.' Phone stuff, I can do.

  My computer pings with mail before I can look up the number. I check to see if it's relevant. Unfortunately, it is.

  'Our attendance is requested at the morgue.'

  Jake deflates, going pale at the thought. 'Can't you go alone? He doesn't like me.'

  'He doesn't like anyone. Come on.'

  8

  As expected, the victim is open wide and on display when we reach the morgue. And the bastard doesn't even have buckets to hand.

  Jake manages to contain himself, though he does get quiet down here. I seldom have problems with the dead here. It's the living who irritate me. The dead stop being people to me when their pulse stops. In some cases, before that.

  The morgue is probably the cleanest place in the building. But it's an antiseptic cleanliness, that makes you want to shower as soon as you leave. The germs have to go somewhere, after all.

  Doctor Patrick Carver stands over the body, waiting for us with an expectant glare.

  His head's closely shaved, and he's meticulously clean apart from the blood on his white coat. His composure seldom breaks, regarding all visitors with a clinically antiseptic demeanour that's hard to swallow.

  He doesn't quite hide his disappointment that Jake doesn't throw up as soon
as we enter. It means he can't rant about us messing up his pristine workplace.

  'She'd dead,' he says by way of greeting.

  'That your professional opinion?' I ask. Because two can play at that game. 'Glad to see your qualifications aren't going to waste.' Too much? Possibly. But he asks for it.

  The flaring nostrils are as much of a reaction as he allows himself. 'From the lack of a bullet wound, I'll assume it's not you this time.'

  'Any idea the weapon used?'

  'A knife. If I had to guess, as I know you'll insist, a regular domestic kind. I've sent the details to the apes in forensics, so you can pester them for more information.'

  'But you cut her open just in case?'

  'I'm thorough,' he says with an arrogant glare. Apparently he found something. 'There were anomalies near the wound that suggested a wider examination would be advisable.'

  'Anomalies?' I'll play along for the moment, until he gets to the point. I do have to remind myself IA's watching. Maybe I should have left the gun in my desk, just to be safe.

  'Cellular damage. At first I thought it was radiation.'

  Jake steps back, hands covering his crotch.

  'I said at first, you idiot,' says Carver. 'You think I'd be standing here if she was radioactive. Any more radioactive than anyone else, anyway.'

  'What?' That catches Jake off guard. He really shouldn't open his mouth. 'We're all rad...?'

  'So, no,' says Carver, ignoring him. 'Not radiation. But something that started gently liquefying her. Most visibly in the brain.'

  I studiously avoid glancing at the open skull as he indicates it. Jake's less cautious, and some gasping noises precede his hasty departure.

  'Do not mess up my floor,' Carver calls after him, a satisfied smile on his face that doesn't quite displace the glare directed my way. 'Before you ask, no I don't know the cause.' His mouth squirms in distaste, unhappy at having to admit his ignorance.

  'Phone reception was interfered with at the murder scene,' I say. 'Could it be linked?'

  He considers it a moment, before shrugging. 'Ask forensics. I've passed the information on to them. It may be residue of whatever caused this. It would have taken significant power to achieve. Or prolonged exposure. If it was this that also affected the phones, I'd expect more than interference. And you'd likely be showing signs.' His gaze runs over me in a dismissive sweep.