Something Deadly. Rachel Lee

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СКАЧАТЬ stood, and Kato rose to his feet, sniffed the air again, and made a low, mournful sound. Markie felt the hair on the back of her neck rise.

      Declan seemed to sense something, too, and took a half step back. “Does he do that often?”

      “Only when he’s trying to tell me something.”

      Those brilliant blue eyes fixed on her. “What’s he trying to tell you?”

      “I haven’t a clue. Did you hear the dogs barking earlier?”

      “Sort of. I wasn’t really paying attention.”

      “It was like every dog on the island was sounding off. After that, he got nervous, so I decided to bring him for a walk.”

      “And you wound up here?”

      “He dragged me here. And once we got here, he wouldn’t let me leave.”

      Declan gave her a long look, as if measuring her truthfulness. Apparently satisfied, he squatted again. Kato sat and met the man stare for stare.

      “What do you know, boy?” the doctor asked quietly. “Do you know something?”

      The question chilled Markie. “It wasn’t a heart attack?”

      Declan looked up at her. “I won’t know for sure until the autopsy.” The apparently straightforward statement seemed to Markie to be withholding something. As if there were more, but he wouldn’t discuss it.

      Once again, he straightened. “Can I give the two of you a ride home?”

      “That’s up to Kato.”

      Declan took a step in the direction of his car. “Come on, Kato, time to go home.”

      To Markie’s surprise, the dog followed.

      “Make a liar of me,” Markie said under her breath.

      Kato looked up at her and yawned.

      Across town, a telephone rang. Tim Roth hit the pause button for the DVD player and picked up the cordless receiver at his elbow. “Yes?”

      “Carter Shippey’s dead,” Steve Chase said.

      “And?”

      “There are cops all over the place.”

      “So?”

      “If they find the hole…”

      “If they find the hole, it’ll mean nothing at all. It’s under his house.” Tim paused, his fingers drumming on the arm of his chair. “How did he die?”

      “I’m told they think it’s a heart attack.”

      “Those happen.”

      “What if it wasn’t? What if she’s back?”

      Tim sighed heavily. “That’s myth and local legend. Carter was aging, and not well. He’d been sedentary ever since he sold his fishing boat. Not a good recipe for longevity.”

      “What about his wife?”

      “Nothing’s changed. She thinks we’re looking for a leak in the water main.”

      “All right. All right.”

      “Relax,” said Tim. “We’re not doing anything illegal.”

      “I know, but…”

      Tim sighed again. “No buts. Send flowers to the widow Shippey, from the Senate. Express your deepest, most heartfelt condolences. Then get back to work.”

      He hung up, shaking his head, and returned to his movie. Some people would panic over anything. They had no taste for life.

      Or death.

      2

      At six the next morning, Declan stood outside the hospital morgue and waited for his assistant to show up.

      Over the door was a beautifully scripted sign in black on red that said Rue Morgue. Beneath it was another sign, this one carved in natural wood: Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here.

      He’d put the signs there eight months ago when he had first arrived on the island. He’d left his job as chief trauma surgeon at a large inner-city hospital to take a surgical post on an island paradise. By dint of his prior experience, he had also been appointed to the post of territorial Medical Examiner. He had one-and-a-half jobs, which, together, were a million times less stressful than his previous position. And nobody had ever complained about the mordant humor of the signs.

      Nor should they, he thought. Hell, in addition to his surgical-cum-general practice, he was the only qualified pathologist on the island. The latter job was something he needed to grin and bear.

      His assistant, a nurse named Hal Devlin, showed up at last, carrying two takeout coffees.

      “Latte for you,” Hal said. “Cappuccino for me.”

      Even in the middle of nowhere, Santz Martina boasted not one but two Starbucks. “Thanks, Hal.”

      They stepped into the small anteroom together; then Declan unlocked his office. Hal followed him in.

      The office was just big enough to hold a desk and bookshelves fully loaded with every imaginable up-to-date reference on pathology, autopsy and homicide investigation. Declan was the only one who ever opened most of them. The unsparing, graphic photographs were worse than Hollywood’s most vivid imaginings.

      “What’s on the agenda today?” Hal wanted to know, flopping into the chair across from Declan’s desk.

      “Male in his early sixties, sudden death. No obvious signs of foul play.”

      “Heart attack,” Hal said, with the surety of one who has seen it before.

      Declan shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

      Both of Hal’s dark eyebrows rose, his eyes widening. He was a trim young man in his late twenties, his skin and broad cheekbones kissed golden by his native heritage. “You mean we have a mystery?”

      “I’m not sure what we have. When I saw the body last night, it felt squishy everywhere.”

      Hal shrugged. “Congestive heart failure.” In congestive heart failure, the body could retain thirty or forty pounds of excess water.

      “Ankles weren’t swollen.”

      Finally Hal frowned, getting the message. “What are you trying to tell me?”

      “I don’t exactly know, Hal. It could be edema, but if it is, it’s the worst I’ve ever heard of. It was more than a spongy feeling.”

      “Lovely. Who was it?”

      “Carter СКАЧАТЬ