conversation
with his deeply rooted and somewhat dated opinions. "She just
sent the papers over to Downey on Friday. How's that for a
heartless bitch thing to do? Can't even give the man a little
respect at the end. No, old Belle had to make sure the whole
division was around for the event."
"I'm so sorry, Crevan. I know that
even when the end is inevitable, it's still a difficult thing to
experience."
"I been divorced three times," Briscoe
said.
I watched the silent play of emotion on
Crevan's face – first embarrassment, then inexplicable discomfort,
followed by amusement at his partner's running commentary on his
personal life.
Briscoe wasn't finished. "You didn't
find me out cryin' in my beer or joinin' the local single's group
at the Catholic church. Nosiree bob. I put my nose to
the grindstone and solved me some murder cases."
In Briscoe's brusque and crusty way, I
realized he offered Crevan very welcome emotional support and
guidance – from someone who'd been there three times. I
locked one arm with Crevan's. "You'd think with the divorce
rates in law enforcement we'd know better than to get married in
the first place, wouldn't you?"
"You're divorced too, I mean more recently
than Tony?"
"Two years and change."
"Maybe you could give me some pointers about
surviving the division of marital assets. It looks like you
made out all right here," Crevan said.
Why hadn't anybody dug into my
history? Why hadn't Danny Datello screamed it from the top of
Scabbard Mountain? Put an ad in the local papers? Darkwater Bay's newest heroine is a cold blooded bitch .
Pointers for Crevan from me? Now that
was so sad it was almost comical. What could I say?
Make sure you're still the beneficiary of her life insurance before
she meets a tragic end? You're a cop that should know how to
cover your tracks well enough to get away with murder?
Instead, "I'm afraid it's a little too raw
for me, Crevan. That aside, my lawyer assured me that I had
the most amicable divorce in the history of man."
"You must be Irish," Briscoe chuckled.
"Eriksson is Swedish, Tony," Crevan said
softly.
"Ain't that the ex's name?"
I shook my head and grinned at the old goat
before Crevan's certainty of my surname's origin sunk in.
"Welcome to the twenty-first century, Briscoe. Not all women
take their husband's names anymore. Now if we're done talking
divorce and relationship woes, do you think we could go to the
morgue now?"
"God almighty yes," Briscoe muttered.
"Winslow sounded like she's still got a bee up her butt.
Wouldn't wanna make the little woman wait and piss her off
more."
Chapter 6
Security at the morgue weren't the helpful
folks I remembered when I used Maya's office a few short months
ago. The personnel hadn't changed. The mood in the
building weighed heavily, a wet blanket over coals that still
hissed and smoldered.
"Oh boy," Tony said. He pushed the
heavy fire doors open that would reveal the long corridor to the
autopsy bays. We could hear the shouting the second the crack
between the heavy metal barriers separated. "Guess that
explains why Howdy Doody and his partner out there look like they
could spit glass."
The voice was Maya's, louder than I imagined
she could muster from her petite stature. While the words
were too muffled to distinguish, the tone was unmistakable.
She was enraged.
"Should we wait, or knock?" Crevan
asked.
"For God's sake. This is Maya.
Even on her worst day, she's still my friend." I reached for
the door, but Briscoe gripped my wrist.
"You might think that estrogen gives you
some sorta armor against that woman, Eriksson, but I know
better. You ain't seen her this way. I guarantee."
The door to the bay flew open and almost
smacked me in the shoulder. Red-faced, Billy Withers flew out
the door punctuating muttered words with unmistakable statements
like
with his deeply rooted and somewhat dated opinions. "She just
sent the papers over to Downey on Friday. How's that for a
heartless bitch thing to do? Can't even give the man a little
respect at the end. No, old Belle had to make sure the whole
division was around for the event."
"I'm so sorry, Crevan. I know that
even when the end is inevitable, it's still a difficult thing to
experience."
"I been divorced three times," Briscoe
said.
I watched the silent play of emotion on
Crevan's face – first embarrassment, then inexplicable discomfort,
followed by amusement at his partner's running commentary on his
personal life.
Briscoe wasn't finished. "You didn't
find me out cryin' in my beer or joinin' the local single's group
at the Catholic church. Nosiree bob. I put my nose to
the grindstone and solved me some murder cases."
In Briscoe's brusque and crusty way, I
realized he offered Crevan very welcome emotional support and
guidance – from someone who'd been there three times. I
locked one arm with Crevan's. "You'd think with the divorce
rates in law enforcement we'd know better than to get married in
the first place, wouldn't you?"
"You're divorced too, I mean more recently
than Tony?"
"Two years and change."
"Maybe you could give me some pointers about
surviving the division of marital assets. It looks like you
made out all right here," Crevan said.
Why hadn't anybody dug into my
history? Why hadn't Danny Datello screamed it from the top of
Scabbard Mountain? Put an ad in the local papers? Darkwater Bay's newest heroine is a cold blooded bitch .
Pointers for Crevan from me? Now that
was so sad it was almost comical. What could I say?
Make sure you're still the beneficiary of her life insurance before
she meets a tragic end? You're a cop that should know how to
cover your tracks well enough to get away with murder?
Instead, "I'm afraid it's a little too raw
for me, Crevan. That aside, my lawyer assured me that I had
the most amicable divorce in the history of man."
"You must be Irish," Briscoe chuckled.
"Eriksson is Swedish, Tony," Crevan said
softly.
"Ain't that the ex's name?"
I shook my head and grinned at the old goat
before Crevan's certainty of my surname's origin sunk in.
"Welcome to the twenty-first century, Briscoe. Not all women
take their husband's names anymore. Now if we're done talking
divorce and relationship woes, do you think we could go to the
morgue now?"
"God almighty yes," Briscoe muttered.
"Winslow sounded like she's still got a bee up her butt.
Wouldn't wanna make the little woman wait and piss her off
more."
Chapter 6
Security at the morgue weren't the helpful
folks I remembered when I used Maya's office a few short months
ago. The personnel hadn't changed. The mood in the
building weighed heavily, a wet blanket over coals that still
hissed and smoldered.
"Oh boy," Tony said. He pushed the
heavy fire doors open that would reveal the long corridor to the
autopsy bays. We could hear the shouting the second the crack
between the heavy metal barriers separated. "Guess that
explains why Howdy Doody and his partner out there look like they
could spit glass."
The voice was Maya's, louder than I imagined
she could muster from her petite stature. While the words
were too muffled to distinguish, the tone was unmistakable.
She was enraged.
"Should we wait, or knock?" Crevan
asked.
"For God's sake. This is Maya.
Even on her worst day, she's still my friend." I reached for
the door, but Briscoe gripped my wrist.
"You might think that estrogen gives you
some sorta armor against that woman, Eriksson, but I know
better. You ain't seen her this way. I guarantee."
The door to the bay flew open and almost
smacked me in the shoulder. Red-faced, Billy Withers flew out
the door punctuating muttered words with unmistakable statements
like
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