going in, and finally burst out the door in a damp gulping rush, hurrying down the white bleached path to the sliding front door.
Deputy Coroner Jeff Salzer met her at the front desk and led her through a work space of laminated counters and computer stations. His hair was starting to thin. He carried himself like a retired military man, shoulders back, as if tensing for a bullet that hadn’t been fired yet.
Air-conditioning blasted. A chunky deputy in rolled-up sleeves glanced up from her notepad as they went by in silence.
Salzer closed the door and motioned for her to sit. Through the window, her car already looked glossy with heat, as if the chrome were melting. She took the seat across from his desk.
“Special Agent Descanso said to give you whatever you need on this one.”
His desk was swept clean except for his computer. It was on, the screen blank.
“I thought the body would have gone to the Indio morgue; that’s closest to Palm Springs.”
“Would have, but the air-conditioning in Indio blew out in this heat. We’ve gotten all of them for a week now. They come in refrigerated trucks. Full house. Let me get the file.”
Salzer pushed away from his desk and his muscles bunched under his shirt. He riffled through a file drawer. Grace tried not to visualize what full house looked like in a morgue.
He pulled out a thick file and handed it to her. “You can use the conference room. You can’t make copies, but you can take whatever notes you’d like.”
She nodded and followed him into the corridor. She caught the faint whiff of formaldehyde. Her stomach churned and she tasted acid.
“Palm Springs is a real dog’s breakfast right now with that ag convention. Where’s your hotel?”
“Right off Palm Canyon.”
“You’re going to get a dose of it then. They start at the Convention Center and spill out onto the main drag.”
“I heard a second field was torched. Anybody else killed?”
A deputy rolled a rack of files down the hall and squeezed past them. Salzer shook his head and resumed walking.
“No, but a couple of delegates were hospitalized for smoke inhalation. It’s going to get nastier. Protest organizers took out a march permit for eight thousand people. They’ve blown right through that number. We expect ten times that amount. The last time the U.S. hosted this conference was in Sacramento. Major protests. That came on the heels of riots in Seattle during the World Trade Organization, which led to looting and the declaration of martial law. You know how many rioters showed up for that one?”
Grace shook her head.
“Close to a hundred thousand, Grace. We have two hundred cops, security guards, and a handful of National Guardsmen piled in, from as far away as L.A. The FBI’s running the show. Not bad, but it’s not good, either. Makes everybody nervous. Plus, we got people drinking, raising hell, so we’ve had a rash of unrelated accidents, car crashes, partygoers using loaded weapons. A mess here. We’ve got three autopsies backed up. I can rustle up coffee, water, maybe some soda.”
“Water’s good.”
He nodded and closed the door. She took a seat at the long table in the quiet room. Empty bulletin boards with tacks adorned the walls. A detailed map of the Coachella Valley hung over a coffeemaker. The coffee smelled burned.
She opened the file. Stapled to the cover page was Bartholomew’s DMV photo. A heavyset man in his sixties stared back, with beetling eyebrows and shrewd blue eyes, looking into the camera with a mixture of intelligence and amusement, as if he was party to some small secret.
He was wearing a blue oxford button-down shirt, open at the neck, and a tweed jacket. His silvery hair was long, parted in the middle, his face a series of pouches: fleshy jowls, pink balloons of cheeks, and smaller, bluish bulges under his eyes. He looked impatient and tired, a combination Grace remembered from the day he’d burst into the lecture hall in Indio, not far
Deputy Coroner Jeff Salzer met her at the front desk and led her through a work space of laminated counters and computer stations. His hair was starting to thin. He carried himself like a retired military man, shoulders back, as if tensing for a bullet that hadn’t been fired yet.
Air-conditioning blasted. A chunky deputy in rolled-up sleeves glanced up from her notepad as they went by in silence.
Salzer closed the door and motioned for her to sit. Through the window, her car already looked glossy with heat, as if the chrome were melting. She took the seat across from his desk.
“Special Agent Descanso said to give you whatever you need on this one.”
His desk was swept clean except for his computer. It was on, the screen blank.
“I thought the body would have gone to the Indio morgue; that’s closest to Palm Springs.”
“Would have, but the air-conditioning in Indio blew out in this heat. We’ve gotten all of them for a week now. They come in refrigerated trucks. Full house. Let me get the file.”
Salzer pushed away from his desk and his muscles bunched under his shirt. He riffled through a file drawer. Grace tried not to visualize what full house looked like in a morgue.
He pulled out a thick file and handed it to her. “You can use the conference room. You can’t make copies, but you can take whatever notes you’d like.”
She nodded and followed him into the corridor. She caught the faint whiff of formaldehyde. Her stomach churned and she tasted acid.
“Palm Springs is a real dog’s breakfast right now with that ag convention. Where’s your hotel?”
“Right off Palm Canyon.”
“You’re going to get a dose of it then. They start at the Convention Center and spill out onto the main drag.”
“I heard a second field was torched. Anybody else killed?”
A deputy rolled a rack of files down the hall and squeezed past them. Salzer shook his head and resumed walking.
“No, but a couple of delegates were hospitalized for smoke inhalation. It’s going to get nastier. Protest organizers took out a march permit for eight thousand people. They’ve blown right through that number. We expect ten times that amount. The last time the U.S. hosted this conference was in Sacramento. Major protests. That came on the heels of riots in Seattle during the World Trade Organization, which led to looting and the declaration of martial law. You know how many rioters showed up for that one?”
Grace shook her head.
“Close to a hundred thousand, Grace. We have two hundred cops, security guards, and a handful of National Guardsmen piled in, from as far away as L.A. The FBI’s running the show. Not bad, but it’s not good, either. Makes everybody nervous. Plus, we got people drinking, raising hell, so we’ve had a rash of unrelated accidents, car crashes, partygoers using loaded weapons. A mess here. We’ve got three autopsies backed up. I can rustle up coffee, water, maybe some soda.”
“Water’s good.”
He nodded and closed the door. She took a seat at the long table in the quiet room. Empty bulletin boards with tacks adorned the walls. A detailed map of the Coachella Valley hung over a coffeemaker. The coffee smelled burned.
She opened the file. Stapled to the cover page was Bartholomew’s DMV photo. A heavyset man in his sixties stared back, with beetling eyebrows and shrewd blue eyes, looking into the camera with a mixture of intelligence and amusement, as if he was party to some small secret.
He was wearing a blue oxford button-down shirt, open at the neck, and a tweed jacket. His silvery hair was long, parted in the middle, his face a series of pouches: fleshy jowls, pink balloons of cheeks, and smaller, bluish bulges under his eyes. He looked impatient and tired, a combination Grace remembered from the day he’d burst into the lecture hall in Indio, not far
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