murdering people. Decrease in violent crime, her ass. How the hell had he messed it up so bad?
Then her heart hardened. She didn’'t care how he got there. She wasn’'t a social worker. He was a dead POS. Piece of Shit. Dealers dealt out death. They weren’'t selling Girl Scout cookies. He’'d known what he was doing.
Just like Jamal.
“"Hey, Henry,”" Grace said. “"Emily taking to the new member of the family?”"
Emily was Henry’'s “"new”" twenty-one-year-old cat, whom he’'d adopted when her predecessor, Molly, had to be put down. Grace had slept with Henry the night of Molly’'s death: two drunk, sad people, one of them knowing that this was comfort sex and the other shopping for engagement rings. Now Henry had a second new cat, acquired after a court reporter they knew had been murdered. Grace had found homes for the dead woman’'s cats, named after the Seven Dwarfs. Captain Perry’'s was Grumpy. Rhetta wound up with Bashful, even though she was originally going to get Doc. Henry’'s was Sneezy. Grace had passed on getting one. Gus was it for her.
And so was one night of cat pity sex.
“"Yeah, so far they seem to be doing well together,”" Henry told her, flushing a little, obviously remembering their encounter as well.
“"That’'s great. You got anything for me?”" She looked down at the dead dealer.
“"There are three entry areas. The back, which you saw. But also here …...”" He showed her the entry wound between the vic’'s shoulder blades. “"And here. Look. Straight down into his neck and shoulder. Ballistics is on it.”" He gestured to the collapsed veins in Shithead’'s arms. “"Heroin. Heavy user.”"
“"Did you get a better estimate of his age?”" Grace asked.
“"I’'m thinking maybe fifteen if that. I’'m basing that on his skeletal development and dentition. He’'s got a Snake Eyes tattoo.”" Henry used his gloved hands to move down the drape and show Grace the inside of his forearm. Two slitty, serpent-like eyes were colored fluorescent green. “"He was so dirty when he came in that I couldn’'t even see it.”"
Dead, dirty, in the morgue. A bad end all around. Next time she saw Jamal, she was dragging him down here to take a look at what was in store if he didn’'t shape up.
Maybe I’'m his last-chance angel, she thought, but she felt very cynical. She didn’'t want to save him from going to hell. She wanted to drag him out of it. Maybe he was already in too deep.
Maybe he was just too heavy.
Maybe her hands were already too full.
“"Tough times,”" she murmured.
CHAPTER SIX
After the morgue, Grace went back to the squad room with a brown paper bag in her grasp, to find a pair of white net wings dotted with white flowers taped to the sides of her chair. A halo was clamped to the back. Ham had phoned this one in, so to speak. She put down her bag, pried off the halo, and set it on top of her head. Pressing her hands palm-to-palm in prayer, she glided over to Bobby’'s desk to see what was going on.
Both Captain Perry and Bobby were eating marshmallows as they watched some tape on a monitor. Bobby had on what Grace privately called his grandpa glasses. She had some old-lady glasses, too, which she used for sewing and reading late at night.
Grabbing a marshmallow, she looked at the monitor. The tape was on pause, revealing a section of badly lit street. It was time-stamped twelve twenty-three a.m. By the lividity of Malcolm’'s corpse and the temp of his liver, Henry had put time of death after eleven thirty p.m. and before one a.m.
“"This is the minimart surveillance tape from the camera aimed at the street,”" Bobby explained. “"Watch this.”" He gestured with the remote.
Two white smears appeared—--headlights—--and she kept watching as a white blob turned into a white pickup. Looked like a Chevy. There were a couple of shapes inside the cab that were moving around. Driver and passenger. And there was a decal or
Then her heart hardened. She didn’'t care how he got there. She wasn’'t a social worker. He was a dead POS. Piece of Shit. Dealers dealt out death. They weren’'t selling Girl Scout cookies. He’'d known what he was doing.
Just like Jamal.
“"Hey, Henry,”" Grace said. “"Emily taking to the new member of the family?”"
Emily was Henry’'s “"new”" twenty-one-year-old cat, whom he’'d adopted when her predecessor, Molly, had to be put down. Grace had slept with Henry the night of Molly’'s death: two drunk, sad people, one of them knowing that this was comfort sex and the other shopping for engagement rings. Now Henry had a second new cat, acquired after a court reporter they knew had been murdered. Grace had found homes for the dead woman’'s cats, named after the Seven Dwarfs. Captain Perry’'s was Grumpy. Rhetta wound up with Bashful, even though she was originally going to get Doc. Henry’'s was Sneezy. Grace had passed on getting one. Gus was it for her.
And so was one night of cat pity sex.
“"Yeah, so far they seem to be doing well together,”" Henry told her, flushing a little, obviously remembering their encounter as well.
“"That’'s great. You got anything for me?”" She looked down at the dead dealer.
“"There are three entry areas. The back, which you saw. But also here …...”" He showed her the entry wound between the vic’'s shoulder blades. “"And here. Look. Straight down into his neck and shoulder. Ballistics is on it.”" He gestured to the collapsed veins in Shithead’'s arms. “"Heroin. Heavy user.”"
“"Did you get a better estimate of his age?”" Grace asked.
“"I’'m thinking maybe fifteen if that. I’'m basing that on his skeletal development and dentition. He’'s got a Snake Eyes tattoo.”" Henry used his gloved hands to move down the drape and show Grace the inside of his forearm. Two slitty, serpent-like eyes were colored fluorescent green. “"He was so dirty when he came in that I couldn’'t even see it.”"
Dead, dirty, in the morgue. A bad end all around. Next time she saw Jamal, she was dragging him down here to take a look at what was in store if he didn’'t shape up.
Maybe I’'m his last-chance angel, she thought, but she felt very cynical. She didn’'t want to save him from going to hell. She wanted to drag him out of it. Maybe he was already in too deep.
Maybe he was just too heavy.
Maybe her hands were already too full.
“"Tough times,”" she murmured.
CHAPTER SIX
After the morgue, Grace went back to the squad room with a brown paper bag in her grasp, to find a pair of white net wings dotted with white flowers taped to the sides of her chair. A halo was clamped to the back. Ham had phoned this one in, so to speak. She put down her bag, pried off the halo, and set it on top of her head. Pressing her hands palm-to-palm in prayer, she glided over to Bobby’'s desk to see what was going on.
Both Captain Perry and Bobby were eating marshmallows as they watched some tape on a monitor. Bobby had on what Grace privately called his grandpa glasses. She had some old-lady glasses, too, which she used for sewing and reading late at night.
Grabbing a marshmallow, she looked at the monitor. The tape was on pause, revealing a section of badly lit street. It was time-stamped twelve twenty-three a.m. By the lividity of Malcolm’'s corpse and the temp of his liver, Henry had put time of death after eleven thirty p.m. and before one a.m.
“"This is the minimart surveillance tape from the camera aimed at the street,”" Bobby explained. “"Watch this.”" He gestured with the remote.
Two white smears appeared—--headlights—--and she kept watching as a white blob turned into a white pickup. Looked like a Chevy. There were a couple of shapes inside the cab that were moving around. Driver and passenger. And there was a decal or
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