Desperation in Death (In Death #55)(11)

“We need to see her. We need to bring her home.”

“You won’t be able to take her home at this time, but I can arrange for you to see her. I can arrange transportation for you, Mr. Cabot, and accommodations if you plan to stay overnight.”

“We won’t come home until Mina comes with us. We need to bring our girl home. We need—”

He broke off, broke down. While he struggled, Eve continued to speak.

“We need to keep Mina here for a while. When we speak with Dr. Morris, we’ll let him know you’re coming in to see her. It would be helpful if I could speak to you and your wife, your son if he’s coming with you. I understand you’ve gone over everything about her disappearance with Detective Driver and her partner, but it would be helpful.”

“We need to know what happened!”

Grief, immense and unimaginable, ripped through every word.

“We’re going to do everything we can to find out. Do you want me to arrange transportation and accommodations for you, Mr. Cabot?”

“No, I— We’ll drive in. We’ll drive in. If—if—if you could give me the name of a hotel near Mina. I think we should stay near Mina. I don’t know where she is.”

He covered his face with his hands.

“I still don’t know where my baby is.”

“Mr. Cabot, we’re going to book rooms for you at the Hanover Hotel. It’s very near Mina. Is your son coming with you?”

“Yes, yes.”

“We’re going to arrange two bedrooms, with a family area. Will that work?”

“Yes, thank you, yes.”

She shot a finger at Peabody as she gave Oliver Cabot the address. “They have a parking garage. I can arrange for someone to meet you there and take you to Mina. It’s only a few blocks.”

“You’re very kind.”

“Just contact me when you arrive. Again, we’re very sorry for your loss.”

“I think you mean that. Lieutenant, can you tell me fairly, are you good at what you do?”

“I’m good at what I do.”

“I hope you mean that, too. Thank you. We’ll leave here within the hour.”

When Eve ended the call, Peabody sighed. “That was almost as rough as a notification. He tried so hard not to lose it.”

“Did you get the rooms?”

“Two-bedroom suite. I went with the concierge level. They’re going to want quiet.”

“Okay. Let’s go be good at what we do.”



* * *



Eve knew Morris was good at what he did, and hoped, as she and Peabody walked down the white tunnel of the morgue, he could tell them more about Mina Cabot.

The air smelled of chemical lemons and death sneaking under it, with an overlay of bad coffee. Their footsteps echoed off the glossy white tiles.

Behind the doors of Morris’s autopsy suite, music played. Something Eve found almost obsessively cheerful with a lot of guitars and young female voices harmonizing.

With a clear protective cape over his sky-blue suit, Morris closed his Y-cut on Mina with meticulous stitches. He’d done a trio of braids today in his long black hair and joined them together with a thick band that matched his precisely knotted—she supposed it was mauve—tie.

He looked up, paused. “It’s hateful, always, when it’s a child, so I’m giving her music girls her age generally enjoy. Cut volume by half,” he ordered, and the voices went to murmurs.

“Her parents, maybe her younger brother, are coming in. About three hours, I’d say.”

“She’ll be ready for them. Such a sweet face.” He touched the back of his sealed hand to Mina’s cheek. “Peabody, get us all something cold, would you? The killing blow had some force behind it, enough the tip of the sharp end went through her and pierced through her back between her shoulder blades. A slightly upward trajectory.”

“From below.”

“Face on, slightly below the entry point.”

“She had splinters in both palms.”

Morris took the ginger ale Peabody knew he usually preferred, cracked the tube. “The lab will analyze the weapon, but the edges were rough. She grabbed it, picked up the splinters as her hands slid over it.”

Eve nodded, paced, visualized. “Most likely? She was the product. She had value. She had the weapon first to fight someone off or defend herself. The killer gets it away from her, she fights—bruised knuckles—tries to get it back—splinters. And in the struggle, it ends up in her.”

“With some force,” Morris added.

“Somebody’s pissed enough, or distracted enough trying to control her, it rams into her.”

“It hit her heart—a blessing, I suppose, as she wouldn’t have suffered.”

“But she didn’t fall—after the blow,” Eve said. “I didn’t find any injury to indicate she fell. And I’m looking at her bare knees now—so she didn’t go down on them, either, so the killer didn’t just let her drop. But there’s a bruise on her hip. From a blow, maybe a kick?”

“A kick, likely from the slightly rounded toe of a shoe. Postmortem, but very close to TOD. No other injuries,” Morris confirmed, “other than the killing wound and her knuckles. A product, you said. Of value.”