“An odd sock, indeed,” said Heat. “On the way in, I saw a wooden bin for trash cans in the little patio.”
“On it,” said Raley. He and Ochoa headed toward the front hall. Lauren Parry from the medical examiner’s was making her way in the door as they went out. In the tight space between the tipped furniture, she and Ochoa ended up doing an impromptu dance step getting around each other. In her quick glance over, Nikki caught Ochoa lingering to check Lauren out as he left. She made a mental note to warn her girlfriend later about rebounding men.
Detective Ochoa was still fresh from a marital separation. He had hidden the breakup from the squad for about a month, but those kinds of secrets don’t keep in such a tight working family. The laundry sitch alone gave him away when he started showing up in dress shirts with telltale “Boxed for Your Convenience” creases on their torsos. Over an after-work beer the week before, Nikki and Ochoa were the stragglers at the table, so she took the opportunity to ask him how it was going. A gloom settled over him and he said, “You know. It’s a process.” She was happy to leave it at that, but he finished his Dos Equis and half smiled. “You know, it’s kind of like those car ads. What happened to the relationship, I mean. I saw one on TV in my new apartment the other night and it said, ‘Zero interest for two years.’ And I went, yep, that was us, all right.” Then a sheepishness came over him about opening up like that. He left some money under his empty glass and called it a night. He didn’t bring it up again, and neither did she.
“Sorry not to be here sooner, Nikki,” Lauren Parry said as she set her plastic examination cases on the floor. “I’ve been working a double fatal on the FDR since four a . . .” The ME’s voice trailed off when she spotted Rook leaning a shoulder against the connecting door leading to the kitchen. He pulled one of his hands out of his pocket and gave her a wave. She nodded and smiled at him, then turned to Heat and finished her sentence. “. . . four A.M.” With her back to Rook, she was able to sneak a what-the-hell? face to Nikki.
Nikki lowered her voice and muttered to her friend, “Tell you later.” Then, at full volume, she moved on. “Rook found the victim.”
“I see . . .”
While her BFF from the ME’s office set up to perform her exam, Heat filled her in on the discovery details the writer had provided in their kitchen interview. “Also, when you get a moment, I noticed a blood smear over there.” ME Parry followed Heat’s gesture to the same doorway she had just entered. Beside the jamb, the floral Victorian wallpaper showed a dark discoloration. “Looks like she might have tried to get out before she collapsed in the chair.”
“Could be. I’ll swab it. Maybe Forensics can cut a patch so we can lab it; that would be better.”
Ochoa returned to report that both trash barrels in the patio hutch were empty. “During a garbage strike?” said Nikki. “Find the super. See if he disposed of it. Or if she had private pickup, which I doubt. But check anyway, and if she had it, find the truck before they barge it to Rhode Island or wherever it goes these days.”
“Oh, and get ready for your close-up,” said Ochoa at the door. “The news vans and shooters are lining up in front. Raley’s working with the uniforms to move them back. Word is out on the scanners. Ding-dong the witch is dead.”
Lauren Parry rose up from Cassidy Towne’s body and made a note on her chart. “Body temp indicates a prelim TOD window of midnight to 3 A.M. I can do better after I run the lividity and the rest of the course.”
“Thanks,” said Nikki. “And cause?”
“Well, as always, it’s preliminary, but, I think, obvious.” She gently moved the office chair so that the body leaned forward, revealing the wound. “Your gossip columnist was stabbed in the back.”
“No symbolism there,” said Rook.