“We need to get someone looking into the hospital and everyone who treated Nicholson while he was there, every visitor,” Brett said.
“Agreed,” Diego said. “I’ll call Matt and put him on it.”
“Good idea,” Brett said as Diego took out his phone.
Their next stop was the mortuary.
Geneva Diaz looked as pleased to see them as if they were the CDC walking in to announce that bubonic plague had arrived.
“What?” she demanded, standing at the door and blocking the entry. “You’ve already ruined our business. Neither my husband nor Mr. Douglas is here. I suggest you contact our attorneys.”
“We could do that,” Brett told her, shrugging. “But if I speak with your attorneys, I’ll have to ask them why you let someone else into this place. And it was you, Mrs. Diaz. We know it.”
Her face instantly gave her away, though she denied the accusation, stuttering, “I—I’m not guilty of...of killing anyone or stealing a corpse or...”
She fell silent.
“How about you talk to us? Do it now and we can make things go as easily as possible for you,” Diego said.
“I don’t want to die,” she whispered, looking around as if someone could have slipped into the mortuary to attack her.
“If you’re that afraid, you really need to talk to us so we can protect you,” Brett said.
Her shoulders fell. Her perfect-hostess demeanor seemed to fall along with them.
“My husband doesn’t know, and neither does Jonathan Douglas,” she said. She looked out at the street and then ushered them in. “My office,” she said, and added, “Please.”
Her office was soothingly decorated, which made sense. After all, it was where people came when they were heartbroken by the loss of a loved one. There were tissue boxes on both corners of the desk; the chairs were beige and plush and comfortable.
Diego and Brett both sat while she walked around behind her desk.
“It was my nephew,” she said, not quite meeting their eyes. “My sister’s son. I swear to you, my husband is insisting he’s innocent because he is. And to be honest...I didn’t know what had happened, what had been done, until you came to us.” She was quiet for a few seconds. “Until we knew that Mr. Nicholson wasn’t in his grave.”
“Could you give us some more details, please? Starting with your nephew’s name?” Brett asked.
She sighed, still not meeting their eyes. “I knew that Pedro—Pedro Campesino—was in trouble. He started with drugs in college. Cocaine, an expensive habit. If I’d realized earlier...” She paused, shaking her head. “He’s in rehab now. He came to me when he was at his worst because he had no choice. My sister... She’s a single mother. Pedro’s father was in the army and was killed in Afghanistan. There was no way she could give him the money he needed, so I was his last resort. He owed so much money to the dealers. So much. I was trying to figure out a way to get it when...” At last she looked up at them. “When the man came to me.”
“What man? Does he have a name?” Brett asked.
“I’m sure he has one,” she said drily. “But he didn’t share it with me. I thought he’d come in about a funeral at first. I didn’t know until we were in this office that he was after something...wrong. He told me that he needed to make a copy of my key. He said he’d use it once, that it would have nothing to do with anything that would put me or my family in jeopardy and that if I just let him have my key, he’d see that Pedro was never bothered again. If not, Pedro...Pedro would be killed. So...I let him have my key. I had no choice. I didn’t know—I swear, I didn’t know—why he wanted it or what he was going to do. I didn’t know someone would be killed. Am I going to go to jail for this? No matter what happens to me, you have to know that my husband and Mr. Douglas are innocent.”
“Mrs. Diaz, I believe you. And I believe that your intentions were good,” Brett said. “Your nephew is lucky to have you. But now we need your help, and I promise we’ll do our best to keep you out of real trouble. We need to figure out who this man is. I’d like you to work with a police sketch artist, and right now I also need you to give me your best description of this man.”
She shuddered suddenly. “I don’t know. He was the kind of man who I think can kill me far more easily than you could ever protect me,” she said flatly.
“But if we can arrest him, you’re safe, aren’t you? Do you really want to live in fear for the rest of your life? What about your nephew?” Diego asked her.
She lowered her head. “Middle-aged, Hispanic. I’m not sure from where, though. His accent wasn’t Cuban, but I’m not sure what it was. Dark hair, dark eyes. Medium height and build. That could be at least half the men in Miami, right?”
There was a knock on the door. Geneva Diaz froze. Brett smiled at her. “It’s okay, be casual.”
“Yes?” she said.
The door opened and Carl Sage, the mortician, stuck his head in. He looked annoyed and was about to speak when he saw the agents and stiffened.