“Sara?”
At the sound of my voice, her shoulders sagged. Slowly she turned in my direction. Her cheeks were damp and blotchy. The bandages, with their solid domed patch over each eye, allowed her tears to escape. When she didn’t speak, I moved closer. Raising the head of her bed and lowering the side rail, I sat beside her. Fear and sadness not only showed on her wet cheeks but settled around her like a cloud.
Screw the timetable and the rules. She won’t make it through this in this shape.
With my leg against her wounded body, I grabbed a tissue and began to dry her cheeks.
Where the hell is Raquel, and most importantly, what did Lilith do?
My chest ached at Sara’s labored breathing. Surely she had things to say, but she was obeying my last command and remaining silent. When her breathing finally settled, I said, “No one else is here, you may speak. What is it? Why are you crying?”
CHAPTER 10
Stella
Detroit in July might as well be Miami. The humidity and heat were as intense without the benefit of the Atlantic Ocean. The Detroit River was definitely not as spectacular. Stepping into the cool air conditioning of Jumbo’s, I eyed a table near the back, next to a pool table. Thankfully, it was still too early for the players to be out. Come ten o’clock, this place would be rocking.
Though I’d been thinking about that cold beer Dylan had mentioned before I left him in the parking lot, I ordered lemonade and sat down to wait for Dr. Howell.
I kept remembering the pierced ear of the woman on the table—well, more accurately, the injured ear. Maybe it wasn’t a piercing injury. Maybe I’d read too much into the expression I thought I saw when Tracy Howell looked at me.
When I looked up, I smiled, seeing the doctor walking toward me. She’d looked young at the morgue, but now, with a maxi-skirt, T-shirt, and flip-flops, and her long, dark hair flowing loosely down her back, she looked more like a high school student than a forensic pathologist.
Dr. Howell didn’t return my smile as she settled in the seat across from me. Glancing from side to side, she did little to hide her nerves. “Stella,” she began. “Once again, I apologize for calling you in today. The blonde hair and the body type, both similar to Mindy’s . . . I just had to be sure.”
“Doctor, how many unidentified bodies—female bodies—do you see?”
She shrugged. “Too many.”
I tilted my head. “I’ve been called down twice in two weeks, for blonde females. Is that par for the course?”
Dr. Howell’s let her eyes fall to the table, suddenly interested in a sticky substance left by patrons before us. “I’d be happy to talk about Mindy Rosemont.”
“That’s the thing, I think we are. I think you’re trying to tell me something.” With my hair secured in a low ponytail, my exposed brow rose questioningly. “Is there any chance that I’m on to something?”
She sighed and leaned forward. “I can’t be quoted.”
“You won’t be. I’m not sure if this will become a story. I don’t even know if this will help me find Mindy or at least find out what happened to her, but please, tell me what you know. If I’m totally off base then we can get a beer, rack some balls, and call it a night.”
Dr. Howell looked at me contemplatively. For a moment I expected her to stand and walk to the cue box, but then she sat back and sighed. “Let’s start by you calling me Tracy. I’m not sure what I know. I’ve only been with the Wayne County ME for about five months, but from what I’ve seen, something is going on. We see a lot of gang and gun violence, and historically, the profile of our unclaimed bodies tends to be young males. Ethnicity varies. It used to be more African-Americans and Latinos, but not anymore. White males are dying as fast as everyone else. Those deaths are sad, but they make sense. There are multiple causes: fights, shootings, knives, and of course drugs. With drug deaths we see women too, many of those are prostitutes. The thing that’s different about the more recent female bodies is that many don’t have illegal drugs in their systems. Some, like the one today, are beaten up, but not all. As you’ve heard, we have a backlog on rape kits. But the ones that have been completed often don’t show sexual activity. Many of them have varying degrees of that burned-off fingerprint thing.”
“Are they all blondes?”
“No, their hair color doesn’t seem to matter. They range in age from about eighteen to about thirty.” She slapped the table and firmed her shoulders. “Do you see the problem?”