1st to Die - James Patterson [12]
“So who’s in charge?” I asked Cheery. I was senior partner to Jacobi; I was used to running my own cases.
Roth chortled. “He works with the mayor. He’s an ex– district captain. Who do you think’s in charge?”
“How about, in the field you lead?” Raleigh suggested. “What we do with what we find is mine.”
I hesitated, giving him an evaluating stare. God, he was so smooth.
Roth looked at me. “You want me to ask Jacobi if he’s got similar reservations?”
Raleigh met my eyes. “Look, I’ll let you know when we can’t work it out.”
It was as good a negotiation as I was going to get. The deal had changed. But at least I kept my case. “So what do I call you? Captain?”
With a casual ease, Raleigh tossed a light brown sport coat over his shoulder and reached for the door. “Try my name. I’ve been a civilian now for five years.”
“Okay, Raleigh,” I said with a faint smile. “You ever get to see a dead body while you were in Northern?”
Chapter 13
THE JOKE IN HOMICIDE about the morgue was that in spite of the lousy climate, the place was good for business. There’s nothing like the sharp smell of formaldehyde or the depressing sheen of hospital-tiled halls to make the drudgery of chasing down dead leads seem like inspired work.
But as they say, that’s where the bodies are.
That, and I got to see my buddy Claire.
There wasn’t much to say about Claire Washburn, except that she was brilliant, totally accomplished, and absolutely my best friend in the world. For six years, she had been the city’s chief medical examiner, which everyone in Homicide knew was as underdeserving a title as there was, since she virtually ran the office for Anthony Righetti. Righetti is her overbearing, power-thumping, credit-stealing boss, but Claire rarely complains.
In our book, Claire is the Office of the Coroner. But maybe the idea of a female M.E. still didn’t cut it, even in San Francisco.
Female, and black.
When Raleigh and I arrived, we were ushered into Claire’s office. She was wearing her white doctor’s coat with the nickname “Butterfly” embroidered on the upper-left pocket.
The first thing you noticed about Claire was that she was carrying fifty pounds she didn’t need. “I’m in shape,” she always joked. “Round’s a shape.”
The second was her bright, confident demeanor. You knew she couldn’t give a damn. She had the body of a Brahman, the mind of a hawk, and the gentle soul of a butterfly.
As we walked in, she gave me a weary but satisfied smile, as if she’d been up working most of the night. I introduced Raleigh, and Claire flashed me an impressed wag of the eyes.
Whatever I had accumulated over the years in street smarts, she threw off in natural wisdom. How she balanced the demands of her job, and placating her credit-seeking boss, with raising two teenage kids was a marvel. And her marriage to Edmund, who played bass drum for the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra, gave me faith that there was still some hope for the institution.
“I’ve been expecting you,” she said as we hugged. “I called you last night from here. Didn’t you get the message?”
With her comforting arms around me, a flood of emotion welled up. I wanted to tell her everything. If it weren’t for Raleigh, I think I would’ve spilled it all—Orenthaler, Negli’s—right there.
“I was beat,” I answered. “And beat up. Long, tough day.”
“Don’t tell me.” Raleigh chuckled. “You guys have met.”
“Standard autopsy preparation.” Claire grinned as we pulled apart. “Don’t they teach you that stuff down at City Hall?”
He playfully spread his arms.
“Uh-uh,” said Claire, squeezing my shoulder. “This you gotta earn. Anyway,” she regained a tone of seriousness, “I finished the preliminaries just this morning. You want to see the bodies?”
I nodded yes.
“Just be prepared: these two don’t make much of an advertisement for Modern Bride.”
She led us through a series of closed compression doors toward the Vault, the large, refrigerated room where the bodies were stored.
I walked ahead with Claire, who pulled me close