999_ Twenty-Nine Original Tales of Horror and Suspense - Al Sarrantonio [240]
Merrick’s jaw clenched. Damn the lieutenant, wouldn’t take no, just a quick look, please. He couldn’t know what he was asking.
Another uniform waited at the open door near the end of the hall. Glare from a flashbulb backlit him as he held up a hand. “This is a crime scene. If you’ll just turn around—”
“I’m Merrick Chapman.”
The cop straightened and blushed. “Yes, sir—sorry. I thought you’d be older.”
You thought right, son.
A tiny entrance foyer gave way to a narrow hall on the left and a compact living room straight ahead, the parquet sketched with Persian carpets. A recliner in the corner drew his eye and he knew at once it had been a favored place. Plant stands spilled lacy fronds on either side and a pole lamp behind cast perfect light for reading. A romance novel lay open on the floor, spine up, bright plumage spread. Two evidence technicians on their knees worked around the chair with gloved hands.
“Lieutenant!”
Des, behind him. Turning, Merrick was startled at how much weight the man had gained, the glints of white in the ebony hair. Still a sharp dresser, but none of the Masai motifs he’d once favored in his braces and ties. Just a black silk blazer, now, white shirt and charcoal pants, a uniform of responsibility.
“Lieutenant, yourself.”
“You’re looking good, Merrick. Damn, rub in some Grecian Formula and you retired yesterday. ‘Course, then we’d have to account for me.” He cast a rueful look at his belly. “Thanks for coming. I owe you. Hell, I owed you before.”
“You don’t owe me anything, Des.”
“Right. It was some other Merrick who twisted arms to get me his old job.”
“Still think it was a favor?”
“Sure as hell beats sitting stakeout and bumping chairbacks in the squad room. And I can still get out of my nice office when I want.” He glanced over his shoulder, down the narrow hall, nothing remotely like want in his face. “Stepansky catch you on the way in?”
“The guy at the door? What’d you tell him, anyway?”
“Just your name. Good kid, bucking for detective, hangs around our guys at the watering holes, listening to the war stories. You still hold the record for closing homicides, you know.”
Merrick felt an uneasy surprise. People at the department were still talking about him? But what did it matter? He didn’t have that much to hide anymore.
Des held out a pair of latex gloves. As Merrick pulled them on, images flashed through his mind of skin marbled with lividity, staring eyes, other blood, dark and fragrant, no two scents ever quite the same. For a second, he thought again of fleeing, far too late.
“She’s in the bathroom,” Des said.
Merrick followed down the narrow hall, glimpsing a tiny bedroom to one side, bed neatly made under a country quilt. The bathroom was big enough, pink and green tiles from a fifties remodeling. She lay in the tub, eyes closed, lips parted, as if she’d dozed off. Her plain face would have been prettier in life. The blood in the water half obscured her body. Merrick looked and there it was, beside the tub near her shoulder—a chef’s knife with a long, sharply honed blade now gleaming with blood. Des fished out an alabaster forearm. The slash was deep, running down the wrist, not across. Bending closer, Merrick examined the wound, dizzied by the intoxicating smell. His throat locked and then he was able to swallow. He dipped a hand into the water.
Stone cold.
Nerves tightened along his spine, but he said, “What makes this murder?”
“Don’t you think the water should be darker? I’ve seen four or five bathtub suicides and you usually can’t make out the body, unless an arm stayed out to bleed on the floor. And the wrist—no prion. How’d she know to make that cut? She’s not a shrink. She sold vacations in a travel agency.”
“Note?”
Des shook his head.
Merrick looked at him. “You testing me, Des?