Twice Kissed - Lisa Jackson [137]
“This is a nightmare,” he whispered once they were on the second floor and were being ushered into Henderson’s office. Upon spying them through his open door, the beleaguered detective waved them in. “What the hell’s going on?” Thane demanded.
“As I told Ms. McCrae, we found Marquise’s Jeep. Sit down,” he invited, waving them to the worn plastic chairs in which they’d sat on their earlier visit. He ordered coffee, but Maggie couldn’t take a swallow from her Styrofoam cup. Her stomach was churning; her intestines felt as if they were waterlogged.
“What about Mary Theresa?” Maggie asked, dreading the answer.
“Not sure yet.”
Thane drank his coffee and looked as if he’d rather be any other place in the world. Even through the closed door, the buzz and excitement of the other offices seeped in. Henderson’s phone rang twice, and he had short, terse conversations with whoever was on the other end.
Hannah Wilkins rapped on the door, then slipped into the tight little room. “The ME is allowing them to remove the body soon,” she reported, and Maggie’s heart shredded. “To the morgue. And the press is all over this. We’ve already had calls from all the stations and papers.” She handed a list to Henderson. “So far the official word is ‘no comment.’”
“Good.”
Maggie didn’t think it was good. Not good at all.
“And we’ve been getting calls from everyone who knew her.” She handed Henderson a list.
“Pomeranian, King, Gillette…” Henderson nodded. “We’ll call them back.”
“Wade Pomeranian is demanding answers.”
Henderson’s expression didn’t change. “So are we.” He swung his gaze back to Maggie. “I’m sorry for the wait—”
A uniformed officer poked his head into the room. “The fax you were waiting for came in,” he explained.
Henderson waved him in and accepted a couple of pieces of paper that Maggie was certain would change the course of her life forever.
Henderson scanned the pages as the officer left the room. Maggie’s brain was screaming with dread, her pulse thudding. She felt sick and silently sent up prayer after prayer for her sister while Thane didn’t say a word, just sat grim-faced, his eyes trained on the detective.
Henderson’s hound-dog face drooped even farther as he scanned the fax. Maggie’s heart plummeted. She gripped the edge of her chair and felt her head pounding.
“No positive ID yet,” Henderson said quietly, “but your sister’s purse was in the Jeep and—”
Maggie thought she might be sick.
“—the woman in the driver’s seat is about the right size.” His voice was toneless, his gaze on the damning sheets of paper. “The victim’s pretty mangled up. Lacerations, contusions, broken teeth, as she wasn’t wearing her seat belt and was thrown into the windshield.”
Bile screamed up Maggie’s throat, and she had no choice but to scramble to the wastebasket and retch.
“Ms. McCrae—” Henderson was on his feet.
“Leave her alone,” Thane ordered. “Maggie—” He was beside her in an instant.
“Don’t—” Maggie lifted a hand, afraid someone would try to touch her, comfort her. She didn’t want anyone, not even Thane, to offer any consolation. Not yet. “If…if I could just have a few minutes in the rest room.”
“I’ll take her.” Detective Wilkins helped Maggie to her feet, and together they made their way through the maze of offices to a women’s room with pale green walls and a tile floor layered in years of built-up wax. The urge to vomit had passed and Maggie huddled over a sink, where she washed her mouth and splashed water on her face.
Get a grip, she told herself as she eyed her sorry-looking reflection in the mirror. She was pale as death, her eyes sunken and shadowed, her lips bloodless, her unbrushed hair falling lankly around her face. You can’t lose it; not now. Not until you find out the truth and then, damn it, not even then.
“Better?” Hannah asked.
“Marginally.”
“Can I get you anything? Coffee or a glass of water or…a cigarette, maybe?”
“No.” Maggie yanked out a paper towel and wiped her hands, then her lips. “I’ll be fine. This is all so scary, all…just a shock.”
“I know.” Hannah offered her a thin, patient