Twice Kissed - Lisa Jackson [138]
“Are,” Maggie corrected. “We are close.” She tossed the paper towel into the waste barrel and, with as much dignity as she could muster, made her way through the hallways and large rooms crammed with desks to Henderson’s office.
“…so until we make a positive ID, I’m not sure how we’re gonna handle this.” Henderson was chewing gum to beat the band, and his eyes were mere slits as they narrowed on Thane. He looked up as Maggie entered. “The body’s been transferred to the morgue. Are you up for an identification?”
“You don’t have to do this,” Thane said. “I’ll handle it.”
“No.” Maggie was firm. “She’s my sister.” Dry-eyed, she nodded at Henderson. “I’ll do it.”
Thane looked as if he was about to argue but didn’t. For the first time in his life that Maggie knew of, he did as he was told, following Henderson’s instructions to the letter. Numb, her heart as cold as the bottom of the ocean, her mind screaming all kinds of denials, Maggie, too, took the detective’s lead. Within minutes they were in the morgue, standing behind a large window, watching as a man in a lab coat lifted the sheet from a naked body.
Maggie’s hands curled into fists so tight that her fingernails dug into her palms. She stood next to Thane, not touching him, but knowing that he was nearby, that if she needed to lean on him, he would support her. Throat too tight to swallow, she stared through the window as the sheet was pulled down and the face of the battered woman came into view. Cuts and bruises, discolored skin and swelling destroyed her features. Her hair was red-brown, the same mahogany color as Mary Theresa’s.
Maggie thought she might be sick all over again. She could barely look at the body, though she’d seen corpses before; in her previous line of work she’d viewed a few. But never before had it been anyone she’d loved, and she never had really been comfortable viewing death—especially the victims of a violent end.
But this…could it be?
“It’s not Mary Theresa,” Thane said, his eyes as harsh as an eagle’s as he glared through the viewing window.
“He—he’s right,” Maggie said, relief washing over her as she grasped Thane’s words. She couldn’t explain it, because there was no rational reason, but she knew that she wasn’t looking at her sister’s body.
“This woman weighs more than Mary Theresa,” Thane said as the sheet was completely stripped away.
“And Mary Theresa had…has…freckles on her shoulders, from being badly sunburned when she and I were about seventeen,” Maggie added. “She’d tried to have them bleached, but they were always there…”
“This isn’t Marquise,” Thane said again, his countenance harsh. “This woman’s name is Renee Nielsen.”
Henderson had been reaching into his breast pocket for a nonexistent pack of cigarettes. He froze at Thane’s words. “You know her?” Cocking his head toward the viewing window, he glared at Thane. From the corner of her eye, Maggie saw Hannah Wilkins withdraw a notepad and pen from her pocket.
“Yeah,” Thane said. “I knew her.”
Maggie’s throat went dry. Renee Nielsen. Why did the name ring bells?
“Who is she?” Henderson prodded, as his partner began to scribble furiously in her notepad.
“A woman who used to work for me.” Thane’s lips barely moved as he stared at the battered figure through the viewing glass. “She did odd jobs at my spread in California a long time ago.”
“She knew Marquise?”
“Yeah.” Thane’s eyes narrowed. “Renee kept the house up when I was away—ran into Mary Theresa a couple of times, I think. As I said, I hired her years ago.”
“Were you married at the time?”
“No, after that. Mary Theresa had moved to L.A., and I’d started spending most of my time in Cheyenne. My foreman, Tom Yates, he did the actual hiring.”
“But she doesn’t work for you anymore.”
“No—moved away from the area about two years ago.”
“And went where?”
Thane lifted a shoulder. “I can’t remember. Seemed like somewhere in the Northwest, Portland or Seattle. Tom would have her forwarding address, social security number, and the like.”
“Would he know her next of kin?”