Unsympathetic Magic - Laura Resnick [91]
“Ah, how I’ve missed the small talk of a cop,” I said. “Other people just say things like, ‘It’s another scorcher today.’ ”
We moved away from the building and crossed the street, then walked beside the park. Silent and brooding behind his dark glasses, Lopez took off his light summer jacket and slung it over his shoulder, then unfastened the top couple of buttons on his short-sleeved cotton shirt. Since I had a daypack with me as well as my purse, he made a gesture offering to carry the daypack for me, and I handed it over.
Despite the smothering heat, there were kids in the Mount Morris Park playground, some Rollerbladers on the paths, and a number of people walking their dogs. It was a sunny Friday afternoon in summer, and people were determined to enjoy it even if they roasted for it. We heard music coming from inside the park and as we got closer to the sound, I saw a crowd of people gathered to watch the break-dancers who were practicing there.
We admired the dancers for a few minutes, then we moved on, walking inside the park now. The atmosphere between us was charged, thanks to the private scene which I had started and he had nearly finished before we were interrupted by Catherine.
I’d been well aware of feeling hurt and forlorn that he’d broken up with me, and I’d certainly missed him since then—even though we’d been involved too briefly for that to make much sense. But until Jeff poked the hidden sore spot with the unerring accuracy of an ex-boyfriend, I hadn’t realized that I also felt humiliated.
That pain, at least, was cured now. Yes, Lopez had broken up with me; but he hadn’t stopped wanting to see me. For reasons which were all too human, his unguarded confirmation of this made me feel better.
On the other hand, the reasons he wouldn’t date me still hadn’t changed. And, considering the current circumstances, those reasons were still relevant, despite our mutual outburst a few minutes ago. In any case, since I had to be at work soon, I thought we should probably get started on the argument he had come here to have.
I said, “I know that Darius Phelps’ body is missing.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Who told you? Biko or Dr. Livingston?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I challenged.
“I couldn’t get hold of you,” he pointed out reasonably.
“Oh. Right.”
“So now I’m missing out on the big double-take I was hoping for, since you already know he’s gone.”
I peered at him suspiciously, but his sunglasses hid his expression. “How long has the body been missing?” I asked.
“I don’t know yet. It’s a huge cemetery and Darius apparently hasn’t had any visitors since his funeral. So no one realized he was missing until I asked them to look.” He added, “This case is making me think pretty seriously about getting cremated when my time comes.”
“And the hand we found? Was it his?”
“No.”
That surprised me. “How do you know?”
“I was right about the hand being only a few days old. And Darius Phelps has been dead for a little over three weeks.” Lopez shook his head. “So it can’t be his hand.”
Oh, if only that were true.
“Can you identify it through fingerprints?” I asked.
“No hits yet.”
That must mean that Darius had never been fingerprinted when he was alive. And I assumed the police weren’t going to attempt a DNA comparison; in their minds, nothing credible linked the days-old hand in Harlem with the weeks-old missing corpse.
Thinking about the nature of mystical zombification, I said tentatively, “What if decomposition stopped a couple of days after Darius died?”
“How?” Lopez shook his head. “He wasn’t even embalmed—and that doesn’t stop decomposition, anyhow, it just slows it down. No, wherever Darius is now, he’s still decomposing, like any other dead organism.”
“Not necessarily,” I said glumly.
Lopez lowered his head to look inquisitively at me over the top of his sunglasses.
That look made me feel unequal to the task of sharing my theory with him. So instead I said, “This means you think there’s a separate victim?”
“Actually, I think there are several