Nickel City Crossfire by Gary Ross (children's books read aloud TXT) 📕

night. You know, that missing overdose survivor whose mother caught a drive-by bullet and would’ve caught an air bubble in the heart or lungs if you hadn’t clocked a meth head with a water pitcher to keep her from sticking a needle into Mama’s vein.”

“Good summary.”

“Rafael’s report was good enough to get Shallowhorn to authorize protection for your client and for us to review two other investigations, which means serious attention to detail.”

“I don’t know if it’s related,” I said as Piñero and Ileana joined us. I moved to Ileana, whose eyes were red-rimmed, and put an arm around her shoulders. “Ms. Tassiopulos works with Dr. Simpkins, the woman whose parents hired me. Ileana’s been helping me, giving me background details, introducing me to other colleagues and acquaintances.”

Ileana confirmed what I said with a nod.

“I understand you found Dr. Simpkins,” Chalmers said. “If somebody popped her mother to draw her out, she must know something we need to know. Where is she?”

“Moving around and communicating by phone,” I said.

“Got a number?” Piñero said, the tips of his ears reddening from the cold.

“Different numbers.” I shrugged. “Borrowed phones, burners maybe. When her mom is released and her folks are safely out of town, she’ll come to me. Talk to me then, okay?” I looked at Ileana and squeezed her shoulder. “Right now, there’s another matter.”

“They said she was found near the goddamn sewage treatment plant,” Ileana said, her voice cracking. “She deserved better than that.”

Chalmers led us through the Family and Visitors Entrance into a corridor with mint green walls. I unzipped my jacket and pocketed my watch cap. As we passed the dry-erase on-duty board, I noticed that Mira was listed as working. She knew Chalmers and Piñero and had high opinions of them, but neither she nor I had ever disclosed to them we were foster siblings, raised in the same home and as close as any biological brother and sister. Their awareness of that would have compromised their professional relationship with her and our relationship with each other, especially when she bent the rules to help me on a case. On the way to the viewing window, a balding, white-coated staffer named Kevin led us past a closed office door that bore the nameplate MIRA POPURI, M.D. I did not expect to see my sister because she spent so much time in the autopsy room. But I listened anyway for the sounds of U2, whom she often listened to while doing paperwork. The office was quiet.

We stopped at the end of the corridor. Kevin explained what would happen and then opened a dark curtain. He stepped aside as we gathered at the rectangular window. A bony-looking body lay on a stainless steel table, beneath a sheet that didn’t quite cover the matted blonde hair. An autopsy technician on the other side of the glass folded back the sheet an inch or two below the shoulders. Already the clothing had been removed and cataloged, the body likely weighed and measured. But no incision had yet been made.

Ileana caught her breath at the sight of her emaciated friend. “That’s her,” she said, swallowing hard. “That’s Veronica Surowiec.” Then she buried her face in my sweater and began to cry.

The corpse’s face should have been a puffy pinkish-blue, blood having settled there as she floated face down. Her upper lip was split, rotting teeth visible behind it. One cheek was gashed, the other swollen, and her jaw dislocated. None of that had been caused by her position in the water. The upper surface of the skin we could see was a bloodless white, with puckered sores visible on the shoulders and scapulae. If she had died soon after speaking with Ileana, she might have been in icy water for nearly two days before being transferred to refrigerated storage. The absence of signs of decay was to be expected, but I was certain drowning was not the cause of death. Nor was the bluish-gray discoloration on the back of the shoulder facing the glass, the right color to suggest hypothermia. Veronica had taken her last breath well before immersion and exposure to the cold. She had been struck in the face—at least three or four times—and had lain on her back long enough for livor mortis to set in. Whatever the COD, somebody had dumped her in the canal. Gazing over Ileana’s head, I exchanged looks with Chalmers and Piñero. Their expressions said they had reached the same conclusion, even before I had.

Homicide.

“Like she was sewage,” Ileana said, shuddering against me and gripping my sweater with her fist. “Just another piece of shit to flush away.”

So much for Nasty Nica, I thought.

After closing the curtain, Kevin extended his sympathy and offered to direct Ileana to a grief counselor located elsewhere in the hospital. She declined. Then he led us around a corner to a well-furnished office where she signed several forms, including one that indicated she would claim the body when it was released. Once the copies were in separate wire letter baskets, he handed Chalmers a chain of custody form and an itemized list of what had been collected from or near the body. Everything had been transferred to Central Police Services on Elm Street for processing in the forensics lab. After scanning the list, Chalmers passed it to Piñero, who studied it before handing it to me.

One yellow wool coat, torn and dirty.

Remembering the filthy coat she had worn at Sanctuary Nimbus, I held the list so Ileana and I could read it together. There wasn’t much. Coat. Cap. Three shirts, two pairs of leggings, and two pairs of socks, all worn in layers and cut from the corpse with blunt-tipped scissors, along seams where possible. Fingerless gloves inside knitted mittens. Split sneakers. Scarves. Plant debris and trash had been collected from the fabrics, rips and stains noted, pockets emptied. A few coins and two wet dollars. No jewelry. No underwear. No bra. No—

“She carried bags, didn’t she?” I said