but I’m not taking any chances.
“Look at the time,” I say, starting the car, “we gotta get going. That guy’ll be back soon.”
Henry’s quiet for a moment, then he nods and the top comes off his bottle again. And Jack’s escaped another ass-kicking.
Nearly eleven and we’ve been sitting in the parking lot opposite the McLean County Morgue for fifteen minutes. It’s a crappy-looking building on the corner of West Front and North Main Street, just off highway fifty-one, with a line-up of shitty Fords parked at the kerb. No sign of our guy.
Henry lights up one of his fat old cigars and opens the car window, letting in the sound of the monsoon. I can hear Jack in the back, making pointed ‘cough, cough’ noises, like that’s going to make any difference.
Henry drowns him out by turning on the radio – R&B crackles out of the car speakers and he curses. “God-damn fuckin’ jungle music, all drums and shit, these bastards never heard of a melody?” He spins the dial till he finds a station playing Sinatra. “Now that’s music!” He settles back in his seat, smoking and humming along.
I like Henry; we’ve been friends for years. But he can be a real asshole sometimes.
Five minutes later a little guy in a white lab coat and Megadeth T-shirt sticks his head out the back door of the McLean County Coroner’s office. Big pointy nose, ginger hair, beady little eyes and a goatee beard thing – he looks like a real fucking weasel. He glances up and down the street. Then waves at us.
“Right,” says Henry, winding his window back up, “Jack, you stay here with Brian.”
“Aw, for fuck’s sake, how come I – ”
“’Cause I say so. Besides, Brian likes the company, don’t you, Brian?”
Laura’s ex-boyfriend just shivers. He doesn’t say much, not since his meeting with Mr Jones, anyway.
“What if he pisses himself?”
“Then the back seat’ll be all nice and warm for you, won’t it?” Henry steps out into the downpour. I follow him across the road and up to the morgue where the Weasel is looking nervous, holding the door open for us.
“Hi,” he says, ushering us out of the rain and into the stink of floor polish, disinfectant, and whatever it is they use to preserve the dead bodies. The Weasel scurries down the corridor ahead of us, leading the way. “I can only give you fifteen minutes, OK? There’s a staff meeting and they’ll be back afterwards.”
He shows us into the cutting room – all shiny stainless steel and sparkling tiles. There’s something on one of the autopsy tables, covered with a white plastic sheet.
“This clears what I owe, right?” says the Weasel. “My little problem with the horses? No one’s going to come round and break my thumbs? Right?”
“Yeah, sure, whatever.” Henry doesn’t really care. “Now show us the body parts.”
The Weasel nods, grabs one side of the white sheet and pulls it away like he’s performing a magic trick.
And we get to see what we drove all the way out from New Jersey for.
It ain’t pretty.
Chapter 3
Laura’s Ex-Boyfriend
New Jersey – Wednesday – Two Days Ago
Brian’s what you’d call a pain in the ass. Eighteen, on the football team, brown floppy hair, dimpled chin, blue eyes . . . exactly the sort of guy a sixteen-year-old blonde girl would fall for. I’ve seen him at Mr Jones’s place a couple of times, picking Laura up in that flashy convertible his mom and dad bought him. No surprise he’s a cocky bastard.
Only Brian doesn’t look quite so cocky now. He’s standing in Mr Jones’s living room, trying not to meet anyone’s eye. As if we give a shit that he’s been crying – we’ve got more important things to worry about. Like where the fuck is Laura.
“We can only stay a couple of minutes,” says Sergeant Maloney, hat in his hands, all respectful like. “FBI’s holding a briefing and I gotta be there to make sure everyone’s got paper and fuckin’ pencils.” He stops, looks at Mr Jones’s wife. “Pardon my language, ma’am.”
I don’t think she even notices.
“I tell you,” says the Sergeant, “these FBI cocksuckers – pardon my language – are running about like it’s Silence of the God-Damned Lambs. Not one of them ever heard of proper solid police-work.”
Henry’s standing over by the window, watching as the sweeping headlights of someone’s car makes the front yard glow. The FBI have searched the grounds and now they’re heading further out. Probably looking for something illegal they can pin on Mr Jones. Bastards. Like he doesn’t have enough to worry about with his daughter getting snatched by some sick weirdo.
“I think,” says Henry, “Mr Jones would like a word with Laura’s boyfriend.”
“Right,” the Sergeant backs up a pace, “Right, yeah. Of course.” He pushes Brian forward.
The kid looks at the carpet, looks at the paintings on the wall, looks at the fireplace, everywhere but at Mr Jones.
“Where the fuck were you?” asks Mr Jones. “Where the fuck were you when my little girl was getting taken?” He picks up a glass full of scotch and hurls it into the gas fire.
Brian mumbles something.
“What?” Mr Jones grabs him by the lapels and shakes. “What the fuck did you say?”
“I said it wasn’t my fault!” Brian breaks free and smoothes down his jacket. “We had a fight. She didn’t want me going to Harvard. She threw Diet Coke all over me. Stormed out of the movie.”
“And you didn’t go after her?” Mr Jones’s voice is low and precise, and all the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. This is not good for Brian. But what does he know? He’s eighteen, he’s rich, probably thinks he’s immortal.
“She said she hated me; was going to take a cab home. I – ” He makes a strange squeaking noise as Mr Jones takes a hold of his face and shoves him back, banging his head off the wall.
“You let my daughter, my SIXTEEN-YEAROLD daughter wait alone for a fucking cab? In the middle of the fucking night? In the dark? In that part of town?”
Sergeant Maloney can see what’s coming. “Come on now, Mr Jones, let’s all just calm down. I’m sure – ”
Mr Jones smashes a fist into the Sergeant’s face and the cop falls to his knees, hands clutched over his nose, blood pouring out between his fingers. Moaning in pain.
“Mark,” Mr Jones speaks to me without looking round, “take Sergeant Maloney and get him a drink.”
I say, “Yes, sir,” and help the guy over to the couch – then hand him a stack of napkins and a large scotch with ice. He dabs his broken nose with one and sips at the other, thanking me.
Brian sees this – sees Mr Jones punch a police officer and the police officer taking it – and something clicks on in his brain. It’s fear. The sudden knowledge that being rich and eighteen isn’t going to be enough this time. That Mr Jones doesn’t give a flying fuck if Brian’s father is chairman of the golf club. That Mr Jones wants his daughter back and he wants her back now.
And Brian left her to take a cab home on her own, and some bastard snatched her.
“Henry,” says Mr Jones, “go fetch the bolt cutters. I think Brian here’s about to have an accident.” It’s not a sight I’m going to forget in a hurry.
Chapter 4
Today – Friday – back in the morgue
Henry looks