mustache. “Eager little thing, isn’t she?”
“And, oddly enough, not deaf or invisible,” Maggi cheerfully informed the M.E. as she placed herself between the two men, both of whom towered over her. She missed the glimmer of a smile on Patrick’s face. “Now, how do you know she didn’t drown?”
“Simple. No water in the lungs. She wasn’t breathing when she went over the side.”
“Because she was already dead. Makes sense.” Maggi looked at the gash on the woman’s forehead. It looked as if there’d been a line of blood at one point. If she’d bled, that meant she’d still been alive when she’d sustained the blow. “That bump on her head—did she get it hitting her forehead against the steering wheel when she went over the railing?”
Ochoa dismissed the guess. “Might have, but at first glance it looks deeper than something she could have sustained from that kind of impact.”
Patrick’s face was expressionless. “The air bag was deployed.”
Maggi bit the inside of her lip. She’d forgotten that detail and knew it made her look bad in his eyes. She regarded the victim again. “Could the air bag have suffocated her? She’s a small woman.”
Again the M.E. shook his head. “No, suffocation has different signs. This was a blunt force trauma to the head. Something heavy.”
Because Cavanaugh wasn’t saying anything, Maggi summarized what they’d just ascertained. “So someone killed her, then put her into the sports car and drove her into the river to make it look like an accident.”
Ochoa nodded. The overhead light shone brightly on his forehead, accentuating his receding hairline. “Looks like.”
Patrick had been regarding the victim in silence, as if he was conducting his own séance with her. He raised his eyes to look at the overweight medical examiner. “Anything else?”
“Not yet. I’m waiting on the blood work results and I haven’t conducted the autopsy. Check back with me tomorrow.”
Patrick was aware that Maggi wasn’t beside him as he reached the door. Turning around, he saw her still standing by the table. He thought she was studying the victim for enlightenment until he saw the expression on her face.
With an annoyed sigh, he retraced his steps. “We don’t mourn them, Mary Margaret, we just make sure whoever did this to them pays the price.”
He probably thought she was weak, Maggi thought. The woman’s death just seemed like such a sad waste. “Yeah, right.” Squaring her shoulders, she walked out of the room.
The moment they were in the corridor, Patrick’s cell phone rang. He had it out before it could ring a second time.
“Cavanaugh.”
Curiosity ricocheted through her as she walked beside him, waiting for Cavanaugh to say something to the voice talking in his ear. She wanted to figure out the nature of his call. Her real assignment was still foremost in her mind, but she wanted to find the person who’d wantonly ended the life of the young woman on the table in the morgue.
If she was hoping for clues, she was disappointed. All Cavanaugh said before disconnecting was “Thanks.”
Impatient, she tried not to sound it as she asked, “Well?”
He wasn’t accustomed to answering to anyone. The only partner he’d ever gotten along with had always given him his space, waiting for him to say something but never really pressing him. But then, this woman wasn’t Ramirez. What she was was a royal pain in the butt. “That was Goldsmith.”
Maggi knew Goldsmith was the officer he’d asked to track down the sports car license. She was surprised that Cavanaugh recalled the man’s name. He didn’t strike her as the type to put names to people; he seemed more likely to just label everyone “them” and “me.” “And?”
The more she pushed, the more he felt like resisting. It wasn’t a logical reaction, but this woman was pressing all the wrong buttons. Buttons that weren’t supposed to be being pressed.
“C’mon, Cavanaugh, stop making me play twenty questions. Who does the car belong to?”
“Congressman Jacob Wiley.”
She vaguely remembered the last election. Mind-numbing slogans had littered the airwaves, as well as most available and not-so-available spaces. But one of the few people she’d genuinely liked was Congressman Jake Wiley, “the people’s candidate,” according to the literature his people distributed.
“The family values man?” She glanced over her shoulder toward the morgue, reluctant to make the connection. Her father had taught her long ago not to jump to conclusions. There could be a great many explanations as to what a young, pretty girl was doing dead in a car that belonged to the congressman.
“One and the same,” Patrick confirmed. He was already heading out the door again.
Maggi had to lengthen her stride to catch up.
Congressman Jacob Wiley had a build reminiscent of the quarterback he’d once been. Blessed with an engaging smile that instantly put its recipient at ease, he flashed it now at the two people his secretary ushered in. He’d been informed that they were from the local police and there was a hint of confusion in the way he raised his eyebrows as he rose from his cluttered desk to greet them.
Wiley extended his hand first to Maggi, then to Patrick. “Always glad to meet my constituents so I can thank them in person for their vote.” His tone was affable.
Patrick’s eyes were flat as he took full measure of the man before him. He found the smile a little too quick, the manner a little too innocent. “To set the record straight, I didn’t vote for you.”
“But I did,” Maggi said to cut the potentially awkward moment. “You’ll have to forgive my partner, Congressman. He left his manners in his other squad car. I’m afraid this is official business. We need to ask you a question.”
“Ask away.” Lacing his hands together, Wiley sat on the edge of his desk as if he was about to enter into a conversation with lifelong friends. “I believe in fully cooperating with the police.”
She held up the digital photograph that had been printed less than half an hour ago. “Do you know this woman?”
Patrick watched the congressman’s eyes as he took the photograph in his hands. There was horror on his face as he looked at the dead woman. “Oh, God, no.” He turned his head away.
“Are you sure?” Patrick pressed, his voice low, steely. “She was found in your car.”
Light eyebrows drew together in mounting confusion. “My car? My car’s right outside.” He pointed toward the window and the parking lot beyond.
Patrick’s expression didn’t change. “Navy blue sports car. Registered to you.”
A light seemed to dawn in the older man’s face. “Oh, right.” As if to dissuade any rising suspicion, the man explained, “I have more than one car, detectives. I’ve got five kids, three of them drive. Of course, there’s my wife,” he tagged on. “But she prefers the Lincoln.” He paused, sorting out his thoughts. “And then, sometimes I let one of my people borrow a car when they’re running an errand for me.”
Patrick made a notation in his notepad, deliberately making the congressman wait. “So at any given time of the day or night, you don’t know where your cars are.”
Wide, muscular shoulders rose and fell beneath a handmade suit. “I’m afraid not.” Maggi began to take the photograph back, but Wiley stopped her at the last moment. “Wait, let me look at that again.” The air was still as he studied the face in the photograph more closely. After a beat, the impact of death seemed to fade into the background. And then recognition filtered into his eyes. “This is Joan, no, Joanne, that’s it. Joanne Styles.” Wiley looked first at Maggi, then Patrick. “She