“That’s not my?—”
“Short of tossing the man into an industrial freezer down at the docks, I feel it would be best to keep him exactly where he is.”
“Cute. I feel it would be best if you got him the hell away from me, my staff, my workplace, and most importantly, my family. Put him in a freezer, Estefan. Put him in the ocean. I truly don’t care.”
“Speaking of your family, Doctor…”
An icy chill tickles the base of my neck and sets my nerves on end. Because Estefan Cordoza knows how to reclaim control of a meeting with just a sentence. With a simple tweak in his tone.
“What about my family?” I grit out.
“Your dear husband’s workload took an interesting turn today. Did you know that?”
Adrenaline pounds in my veins as I abandon my sutures and sling my eyes back to my phone. “What interesting turn? What happened?”
“You haven’t spoken to Archer today?”
“No! I’ve been busy autopsying a body, risking my career, and hosting your clowns. What the hell is going on with Archer?”
“It’s on the news.” His voice turns impossibly relaxed. Nonchalant to the nth degree. “You’ve neglected the news, too?”
“I neglect the news as often as possible. They tend toward entertainment, not truth.” I jiggle my computer mouse and fire up the screen, then I head to a news website.Any site. I don’t care. “What case did Archer land today?”
“A significant number of women, varying in age from eight to their early twenties, were discovered today, holed up in a cramped hotel room. They’re in rough shape.”
My throat and tongue turn dry. “Are they okay?”
“The good news is they’ll survive. The bad news is they’ll live long lives, remembering and replaying the trauma that led to this moment. Your husband was assigned this case of trafficking gone wrong. Seems they’ve been abandoned.”
I look at Two and narrow my eyes. “Anthony put them there?”
“It would appear so. Archer didn’t call and tell you about it?”
“No, I…” I swallow and bring my focus back to my computer screen. “We haven’t talked today. I was busy.”
“Apparently so. What are your autopsy findings, Chief Mayet?”
“I’ll write up a report and send it over as soon as I’m?—”
“No, you’ll tell me right now.” His voice takes on a dark, dangerous tone. “Report.”
I draw a deep breath, filling my lungs and stretching my chest. Then I exhale again and shake my head. “Death by suicide, as first suspected.”
“Chief—”
“I don’t know what you want me to tell you! It’s my professional opinion that he died from blood loss. I can have a list of possible knives sent over for your perusal by the end of tomorrow. From my measurements, the knife that severed both his radial and ulnar arteries was approximately seven inches long, full tang, with what I could guess, but can’t be a hundred percent certain, comes with a wooden handle. This knife was sharp; the first slice was sure. The second, less so.”
“How so?”
“First was quick and relatively painless. Second, he was already losing blood, and the shock might’ve kicked in. Left wrist first, right wristsecond. The latter wasn’t as smooth, which means it didn’t go as deep, and the edges were not as perfect. He was probably shaking by that point. I can estimate he bled out in approximately four to five minutes, though external factors may change that. You say he was in the bathtub—if the water was warm at the time of death, he would’ve bled faster.”
“I don’t believe this man was suicidal,” Cordoza presses. “I’ve already explained why. Add in the women discovered today, and my certainty only grows.”
“Did you know about them? The girls,” I clarify, my stomach swirling with nerves that twist and knot everything inside. “Were you set to profit from this shipment?”
“No. And his death robs me of the chance to deal with his behavior the way I see fit. Regardless, these women promise a significant payday for whoever is managing the shipment. Why would he end his life so close to delivery?”
“Guilt, maybe. A sudden realization that he was a blight on society?” Hardly a convincing argument, I know. “His heart was failing, Estefan. His lungs were practically made of rock. If he didn’tknowhe was sick yet, he certainly felt it. Breathing would have been difficult, and walking up a flight of stairs would’ve hurt. If this wasnotsuicide, then whoever killed him needed only to wait a matter of months for nature to do the job, anyway. Ask your goon squad,” I offer, glancing up at the one who stares. “Two of them stood inside the autopsy suitewithme. The other two waited outside. I showed them the plaque in John Doe’s arteries. I showed them his lungs—inside and out. I pulled samples and sent them to my tox lab, but I don’t expect those to show anything outside of what we already know. This man’s death was a result of blood loss: that is a fact. He lost this blood due to severed wrists: this is also a fact. Unquestionable. The only thing that remains uncertain iswhoheld the blade. Andwhy.”
