“I thought we were becoming friends,” she mumbled, turning to look out her window. Had she misunderstood? She crossed her arms over her ribcage.
He set his cup back in the holder. “I’m not a very good friend.”
“Oh.” She hadn’t considered that he was the one who’d miscalculated. When it came to relationships, it was usually her error that ended them. She didn’t understand most people. “I don’t know what makes a good friend.”
He slowed down to drive around a curve in the road. “Everyone knows what makes a good friend. Loyalty, honesty, trust, and I guess spending time together. Maybe protectiveness as well.”
She mulled over his words. “During the time we worked the Snowblood Peak cases, I found you to be loyal to your dog and the Fish and Wildlife organization, honest to the point the local sheriff almost punched you in the face, and someone I could trust with not only my life but that of anybody in trouble. In addition, you have a protective streak that belongs in one of those romance television shows.” She stretched her chilled hands toward the heating vents. “So your failing as a friend lies in the fact that you prefer being alone with your dog and not spending time with people?”
“One of those romance television shows?”
“You know, streaming every episode. Even the mysteries or thrillers usually have a hero with a protective edge. You have perfectly symmetrical bone structure and impressive muscle mass like they do.” There was no question he’d been gifted in the bone structure department.
He shook his head. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d really think you were messing with my head.”
“I get that a lot.”
He chuckled. “You are such a brainiac.”
“I get that a lot as well.” She smiled, her shoulders lifting. Apparently she hadn’t ruined another friendship.
“At least you used the term ‘sleep with’ and not ‘engage in coitus’ when denying a relationship with Ortega.” Humor tilted Huck’s tone.
She sat back, her hands now toasty warm. “I’m not a complete dork.”
“Huh.”
She laughed. “How about we create our own definition of friendship that doesn’t involve you having to leave your cabin and dog?” It was surprising how badly she wanted to be his friend. She’d talk it over with her mother later, although Deidre was wary of Huck Rivers. But Deidre would understand Huck’s need to spend a lot of time alone.
He turned down a busy street and parked in front of the ME’s office, which was attached to the county hospital. “All right, Laurel Snow. I guess we’re friends.” He smiled. “You’re not going to pressure me for more, are you?” His smile seemed teasing.
“For more of what?” She frowned.
He barked out a laugh. “Forget it. Friends it is, then.”
Chapter Six
Dr. Ortega met them in his office, which had been decorated with a precision that must have involved many levels and rulers. Framed diplomas and other certificates, all with exactly the same black wooden frame and cream-colored matte were hung precisely behind his desk. Twin inlaid bookshelves bracketed the wall and held photographs, signed baseballs in protective glass containers, and bowling trophies on shelves. There were three items on each shelf, and their height and width balanced the opposing shelf exactly.
“Take a seat,” Dr. Ortega said from behind his desk, which held three piles of salmon-colored file folders, a monitor, and a keyboard. Today the doctor wore a black shirt and slacks beneath his unbuttoned white lab coat.
Laurel and Huck sat in the brown leather seats that matched the one in which the doctor sat, except the back of his was taller.
“Thank you for coming in person,” the doctor said, reaching for the top case file.
“No problem,” Huck said, unzipping his Fish and Wildlife parka.
Dr. Ortega smiled at Laurel. His hair was black with gray heavy at his temples and above his ears. He had to be in his early sixties, and his brown eyes were intelligent and slightly bloodshot. “Sorry to pull you out on such a cold day.”
“I’m sorry you had to work through the night,” Laurel said. “What did you discover with the autopsy?”
He flipped open the file folder. “Your victim had breast implants, so I was able to trace the serial numbers and get you an ID.” He removed a photograph and pushed it across the desk. “Printed this off the Internet. Her name was Charlene Rox. She was a thirty-eight-year-old psychiatrist with a practice outside of Seattle.”
Laurel studied the photograph. Charlene had symmetrical bone structure, short black hair, dark eyes, and full lips. In the picture, she wore a red blazer, black shell, and a thick silver necklace. Her earrings were silver and dangled a little, exhibiting a bit of whimsy. “She was a doctor?”
“Yes,” Dr. Ortega said.
Like Abigail. There was one tie between them already. “What did you determine to be the cause of death, Dr. Ortega?” Laurel asked.
