In the Club (17 page)

“Of course you can’t!” Madison shrieked. “It’s too disgusting!”

Lex rolled her eyes. “Stop being such a baby, Madison. How else are we going to find out what we need to find out?”

“How about waiting for the media to release Damien’s cause of death?” Madison shot back. “It’ll be in the papers eventually.”

“
Eventually
might be too late.” Park suddenly sounded intrigued. She stared at Donnie, her eyes asking the obvious question:
Can you do it? Can you break us into the morgue?

He cleared his throat nervously. “I mean…it’s not gonna be easy,” he said. “And if we get caught, your…um…your dad would have to pay a really big fine, ’cause I sure as hell won’t be able to pay it.”

“I’ll give you a blank check drawn on my own bank account,” Park said seriously. “That way, if we do get caught, you won’t have to worry about paying for a thing.”

“But how the hell are you going to do this, Donnie?” Madison’s voice cracked. Her cheeks flushed in the heat of her fear. “You’re talking about the office of the chief medical examiner. Isn’t there, like, security everywhere?”

“Yeah,” Donnie replied. “But I got a friend who works there. All I’m saying is that we could try, if you really want to.”

“We want to!” Lex reached into the magic purse, pulled out five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, and slipped them into Donnie’s shirt pocket.

“You’re all crazy!” Madison shrieked. “I’m not going to any morgue! Forget it!”

“You don’t have to,” Park said calmly, patting Madison’s shoulder. “But if Lex and I aren’t back in two hours, call our attorneys, ’cause it probably means we got arrested.”

16

The Body

I
n the back of the limo, Park and Lex changed into fresh blue surgical scrubs Donnie had pulled from his backpack; cheap, flimsy, and just a wee bit stinky, the scrubs were a necessary disguise—you couldn’t break into a morgue dressed in Triple Threat daywear. Thankfully, Donnie still had a small stash of them from his medical school days.

Park finished first. Sitting on the edge of her seat, she cinched the drawstring into a bow and tied it as tightly as possible. Then she pulled the plastic mask over her head and let it hang around her neck. The little surgical cap didn’t quite fit over the bun she had fashioned with hairpins, but it hid most of her dark locks. “There,” she said, “that’s not so bad.”

“Not so bad?” Lex shrieked. “Are you kidding me?” She was struggling to roll up the oversized scrub pants so that they wouldn’t drag when she walked. The shirt hung on her lean frame like a poncho; she couldn’t imagine stepping outside like that, so she tied it in a knot just above her waist. “These things are hideous!”

“Well, what did you expect? Designer scrubs?” Park chuckled.

“It’d be a start! I mean, how do people walk around in these things—they’re so ugly, and so poorly made.” Lex pointed to the bunchy pants. “Look—there’s not even a seam!”

“Doctors and nurses need to be able to move around,” Park explained. “These do the job, I guess. But they really are kind of itchy.”

“They’re more than just itchy,” Lex snapped. “They happen to smell.”

“Sorry about that,” Donnie called from the driver’s seat. “That smell is what you call cheap detergent. The no-frills kind.”

Lex shook her head to keep from fainting. “How low have we stooped?” she whispered to Park. “If I’m ever photographed wearing these, it’s all over.”

“It could be a fashion statement, ya know.” Park pointed to her own scrubs. “Someone might think it’s cool.”

“As if.” When the limo slowed to a crawl, nearing the corner of First Avenue and Thirty-first Street, Lex reached into the magic purse and pulled out several items. She opened her compact and checked her reflection; she winced, horrified by the pale blue color of the scrubs. She swept her long hair up in a leopard-print clip, then tied the surgical cap over it. She didn’t care how plain the uniform was supposed to look—it needed accessories. She fastened a smallish Cartier diamond brooch to the left side of the shirt and knotted a black silk scarf around her waist to hold up her pants better. She yanked two thick strands of hair out from under the cap and let them dangle along the sides of her face.

Now, at least, she had some semblance of style.

Donnie parked the limo on First Avenue. He pulled on his white lab coat, stepped outside, and opened the back door for Park and Lex. Seeing Lex—the accessories and, most of all, the big purse hanging from her right shoulder—he said, “Um, you might want to leave that in here.”

“My purse?” Lex raised her eyebrows. Had he really uttered those blasphemous words?

“Yeah,” Donnie said. “It just doesn’t look right.”

“I agree,” Park mumbled.

“Well, I hate to disappoint both of you, but I’m not going
anywhere
without my purse.” Lex held on to the strap. “For God’s sake, we could need something in here!”

“Like what?” Donnie asked quietly.

“Like more things than you can possibly imagine,” Park answered, patting his shoulder. “Let’s just try and do this before I lose my courage, okay?”

With Donnie in the lead, they crossed the street. Park and Lex fixed the surgical masks over their faces as they went up the front steps and into the muggy main lobby of the office of the chief medical examiner.

Lex felt her heart slamming in her chest. In that moment—seeing the tall security guards and the two uniformed police officers at the desk—she almost stopped short and turned around. It was unlike her to lose her cool. It was unlike her to think that the task at hand couldn’t be accomplished. But this was way different from scaling the fire escape and breaking into St. Cecilia’s Prep. The OCME was as serious as things got; a restricted, internationally renowned forensic facility, it was home to scientists, FBI agents, and countless death-challenged corpses. Getting caught tonight would mean riding yet another wave of scandal.

She glanced at Park and felt a twinge of reassurance.

Her head held high, her eyes gleaming above the mask, Park looked completely in her element as she followed Donnie up to the front desk and waited at his side.

Donnie and one of the security guards exchanged words, and then a buzzer sounded and two big double doors swung open.

Lex tried to keep her knees locked as she followed them to the elevator banks. She was impressed by Donnie’s reserve, his professional air. The shy, introverted twenty-seven-year-old definitely looked more like a serious doctor than a chauffeur.

The elevator doors yawned open. Lex and Park followed Donnie inside. They both winced when he hit the down button and they descended into the morgue.

The first blast of foul air hit Lex like a huge fist: it was the smell of formaldehyde and rotting flesh. The cold nearly made her teeth chatter. She shook her head as they walked out of the elevator and into a gleaming white-tiled hallway.

Park, standing rail-straight, coughed and clamped a hand over her mask to further blot out the odor.

Donnie was moving more quickly now. He seemed to know his way around. He ducked into an office, yanked a white lab coat from a wall, and held it out to Park. “Here,” he whispered. “Put this on.”

She slipped into it, relieved that it fit her slim frame perfectly.

They continued down the corridor until they reached another set of double doors. The words
AUTOPSY BAY
were printed in big block letters on the wall.

Lex felt her stomach flip into her throat. She accepted the packet of latex gloves Donnie handed to her, tearing it open and fitting her fingers into the rubbery texture.

As they neared another door, Donnie paused and scanned the long corkboard mounted to one wall. It was filled with clipboards and sheets of paper, everything classified by a specific code. On the left were the cases marked
H
for homicide. Donnie grabbed one of the clipboards and scanned it. He found what he was looking for, pointing to the name
Damien Kittle.

“What does that mean?” Park asked, her voice a whisper.

“It means Damien was autopsied this morning,” Donnie explained. “And according to these notes, his body is in drawer four-D.”

“Drawer?”
Lex put a hand on her stomach.

“Yeah,” Donnie said. “It’s like a freezer.”

“Does it say the cause of death on that clipboard?” Park asked.

Donnie shook his head. “See here?” He pointed again, this time at an empty box beside Damien’s name. “This means Damien’s death was ruled a homicide by the medical examiner, but in order to see the actual cause of death we need to go inside there.” He motioned his head at the closed door.

Park nodded. She and Lex followed Donnie into a large square room lined with steel autopsy tables, stainless steel sinks, and bright overhead lamps. The smell was unreal—an entity all its own. Lex nearly gagged and Park had to reposition the mask over her nose and mouth.

Worst of all, though, were the bodies lying on the tables: stiff human shapes beneath white sheets, bare feet sticking out, every big toe tagged and numbered.

“This is
so
gross,” Lex whispered.

Donnie pointed to the wall at the very end of the autopsy bay, where the drawers were located.

Park followed him. Her arms were straight at her sides, her body movements cautious and rigid. She didn’t want to rub up against anything that would make her barf later on. Or right now. She scanned the rows of closed body drawers slowly.

Lex moved to the far end of the wall. She saw a letter
D
stamped on one of the drawers and instantly wrapped her fingers around the handle. She turned it; the drawer yawned open with a blast of cold, foul air. A stab of fear made her pause. She didn’t want to see Damien dead. She didn’t want to see his familiar face all blue and frozen and stiff.
But I have to,
she thought.
I can’t be afraid.

Gulping, she looked down.

The dead face staring back at her was that of an elderly black man.

She gasped and jumped to the side, the Cartier pendant shaking where it was pinned to her shirt.

“Lex!”

Park’s low, sharp voice echoed from the other end of the wall. She waved Lex over to where she and Donnie were standing.

Lex realized she had acted too quickly—opening up the first drawer she saw. She stared regretfully at the man. “Sorry about that,” she muttered, and shoved the drawer shut with her hip.

“We found Damien,” Park said quietly.

Lex nodded.

And Donnie yanked the drawer open.

Damien’s face stared back at them, his eyes taped closed, his blue lips parted slightly. The wound on the side of his head was crusted with dried blood. And a single speck of glitter was still shining on a strand of dark hair.

Park pointed down at it. “See? The medical examiner must’ve taken the rest of the glitter we saw as a sample.”

“There was definitely a lot more last night,” Lex said.

Park saw the clipboard hanging off to one side of the drawer. She reached for it, flipped it open. Her eyes scanned the small print. “Listen,” she said quietly, reading from the official autopsy facesheet. “‘The wound on the right side of the victim’s head measures two inches wide and five inches deep, and is consistent with the measurements of the aforementioned weapon, a size-twelve shoe with a stiletto heel, classified as Exhibit A.’”

“Damn, that was a hard hit to his head,” Lex said impatiently, loosening the silk scarf from around her waist and dropping it over her shoulders.

Park continued scanning the document. “‘Victim measured five feet nine inches tall and was…’” She flipped to the second page. “Here. Okay. ‘Further forensic evaluation of Exhibit A is
inconsistent
with blunt impact trauma, due to Exhibit’s size and point of impact.’” She gasped. “You see—we’re right. It says right here the stiletto couldn’t have killed him!”

“But what
did
kill him?” Lex asked.

Park read more of the report. “‘Internal examination of the victim revealed pulmonary edema and hemorrhaging, as well as severe dehydration and lesions on both the brain and lungs.’” She paused and looked up.

“Oh my God,” Lex whispered. “That’s horrible.”

“I know.” Park repositioned the mask, giving herself more room to breathe. Then she again lowered her eyes to the sheet. “‘Pending further toxicological analysis, the victim appears to have died as a result of…
poisoning.
’”

“Jesus Christ!” Lex lowered the mask from around her ears. “I can’t believe it! So Concetta
is
telling the truth!”

“It appears that way,” Park replied, her voice flat and unemotional. “And right down here, it says Damien looks like he died from…
ingestion of abrin.
That must be the poison.”

“Abrin? Where’s it come from? What is it?” Lex scanned the report, looking for a clue.

“It doesn’t say anything else about the poison. But look—it says right here that this autopsy was completed at eleven-forty-five this morning. And look—a carbon copy of this report has already been sent to the NYPD, the FBI, the ATF, and New Scotland Yard.”

“So this is news. They found all this out after they interrogated Concetta.” Lex yanked the mask back over her ears. “So the cops must know by now that she didn’t kill him.”

“Not necessarily,” Park replied. “The cops know the blow to his head didn’t kill Damien. But they might still believe that Concetta’s the one who swung the stiletto, and they might believe that she’s the one who poisoned him.”

Lex stared at her. “Do you think she poisoned him?”

Park thought about it, then shook her head slowly. “No, I don’t. It doesn’t make sense that she would poison him and then clock him in the head with her own shoe. The whole point of the stiletto was to throw off the investigation. From the perspective of criminal psychology, a powerful blow to the head with a blunt object might pretty well fall in line with a crime of passion, but that’s not what this is. Whoever poisoned Damien did it for other reasons.”

“What’s that?” Lex pointed to the bottom of the page, where the words
Trace Evidence
were highlighted in bold print.

Park read through the few lines. And her heart nearly stopped. “Holy shit!” she yelped.

“Park—be quiet,” Donnie warned.

Lex tried to read the intricate wording in the report. “What is it?”

Park cupped a hand to her mouth. “Okay—this part refers to trace evidence, which is evidence that’s not often seen with the naked eye because it’s usually totally microscopic. It says here that the only piece of trace evidence found at the scene of the crime—meaning in the cage—were two strands of
bright red hair.
”

Lex’s eyes widened. It took her a few seconds to draw the link. Then her eyes lit up and she said, “Jessica Paderman.”

“Bingo.”

“So—wait—this means that Jessica was in the cage?” Lex asked.

“Only a DNA test could prove that it’s actually
her
hair,” Park explained. “But come on—who else’s hair could it be? It’s too much of a coincidence.”

“But Concetta said she and Damien were the only ones dancing in the cage. She would’ve told us if Jessica had joined them.”

“I think so too. Which means that Jessica would have to have entered the cage
after
Concetta left it.”

“Just like the killer,” Lex whispered. “Now, if Jessica used any kind of glitter product and had a reason to break into Mother Margaret’s office and steal confidential school documents, she’d be as much a suspect as Julian.”

Park frowned. “The fact that Jessica’s hair was found at the scene of the crime makes her even
more
of a suspect. No one has to guess as to her whereabouts. Even if she says she was dancing on the main level of Cleopatra, this trace evidence places her otherwise.”