Always Kiss the Corpse (28 page)

“His is a conservative world.”

“Is it ever. But I could see he was going to make it—” She caught herself. “But he hasn't.”

“Did you see him again?”

“Oh, four or five times. Mostly we wrote, maybe once a week, maybe more at the big moments. When he came here I always gave him some small article of clothing.” She fingered her vest, brocaded in purple silk and brown satin. “He liked that. Made him happy like you wouldn't believe. His own stockings, his own blouse.”

“And the last time you saw him was—?”

“Maybe a month ago. He drove down from Whidbey wearing a lovely chiffon blouse and a miniskirt. I said to him, ‘Sandro, just because you're nearly a woman doesn't mean you can't wear pants, it's cold out there.' He smiled, sorta like he was keeping a secret.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Oh, this and that. He was telling me how his doctors were saying he was nearly ready and they had a new procedure where for some people they could avoid surgery. He wasn't sure how they'd do it but he'd end up with a real vagina and it'd get wet like it should and—Sorry, Mr. Franklin, does this kind of talk bother you?”

“Oh no, not at all.” He breathed deeply. “Well, just a little.”

“You looked sort of—funny.”

Noel waved the bother away. “I need to hear what you're telling me.”

“Well, okay. He said maybe they could change him without cutting. And I said, to reassure him, because they have to cut, right? I said, ‘They always cut, just a little,' but I couldn't convince him, he defended his doctors completely. Okay, good for him. You have to, right? If you can't trust your doctors you're going to be a total psychic mess and you better believe it.” She stopped and gazed at Noel. “Mr. Franklin? Would you like a glass of water?”

“No, that's fine. Please, go on.” Quickly. Please.

“Sandro left saying, ‘I'll be completely Sandra when you see me next.' I call them by their male names until after the operation, almost always it works okay but I'm kinda superstitious. I don't like to project the new life in that kind of absolute way until it's really there. But wouldn't it be amazing if his doctors were telling him the truth and they wouldn't have to cut?”

“Amazing.” Noel spoke quietly.

“Well,” said Chelsea, “can I tell you anything else?”

Noel thought. “Did you ever know Sandro to use heroin?”

“No,” said Chelsea.

“Or if he ever bought heroin for anyone, or where he might have gotten it from?”

“No. He wouldn't. He had to be in control of himself. As much as possible.”

“Did he have any enemies? Did anyone hate him?”

“No, not that I know of. He disliked a lot of the members of his family, a couple of cousins. But he didn't hate them. He just sort of wished they didn't exist.”

“Could any of them have wished Sandro didn't exist?”

“Why?”

“Because he was a woman-in-progress?”

Chelsea blinked. “I can't imagine anybody knew. He wouldn't have told them.”

“Not even his mother?”

“Especially not her. And didn't you tell me she saw his face in the coffin and said it wasn't even Sandro?”

“Right.” He glanced at his watch. “I've taken a lot of your time. Thank you.”

“Thank you for letting me talk about him. It makes it easier.” She got up and opened the door. “I appreciate it.” She led him through the boutique, touching several items as she walked.

She stopped at a velveteen jacket, one of half a dozen, brocaded it seemed to Noel by the same hand as had made her vest. “Very attractive.”

“Yes. I like this work.” She turned to Noel and smiled. “Before my transformation, I was an upholsterer. I appreciate textures.” She resumed walking. Noel noticed a rack of woven capes. Actually, quite beautiful.

Charly smiled at Noel as he followed Chelsea to the front door. He opened it. “Good luck with your teas. They seem important.”

“Yes. They are.”

The last he saw of Chelsea was the attractive balanced face, and the glittering eyes.

≈  ≈  ≈

After dropping Noel off, Kyra had battled the traffic back to the Lake Washington area. The Cascade Building was an imposing twenty-storey edifice of glass and stone. A mural of assorted forms of transportation dominated the foyer. The eighteen-wheeler in the center bore the logo
Cascade Freightways
. Beside the mural, the directory. Cascade Freightways itself occupied the ninth to fifteenth floors, executive offices on the fourteenth.

Kyra took the elevator and stepped out into a hall, then through a doorway to a reception area. The carpet, thickly underlaid maroon Berber, accentuated forest green walls on which hung half a dozen Currier and Ives prints of hunters and horses. More transportation.

A woman at a computer behind a desk looked up from under gold eyeshadow. Kyra introduced herself. “Ah yes, Mr. Vasiliadis is expecting you.” She stood, and led Kyra toward a half-open door. Kyra followed her through. “Mr. Vasiliadis, Ms. Rachel.” The woman faded.

“Yes, Ms. Rachel.” Andrei rose from a comfortable chair, one of two looking out across Lake Washington, blue in the morning sun.

He walked toward her, appraising her. She met his stare and assessed him back. Six feet tall, maybe played fullback at college if he'd gone to college, iron gray hair neatly cut but not styled, face handsome if you like the older Clint Eastwood look. She'd bet his nose had been broken, tight lips, and flinty, dark, appraising eyes. Shirt, no tie, cardigan, casual slacks, loafers. Kyra said, “Good of you to see me.”

He smiled and took her hand. “Come and sit, Ms. Rachel. We're informal on Saturdays.”

“Thank you.”

“You've learned something about my unfortunate nephew's death.”

“Not a great deal, Mr. Vasiliadis.” She took the chair he had indicated, across from an immense black walnut desk. He stepped behind the desk and sat. Kyra smiled inwardly. He'd placed her to his advantage, light from the two floor-to-ceiling windows illuminating her while his face was in the shadow of a glowing maple wall. “My associate and I are still asking questions.”

“You told me you were off the case.”

“We were hired by someone else.”

“Who is that?”

“I'm not at liberty to say. As I wouldn't have divulged your sister's name when she was our client.” Did she, Kyra, want to keep this session pleasant? “Tell me, why is it so important that nothing about Sandro's death, or life, be mentioned? Important enough to send your young persuader to threaten people?”

“Threaten?” A quizzical smile.

“You must have a lot to cover up regarding Sandro. What else is there?”

Vasiliadis' hands grasped the heavy arms of his chair. “What do you mean by that?”

Kyra sailed on. “It's possible Sandro's death was neither accident nor suicide. It's possible he was murdered. Your persuader's threats tell me he wants silence from everyone regarding Sandro. Just like silence from Sandro himself?”

He stood, a sudden bear of a man, dark against the buffed wood wall. His voice, a hiss: “If you can't be civil, Ms. Rachel, you will leave. Now.”

Kyra played her trump. “The autopsy wasn't thorough. The police were too sure Sandro died by accident or committed suicide. They didn't much care which. So the coroner conducted only a rudimentary investigation. For your sake—for your family's sake—order another autopsy. If his death wasn't suicide, you can lay him to rest in sanctified ground.”

Vasiliadis walked around his desk and opened the door. “Goodbye.”

Kyra got up. “Goodbye.” She anchored her purse on her shoulder and strode out. She nodded at the receptionist, opened the main door and pressed for the elevator. It was waiting. The door slid closed. Had she hooked him? She let out a long, quavery, relieved breath. Thank you, Bettina, for
sanctified cemeteries
.

≈  ≈  ≈

A new cloud cover forewarned more rain for the soggy fields. Driving back to Bellingham, Kyra and Noel filled each other in about their interviews.

Kyra considered Noel's report. “Everything Chelsea said about clothing jibes with what we know from Ursula and Brady. So why sloppy clothes when he was found?”

“Yeah. And he'd been wearing a skirt and pantyhose that afternoon, according to Trevelyan.” Noel thought. “Do we know the actual time of death?” He opened his laptop and searched. “No, just evening.” He searched through their facts. “What points to someone else being involved are his mudless shoes and his attire, which don't sound like anything either Sandro or Sandra would have chosen.”

“And the syringes.”

“Except what motive?”

“Hiding a family disgrace?”

“Strong enough?” He sounded dubious.

“Some families don't care much for sex changes.”

He closed up his laptop. “I'm hungry. Stop at the next hamburger, please.”

Some miles down the highway they barreled out the Mount Vernon exit and found a joint with mushroom burgers and a decent local mini-brew. In half an hour they were back on the road. Forty minutes later they pulled into the underground garage.

Upstairs, Kyra collected her personal messages first: Jerome, checking in; her father, ditto; Sarah, a jugglers' meeting; and on the business line, the Whidbey coroner, Dr. Ferrero, sounding icy, returning Triple-I's call.

“Herewith,” Kyra said, looking up his number, “continueth telephone tag.” But it was not so; Dr. Ferrero himself answered.

Their identities out of the way, Kyra came to the point. “We believe a more detailed autopsy of Alessandro Vasiliadis is necessary.”

“Oh you do? Why?” He spoke with a 1940s Western movie accent.

“We have reason to believe Sandro was murdered.” Each time she said this, her conviction grew stronger.

“Oh, you do. What reason?”

“No mud on his shoes. In the rain, in early March? Syringes found in his house, as noted by a reliable observer. Planted between Wednesday and Friday. No indication Vasiliadis was either suicidal or a user. No indication of the amount or kind of toxic substance.”

“Have you talked to the State Patrol? The sheriff?”

“Yes.” Do not elaborate, Kyra.

“What you are asking, Miss, is impossible.”

Noel came into the office and sat on the sofa. She turned her back to him. “One other thing. The family is Greek Orthodox. A suicide cannot be buried in hallowed ground.” She softened her tone. “While the family wouldn't like Sandro being a murder victim, they do not want to think he killed himself.” Tone firm again. “They're talking about a court order. So. A complete pharmacological analysis. It seems he took some Demerol around four.”

“You expect me, on your say-so, to rewrite a report that's already satisfied—”

Kyra held the phone from her ear and swiveled to look at Noel. He smiled and shrugged.

“—see your license revoked!” Bang!

Blessed silence. Kyra quietly placed the receiver on its console.

“Good work, partner,” Noel said.

≈  ≈  ≈

Gary Haines let himself in through WISDOM's front door at 6:45 Saturday evening. So what if someone saw him at dinnertime on a non-workday, it was his damn clinic for god's sake. If the Vasiliadis file reached the wrong people it would be devastating. Gary had to modify it right away. Stock had reported that Terry said Richard had likely given up the idea of running to the cops. Gary didn't believe that.

Gary stepped behind the reception desk to the file cabinets. He found the
T–U
–
V
drawer; pulled it open. Okay, here—Thompson, Turner, Ursell, Vaccinata, Vernon— What the hell? He shoved Vaccinata away from Vernon. Had Vasiliadis slipped down? Nothing. Misfiled? He searched the whole drawer. Nothing. He searched the
R
–
S
drawer. Nothing. The
W–X
–
Y
–
Z
drawer, practically nothing in there. Certainly no Vasiliadis file. Shit!

Maybe one of his partners pulled it? He didn't like poking around their offices, but he had no choice. Lorna's first. No obvious file, not unless she'd shoved it in some cabinet or drawer. Richard's office, piles of papers, could be anywhere, or not. No actual files, just loose papers. How could Richard work without subdividing his papers? Slob. Stockman's office, easy to tell the file wasn't here. Unless he'd stuck it in some hidey-hole. But there weren't a lot of these in Stockman's tight-assed space.

Okay. Think. He walked past the reception desk, down the hall, into his own office, sat at his desk. What to do. Obvious: wait till Dawn arrived on Monday, ask her where the file was. But he couldn't be obvious. Okay. Somebody took it. Five of us who could have. Not himself. Dawn made no sense. Lorna? What for? Moved it to the lab? Not according to WISDOM policy; patient files went no further than clinic offices. So: Stockman? He wanted to wipe his hands clean of Vasiliadis? Had he taken the file to destroy it? That'd be stupid. The thing to do was change the notations, make it look like Sandro was going through a normal Sexual Reassignment. Stockman could scribble those changes in, he'd been handling sexual surgery cases for decades. He could even fake lab reports. Except Stockman wouldn't. Not even to save the clinic? Gary wasn't sure.

Richard? He could have taken the file, it'd be just like him. To give it to the police. Richard needed tangible evidence to show the cops. If he came in shouting Vasiliadis killed himself and it was the clinic's fault, they wouldn't take him seriously. He needed proof. Vasiliadis in the process of a fucked-up transformation. Richard Trevelyan, endocrinologist, taking the blame. WISDOM taking the blame. Makes sense. Likely Richard stole the file.