Final Words (12 page)

So far her time with each spirit had seemed limited. The
spirits appeared to tire easily, as if they felt the weight of being tied to
their earthly bodies, as if communication took an effort. But they never left
until they got all the important information out.

Reflected movement in the window ahead of her caught Emma’s
eye. She looked up. But instead of Charlie returning from a meeting with the
crime scene investigators, Jason crossed the big room.

“Sorry to keep you.” His voice was rough, his movements
tight as he took a chair at the desk that faced Charlie Garcia’s.

“Where’s your partner?” she asked. She didn’t want to be
alone with this man who made her feel desires she could barely control. And she
was afraid to answer any more questions. Still excited over having proven what
she could do, still distracted by Jason, she feared she might blurt out the
truth.

Jason pulled his chair close to the desk. “I wasn’t getting
anywhere with Potter so Charlie decided to take a turn questioning him. He’s
gone to the hospital.”

Emma’s hands twitched, causing the coffee in her mug to
slosh to the rim.

“So you’re taking your turn to interrogate me?” She placed
the mug on the desk before she spilled coffee all over her lap.

“This isn’t an interrogation. We just want information.” He
pulled a notepad onto his coffee-stained blotter. “Charlie told me you don’t
want to press charges against Potter.”

“There’s no point. He didn’t hurt me.”

Jason took a pen out of his shirt pocket. “He could have.”

She shrugged in a casual manner although she felt anything
but casual. Excitement hit her hard on two fronts—spiritual and carnal—and
sitting here made her feel fidgety. “You’re getting him for murder. That’s the
more important charge.”

“If we can make it stick. We have one witness who says
Potter stole his gun to kill Turner. But he’s as bad a junkie as Potter,
himself and won’t make a credible witness.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You should just be glad we stumbled across the guy. If it
wasn’t for him, Charlie and I wouldn’t have known to look for Craig Potter near
the docks this evening.”

“I wondered why you were there,” Emma said quickly, hoping
he would stop wondering about her presence there.

He pierced her with curious eyes. “We may need you to
testify that Potter attacked you.”

Thinking of the questions an attorney might ask—about why
she’d been in that area of town—Emma shook her head. “Please don’t ask me to do
that. I’ve been through too much lately.”

He leaned both elbows on the desk and glared at her. “You did
a post mortem on Dennis Turner today. And you want me to believe that it was
pure coincidence that you were in Potter’s territory tonight.”

Emma’s purse lay in her lap and she began twisting her
fingers around the strap. If she kept this up, she’d better start carrying
strapless purses. “I guess so.”

“You’d never met either man before today.”

“I didn’t actually
meet
Mr. Turner.”

He frowned. “This is nothing to joke about. Potter could
have killed you if Charlie and I hadn’t come along.”

“I know and you saved my life. Thank you.”

The pink in his sun-darkened cheeks surprised her.
Hard-nosed cops didn’t blush. Men on the prowl didn’t blush.

Confused, Emma tightened the strap around her fingers. Her
insides sizzled and popped. Her mind went blank as it occurred to her that
Jason MacKenzie might find her attractive in something more than his usual
predatory way.

Don’t you dare start thinking like that!

“Yeah. Well.” Jason started scribbling on his notepad. His
voice remained cold and unconvinced. “You said you were lost. And your cell
phone battery was dead so you were looking for a phone. Who were you planning
to call?”

Her mind searched frantically for a logical answer. “My
ex-husband.”

Jason looked up sharply. “Your ex-husband?”

“Yes.” He still doesn’t believe me, she thought and started
talking faster. “You saw him that night in the restaurant. Alan Winfeld. He’s
been doing business in that area of town and I thought he could give me
directions.”

Jason’s eyes brightened. “You’re friendly with your ex?”

“Alan and I have an amicable divorce,” she said quietly.

“So amicable that you’ve started dating him.”

She cleared her throat and fiddled with the strap of her
purse some more. “Yes.”

“So you’re getting back together.”

“Maybe.” The word came out on a shallow breath. As color
rose higher in her face, she forced herself to hold his gaze, to convince him
of this newest lie so that he would turn his attention elsewhere, maybe toward
a woman who could handle a man like him. She’d already proven with her
ex-husband that she couldn’t. “We’re…discussing it.”

Jason’s gaze moved down her face and then up again. Muscles
that hinged his jaw tightened. “I don’t believe that you were lost, Dr. St.
Clair. I don’t believe that you were looking for a phone. I don’t believe that
you were at that warehouse by chance. Why don’t you tell me what you were
really doing there?”

Fear chilled the marrow of her bones and her thoughts
churned, seeking an answer that he would accept. She couldn’t tell him the
truth.

“I…got…” Swallowing, she sat up straighter and forced
herself to continue holding his gaze. “An anonymous phone call. From a man. He
told me… He said that I might find a clue at the warehouse.”

“What kind of clue?”

“The gun. He told me I might find the gun that was used to
kill Dennis Turner.”
God, even to myself, I sound like I’m lying!

“So you went down there to look for it.” Skepticism
thickened his tone. “You didn’t think you should call the police?”

“I did think about it but…” She swallowed again. “I know it
was stupid but I just wanted to follow through.”

“It
was
stupid.”

She blinked as her eyes began to burn and she looked down at
her tangled fingers.

A moment of silence passed before Jason sighed heavily. “This
anonymous caller…what did he sound like?”

“There was nothing unusual in his voice. It was about as
deep as yours. Slight Texas drawl. Nothing unusual.”

Jason made a few more notes. “Good. Okay. Well, I guess
that’s it. I hope it works out for you with your ex-husband.”

Despite her relief, guilt continued to press on her
conscience. “I can go?”

“Yes.” Picking up the pad, he shoved it inside a drawer. “But
stay away from the docks. People get killed down there. And next time you get
an anonymous call like that, call a cop.”

“I will.”

As he looked at her again with those fevered eyes, her
friends’ warnings whispered through Emma’s mind. That was why she’d lied about
Alan, she told herself. Because Jason MacKenzie was just like her ex-husband
and with little incentive he would break her heart.

Unfortunately, her body told her it didn’t matter what kind
of man he was. She found him attractive and her libido wasn’t letting her
forget it.

Slipping her mangled purse strap over her shoulder, she
stood up.

He rose too. “I’ll walk you out.”

“I can find my way. Thanks.”

He nodded quickly, glanced around as if he’d lost something
on the floor and then dropped back into his chair. “All right.”

Turning, Emma walked away. She heard his chair squeak and,
as quickly as she could, she hurried out the door.

Anger washed through Jason as he watched her from the corner
of one eye. He was angry because she’d put herself in danger with so little
thought. Because she was still involved with her ex-husband. Because he couldn’t
think straight when he looked in those gorgeous eyes of hers.

But close behind all that anger followed that damnable need
that he’d been working so hard to ignore.

Turning his back on the door as she passed through it, he
threw his pencil across the room, bouncing it off the window. As the clatter
echoed away, the most overwhelming emotion of all came over him. Loneliness.

She’d said she wanted to work things out with her
ex-husband. She’d made that point very clear. She wasn’t interested in him. She
did not feel the same attraction he felt for her. He ought to accept that. He ought
to straighten the painful twist out of his heart and put her aside. From now
on, she should be important to him only as a victim or as a witness. That ought
to be the end of it.

But it wasn’t the end of it. Not by a long shot.

Hailey Newman met Emma as she stepped off the elevator the
next morning. “Dr. Powell wants to see you right away.”

The admin’s fretful attitude puzzled Emma. “I thought he was
going fishing today.”

“He cancelled. You’d better go in.” Hailey stepped into the
elevator and pressed a button. She waved her hands in a “hurry-up” motion and
then the elevator door slid closed.

Puzzled, Emma headed for her boss’s office. He wouldn’t have
given up his day off unless a serious problem existed. He wouldn’t be calling
for her unless that problem involved her. Holding one hand against her suddenly
jittery stomach, she raised the other to knock on his door and then opened it.

Edgar stood behind his desk, staring out the window. To Emma’s
surprise, Marta sat in one of the guest chairs, legs crossed, one foot swinging
impatiently. Both of them turned as Emma entered the room.

“What were you doing in the warehouse district last night?”
Edgar demanded before she could greet them.

Surprised by his tone—and his knowledge—Emma stopped just
inside the open doorway. She had switched out purses this morning but this one
was apparently on the way to ruin too, as she clutched the strap in both hands.
“How did you—”

“The chief of detectives called me at home early this
morning. He was all over my ass about you meddling in police affairs.”

“Chief Hosken called me too, Emma and then Edgar asked me in
to talk to you.” Uncrossing her legs, Marta turned in her seat. Sympathy
gleamed in her dark eyes. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” Emma forced herself to lower one hand from her purse
strap. “Yes, I’m fine.”

Edgar yanked his own chair from under the desk. Anger
darkened his eyes. “You’re not a detective. I won’t have you risking your life
like that.”

“Hosken said you got an anonymous tip,” Marta said more gently.

“Yes.” Emma forced the half-lie out of her mouth. “A man
told me where Craig Potter hid the gun he used to kill Dennis Turner. I thought
I should check it out.”

“And you didn’t think to call someone? Not even me?” Rising,
Marta reached out to catch Emma’s free hand. “Why would you do something so
dangerous?”

“You had a date last night,” she answered, gripping her
friend’s hand, trying to convey a reassurance she didn’t feel. “I didn’t want
to bother you until I knew if the tip was good.”

“At the very least you should have called the police.” Marta
narrowed one eye and peered more closely at Emma. “Jason MacKenzie is in charge
of your hit-and-run. Did you know he was also looking for Turner’s killer?”

Edgar leaned forward. “Is there a problem with MacKenzie,
Emma? Do you not trust him because he hasn’t solved your case?”

“Of course I trust him.” The words burst forth with
conviction, surprising even her. “I mean… Why wouldn’t I?”

“MacKenzie isn’t perfect.” Marta gave her hand another
squeeze. “But he’s a good detective. You have to trust him to do his job.”

“Let the cops do the cop work,” Edgar ordered. “You could’ve
been killed. You’re playing in a rough playground when you step into police
matters.”

“I’m sorry.” Emma took a deep breath. Giving her friends a
weak smile, she pulled free of Marta’s grip. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have
to get to my own work.”

Before they could chastise her further, she hurried out of
the office. They had no idea how rough this playground was or how hard she
intended to play in it. She couldn’t give up now that she knew the truth. The
spirits, she felt sure, wouldn’t let her.

* * * * *

Jason jabbed his spade into the ground under the rose
bushes. Morning sunlight warmed his back but the dirt turned cool four inches
down. He barely noticed the contrast as his thoughts focused on Emma. He’d told
Charlie about her anonymous informant. With Edgar Powell’s permission, Charlie
had started checking all phone records at the ME’s office, hoping to track down
the informant and see what else he might know about the Potter case.

But why hadn’t Emma admitted to the call from the beginning?
What was she still holding back? And why the hell couldn’t he just think of her
as a victim or as a participant in a criminal investigation?

As he jabbed the dirt again, his elbow bumped a fat rose.
The flower’s heady scent surrounded him and he found himself wondering what
brand of perfume Emma wore. He wondered if she liked old
film noir
or
modern thrillers. He wondered if she would laugh with abandon at
The Three
Stooges
like his sister had or if she’d prefer the caustic humor of modern
comics.

He wondered if her lips would taste as sweet as the petals
of the rose they so resembled or if there would be a zip like cinnamon to her
womanly flavor. Would she, after his harsh questioning of last evening, ever
speak to him again? That possibility hurt as much as the knowledge that he’d
never hear from Rose or his parents again.

And that, he realized as he dug deeper into the earth, might
be the loss that undid him.

* * * * *

“Turn him over to Talbot, Skitch.” Turning her back on the
latest deceased, Emma stepped to the nearby sink while her assistant reached
for the phone to call in one of the morgue attendants.

This man had been a marathon runner whose heart had
exploded. The one before that had been a woman who, if she hadn’t experienced
the sudden rupture of a previously undetected aneurysm, would eventually have
talked herself to death.

Before that had been a teenage overdose victim who claimed
his doctor had killed him but he’d been too strung out all the time to catch
the doctor’s name. Emma wanted to tell Marta about that one but couldn’t figure
out how to do so without revealing the source of her information or why she
would suspect a doctor of such a thing. And if she’d learned anything from her
encounter with Craig Potter, it was to plan her story before she acted.

Now as warm water flowed over her hands, weariness seeped
through her. Six post mortem procedures in two days plus the paperwork and
research that went with each one, would have taken a toll on her anyway. In
addition, although not all of the spirits wanted her to do something, all of
them needed to unburden themselves. And as their burdens shifted to her
shoulders, she feared she might sink under the weight.

But she couldn’t complain about the load. A complaint would
require an explanation. An explanation would get her tossed out of the autopsy
suite. And if she couldn’t work, she really would lose her mind.

“Why is this man here?” Edgar complained from the center
station. “His medical chart says he had acute hepatitis. He was under a doctor’s
care so he shouldn’t need a post mortem.”

Emma lathered up her hands. “Who brought him in?”

A moment of silence preceded his answer. “Oh. Hmm.”

She rinsed her hands and reached for a paper towel. “Why did
you say ‘hmm’?”

“The police found him this morning in a motel on the edge of
town. His wife reported him missing two days ago.” Edgar stepped aside as Emma
approached his table. “With no medical personnel around the police had to
consider it a suspicious death.”

Weary, Emma stumbled. As she caught herself on the table,
the knuckles of one hand brushed the thigh of the corpse.

“They damn well ought to consider it a suspicious death!”
came an angry voice.

“Oh, no,” she groaned and looked up to see the image of
Edgar’s patient standing beside him on the other side of the table.

“Are you all right, Doc?” Leaving the phone, Skitch reached
to help her right herself. “Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m okay.”

“I want something done about this,” the spirit complained. “I
want that bitch to pay!”

“I’m sorry,” Emma said without thinking. Angry, this one
wouldn’t tire easily. It needed to vent its hostility completely before going
on its way. Sometimes the rant of an angry spirit could last fifteen minutes.
The strength of its presence could be numbing to the living. Even Edgar and
Skitch had felt the effect a couple of times, although both continued to blame
the air conditioner for the cold that accompanied the dead.

“No need to apologize.” Looking over the top rim of his
glasses, Edgar considered her from across his table. “You’re sure you’re all
right?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”

Releasing her, Skitch headed for the cooler room door. “I
guess we’re all getting a little tired.”

“What about me?” the apparition demanded. “My wife poisoned
me!”

“This man was ill for months.” Edgar looked back at the
file. “Chronic Hepatitis C. He was responding to treatments but suddenly
stopped seeing his doctor.”

“She was giving me my medication but she gave me something
extra too. Rat poison. In my dinner every night.” The spirit slapped one fist
into his other palm. “She bragged about it after she gave me that last dose. Then
the bitch left me alone. She just left me in that motel room to die!”

Sighing, Emma looked closer at the corpse’s face. “Why was
he in that motel?” she wondered aloud.

“My wife said we needed to fumigate the house for termites
and that I should move out so it wouldn’t make me sicker. Ha!”

“The police aren’t sure.” Edgar continued to read the man’s
file. “His wife said he’d been despondent over his illness, that he was
drinking and taking drugs.”

“She’s a liar! She planned this!”

“Convenient story.” Emma checked the inside of the corpse’s
left arm. “Did you notice this flaky rash?” She stepped near the head of the
body. “And the hair loss.” Leaning over, she inhaled through her nose. “And a
mild garlic scent from the skin.”

“That sounds like arsenic poisoning.” Putting the file
aside, Edgar leaned over the body. His nose wrinkled. “You think he was
poisoned?”

“Check the beer bottle she threw in the dumpster at the
motel,” the apparition said, speaking slower, finally running out of steam. “She
told me that’s how she got the last dose in me.”

“I’ve seen arsenic cases before,” Emma said. “The police
should secure that motel. And you should suggest they question his wife.”

“Why his wife?” Edgar asked. “Maybe he poisoned himself.”

“She wanted to get me for months. And she had the nerve to
kiss the top of my head before she left me to die.”

“Look here.” With a scalpel, Emma gently parted the dead man’s
thinning hair. “See this pink smudge on his head? It looks like lipstick. I’ll
bet his wife gave him the poison, probably in something to drink to disguise
the taste. She probably hoped the police would think it was a suicide.”

Edgar leaned over again, stared at the tiny smudge and then
turned to Emma with wide eyes. “I’m not sure how lipstick proves anything but
how did you see that?”

“Good eyesight,” she answered as the spirit faded. “But my eyes
are getting pretty tired, so I—”

“Got one more, Dr. St. Clair.” Clarence Talbot, one of the
morgue attendants, pushed another gurney in from the cooler. “The family is
waiting.”

Emma’s bones ached but she simply gave up a silent sigh and
followed Talbot and the gurney to the empty station.

* * * * *

Sitting alone in her office a week later, Emma wondered how
much more she could handle. Before her hit-and-run, life after death had simply
been a concept. She had dealt with the dead but never with death itself. Now it
spoke to her every day. Clues to their deaths, confessions of crimes or
sins…each spirit insisted that it be heard. One had even followed her to her
office when she’d been called away from the autopsy suite, popping up through
the floor so suddenly that she’d actually squealed out loud. When Skitch had
come running, she’d blamed her fright on a fictitious cockroach. The entire
building was immediately treated to the services of an exterminator.

The lies bothered her most. Her coworkers, her friends, the
police. The guilt of all the lies ate at her own mortal spirit, overwhelming
her with the possibility that this could go on for the rest of her life.

She needed to talk it out. But Marta would call her crazy
and Paul Sanders would blame her stress on—stress.

Finally, feeling as if she might explode, she picked up the
telephone and called her parents.

“This is a treat,” her father said with a smile in his deep
voice. “You aren’t getting lonely, are you?”

“A little.” Sitting back in her chair, she turned to look
out the window at the bay. “I just wanted to check in.”

“You’re not working too hard now, are you, Punkin?”

“No, Dad. Well, maybe a bit.”

“Is something wrong? You haven’t hurt yourself again, have
you? Do I need to call your mother? She’s just leaving for—”

“No, Dad.” Emma took a deep breath and focused on a small
white sailboat skidding across the bay. “Do you remember that dream I had in
the emergency room after my accident?”

Her father didn’t answer immediately. Then, he quietly
replied, “You’re still calling that a dream?”

Emma clamped a hand over her mouth to squelch a sudden sob.

“We didn’t say anything while you were here,” her father
said. “But your mother and I both thought that what you experienced was more
than a dream.”

Loosening her hand, Emma inhaled raggedly. “I think you’re
right,” she said. Staring out the window, she tried to focus on the sailboat as
she told her father of her recent experiences. Tears choked her several times
but she got the stories out.

“Sounds to me like you’ve been given a rare gift,” he
quietly said when she’d finished.

“A pretty frightening gift.”

“I can only imagine.”

“I didn’t want to worry you and Mom.” She watched the
glistening wake that followed the sailboat. “But I needed to talk to someone.”

“If you can’t confide in your parents, who can you confide
in?” His voice shook a little and he paused to clear his throat. “But I’m not
sure what advice to give in this situation.”