The Dead Detective, Page 3

  I take a long hot shower, then drag myself into the kitchen. It’s so bright now that I have to wear sunglasses. Coffee seems to go down best at first. So does a little rum in it, I discover. I fix myself a fried egg and cheese sandwich, expecting to puke it right back up again, but no, surprise, surprise, it stays down. Then some ice cream—double-dark Belgian chocolate. After that, I actually do feel better. Not great, not really alive, exactly, but a little less deceased, if you know what I mean. Truth is, I’m not even sure what I mean.

  Which brings us to the million dollar question. I know from med school―and from attending the occasional post mortem―that bodily functions like digestion and urination and defecation continue after death, mostly due to all the flora in our bodies that cause gas to build up and stimulate muscular reflexes. Like the way your hair and nails keep growing. But for how long? Should I take supplements or something?

  Right now, at least, loss of appetite doesn’t seem to be a problem. I’m hungry, like, all the time. I also―and you’re going to think this is really weird―have the strangest urge to start smoking. What is it with dead people and cigarettes? I’d hoped for some kind of super-powers at least now that I’m a zombie or whatever, but no. Just cravings. A drink. A smoke. A little company.

  But at least I have zero interest in eating brains. I totally don’t get how Hollywood came up with that one―maybe it’s like every screenwriter’s biggest secret fear or something. Or maybe brains are what the industry is stumbling around in search of. Just saying.

  I guess I’m getting sort of defensive on the subject. I wish there was a support group for my new special needs minority: the undead. Meanwhile, the house phone is ringing off the wall to voice mail, and even though I turned off the ring tone on my cell, it’s chiming every five minutes with new texts. Like from Cappy: “Hospital. Now. Need a tox screen soonest―got Downtown all up my ass over this prank thing.”

  And like from my partner, Ayon: “Call me bitch!!” For a cop, your partner is like another spouse.

  Three messages from my mom. None from my real spouse.

  I heave a long loud sigh. Okay, before I check myself in to ER, I decide, I better take a quick inventory. When I took my shower earlier, I was still feeling too sick to look in the mirror. Now I’m feeling better, I guess I better go in and man up. Kitty follows me into the bathroom―we have two, his and hers; “hers” being Kitty’s, mostly―and reluctantly take off my robe. I’d hoped the hot coffee and the meal would heat me up, but no. When I take my temperature, the thermometer shows exactly the same digital number as the thermostat display on the wall: 72.3. Still cold as the grave.

  But you know what? I don’t look so terrible for a corpse. A little pale, but I would guess pretty much able to replace Devon in a heartbeat if I have to. Well, okay, not a heartbeat, exactly…scratch that metaphor for all time. But I still look like Miss Idaho, as my first love used to call me; five foot six in my bare feet, a hundred and twenty-five pounds. Good legs from all the running and swimming I do; I really don’t believe in weight training—that’s for jailbirds. Shoulder-length dark blonde hair that I need to do something with. Green eyes that look way greener this morning. Almost glowy-green.

  Kitty jumps up on the marble counter beside me and stares into the mirror, too, like she can see something there I can’t. The part of me that’s a ghost, maybe? So now there are two bright pairs of eyes reflecting back at us, green and yellow. We make a pretty picture. Except for the hole in my heart.

  I’ll get outed at any hospital ER, I realize with a mounting sense of panic. I can probably spoof a thermometer by buying a hot cup of coffee and dunking, but there’s no way I can fake a pulse. However, closing up the wound is still a good idea. I’m just reaching for the superglue when I have another idea. I decide to do what any halfway intelligent woman would do under the circumstances―get in touch with an ex…

  Basically, I’ve got two exes in my life, one from college and one from med school. That’s another thing about childhood sexual abuse; either you turn out totally promiscuous, or you have trouble doing the sex thing at all and need all the trust that a major relationship provides. Me, I’ve had three of those in my life, Devon being the last. Maybe literally.

  Long before Devon, my main squeeze in med school was Harper. Dr. Harper Stromberg, MD, now a neurosurgeon at Beth El. My only squeeze in med school, really, unless you count a big mistake with a study buddy, a couple of half-drunk nights with a hottie housemate, and a crush on an internal med professor that I never did anything about because it would have just been too slutty. Anyway, I haven’t been in touch with Harper for a few years; we didn’t end well. But I know he’s married now and has a kid. Maybe he won’t mind hearing from me. Because it’s, well…kind of an emergency. Death usually is, no matter how calm and casual you try to stay about it.

  One of the perks of being a cop is that when you ring a hospital call center, they generally put you through in a hurry. But I get his voicemail. He calls back five minutes later, which ranks him very low indeed on the who-cares-least meter. But I guess that’s a competition I’ve won hands down in all my relationships until Devon. He seems to be definitely pulling ahead after this morning.

  “Richelle.” Harper’s familiar voice, way more self-important sounding now.

  “Hey, Harper. I―I’ve got a problem. Kind of a huge problem, actually. And you’re the only one who can help me figure out a way to fix it.”

  “A neuro problem?”

  “Kind of. Lower down, though.” How do you medically describe being killed by a bullet through the heart, exactly? Without sounding melodramatic, I mean.

  “I see.” I can tell from his tone of voice he’s not alone, wherever he is. Hopefully not in the middle of surgery. “Cardio problem?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  I can almost hear him smiling bitterly on the other end. “Unless it’s your mom we’re talking about, I can safely say that you’re about the last person in the world I could ever see having heart trouble. Sorry. I didn’t mean that. What time would be convenient for you? Sometime tomorrow afternoon?” For a surgeon, I know that would mean blowing off a lot of shit to see me that soon. But it’s not soon enough.

  “Actually, I was thinking…right now? Please, Harper?”

  Adjusting to new ideas was never Harper’s strongest suit, but in the end, I get my way―as was usually the case with us―and drive over to Beth El. I sort of overdo the makeup, I admit, and I wear a dress. My second-sluttiest dress, a royal blue Hollister. Okay, okay; guilty, but I’m not twenty-five anymore, and I can’t afford to play fair. On the other hand, I don’t close the wound up either; I need him to take a good look inside, maybe stitch up the heart valve and reset the bone, if that’s still even possible. Because you never know… things might repair themselves somehow. I mean, it could happen. Magically, I mean. Well, hell, it’s a pretty magical situation, isn’t it? And not in a good way.

  I’d assumed we would meet in his office, but no. He could only spare me a few minutes, he said, so we meet in an examination nook in the surge wing. Just like old times.

  “Wow, you look the same,” I tell him. Which is kind of a lie and kind of not; he looks way older but also handsomer. Maybe he’s had some cosmetic work done. If so, it hasn’t kept his hairline from receding or the fatigue lines from creasing the skin under his eyes. But I should talk. My old boyfriend is tall and blonde, and grey-eyed, not as good-looking as Devon, but who is? I’m not even sure I’m as pretty as Devon.

  “Thanks, you too,” he says after we embrace awkwardly. “How’s Devon?”

  “Looking forward to getting the house when we split up.”

  “Is that likely to happen?”

  “It sort of already just has. How are you and―” Crap. Jesse? Jennifer? Anything with a J?

  “Geri. We’re good. So what’s this emergency of yours?”

  Now here’s a scene I’ve always wanted to play. The sultry seductress who crosses
her legs on the examining table, licks her lips, and tugs the handsome young internist’s stethoscope to her chest. Only when I finally get my chance to do it, the dude all but passes out. First Harper fiddles with his scope, resets it in his ears, polishes the bell, and tries it again and again from several angles, making me take off my shirt. That part, at least, is like old times. Then he looks, well, freaked-out and really starts to sweat.

  “How…how long..?”

  “I got shot sometime last night; I don’t know exactly when. But let’s say twelve hours or so ago. So, technically, I’ve been dead for twelve hours. No! Focus on me, Harper.” He seriously looks like he’s about to pass out now. “Here’s what I need from you. I need you to go in there and clean everything up, stitch my heart back together and whatever. Just like I was a normal, living human being, right? Then I need you to give me every test in the world—it can all go on my insurance. Then I need you to fake the results so I look like I’m okay. Can you do that for me? Because it’s the only way I can keep it together for my job, Harper. And…for my sanity, right? This needs to be just between us. Our secret. Please?”

  Of course, it’s getting to be a pretty open secret―first Captain Quirk found out, then Devon. But nobody would believe anything Devon says in a million years. In fact, they might not even believe the Cap. In fact, I’m not sure I even believe it yet.

  Certainly poor Harper is having his problems with the information, too. He just stands there tottering in front of me in his nice white lab coat, his mouth going all “gub, gub, gub,” sort of like a fish. That’s when I reach out with both hands to steady him, because I’m afraid he really will just fall over.

  “It’s not…it’s just not medically possible, Richie.” But I can tell he knows the score, because he’s trembling all over. Now he starts babbling. “Look, let me get you into ICU as soon as possible. There are all kinds of new revival techniques now―we can empty you of blood and freeze everything, run your heart and lungs off machines―we can―”

  “Baby, I’m dead,” I interrupt him gently. “Undead, anyway. I know it’s not possible, but it is what it is. I just have to deal with it. That’s what I need you for―to help me get through it.” I hadn’t meant to call him “baby”; it just kinda sorta slipped out. Old time’s sake.

  He argues inarticulately for a few minutes, then gives in and nods mutely. He takes one of my hands in his, heating it instantly like a pair of microwaved oven mitts, and presses it against his chest. Harper never used to cry, exactly; he’d just sort of rock back and forth with swimming bright red eyes. He’s doing that now. Which was kind of what I’d been hoping for from Devon, not that it would have mattered. It just would have been nice.

  “I’ve missed you, Richie,” Harper mumbles. “A lot. If it wasn’t for Leo, I’d have gotten back in touch at least a dozen times these past few years.” Leo is his son, presumably named for his late grandfather. Harper and I almost got married. We came pretty close. Only I dumped him instead. Just like I did my partner in college. Yes, partner.

  Which was mostly why I married Devon, I suspect. So that it wouldn’t feel like it was becoming a habit. Dumping men, that is.

  Maybe Harper is waiting for some kind of answer to that last bit. I don’t know. I can’t think of anything to say. From the way he’s acting, I’m guessing his marriage hasn’t been too happy lately, either. Luckily, the moment passes.

  “We’ll start you on a bowel run,” he says briskly. “After I clean up that mess inside your thorax. We don’t want you scaring the shit out of the staff, do we? But I really want to run some tests on yours to establish a baseline.”

  y the time I stagger back to the stationhouse around suppertime, I feel like I’ve been turned inside out. I’ve been fed barium meal and scoped top and bottom, X-Rayed, stitched, sutured, PET-scanned, CAT-scanned, dopplered, MRI’d, blood-worked repeatedly―and with great difficulty; he had to use suction on the pipette to draw anything out―and spinal-tapped. All for the sake of a sheet of paper that says I’m normal.

  That’s thanks to Harper, who is, by the way, very, very into seeing me again. He wants to “monitor me closely”, he says. Which kind of makes sense, because it’s finally occurred to me that all these dead people I’m seeing everywhere maybe didn’t begin the afterlife as ghosts; maybe they just sort of quietly faded into it. So it seems smart to have concierge care during the process. Even if the doc is hot to get inside my pants for a little cold play.

  Actually, according to Harper, most of my signs are pretty normal, aside from the having the no circulatory system thing. I had lost a lot of blood, it turned out, and he had to give me two transfusions. Some of my cholesterol and mineral levels are weird, too high or too low, and my bilirubin is elevated and my B12 depressed, but that could be due to fatigue. Or too-rapid withdrawal from the Abilify. So he hasn’t had to doctor me much, except for a long weird inflamed scratch on my left arm that he said looked a little infected. So he took some samples. But he admitted there was no earthly reason for all my normal readings. Everything inside my body should be dying; my neurons should be shutting down and my blood cells corrupted by bacteria. My gut should be bloating up with gas, which it kind of is, thanks to the colonoscopy, and my lungs filling up with fluid.

  Only nothing like that’s happening. Yet. He thinks some of it’s due to the body’s natural post mortem biological vitality. This thought seems to turn him on.

  Poor guy. I’ll never forget the look on Harper’s face while he was operating on me, even from behind his surgical mask. Never mind when he did the scope. He looked…adoring. I guess I’m totally kidding myself that he just wants revenge sex―he’s still in love with me. Hell, he was suffering way more than me while he was messing around in there, and he had to do it all solo; no nurses, no anesthesiologist. In point of fact, the local he gave me worked great, just like embalming fluid, so I felt almost no pain. And I should have felt plenty. Sort of like during our three-year relationship. He extracted all the bone shards and shirt fibers, cleaned me up, reconstructed my heart, then reset the broken rib in the back, near where it’s attached to my spine. That’s why there was no exit wound; because the bullet hit the back of my ribcage, then ricocheted straight back into my heart, which he said was ripped clean through.

  Still, from just a few feet away, the shot should have blasted right through me and bounced around the brick walls in the back of the warehouse. The shooter must have stood in the warehouse door fifteen or twenty yards from where they found me. Which means, whoever they were, they must be one hell of a good shot to drill me right through the heart from that distance. I couldn’t have done it, I don’t think, and I’m pretty decent on the range.

  But why no hollow point? That I don’t get. You can mess someone up pretty bad by hitting them anywhere in the upper body with a soft bullet of that caliber. An FMJ requires precise marksmanship. It’s as if the intent all along was not to kill me; just to, I don’t know, kill my heart. So that I could be revived somehow later on.

  But how? Why am I not completely dead? Or, in the very least, why am I not in a padded cell somewhere? Then again, maybe I am. That’s the thing about going crazy…you may not even know it.

  Anyway, assuming that I haven’t gone bonkers, I might just have a sort of ghostly circulatory system still pumping away inside me, one that’s replenishing my liver and my other body cells just like the real one. At least, that’s what Harper’s theory was, and it’s a good one. And you know what? In the dark, when I look at my own hands, I can sort of see it now, very faintly, glowing the tiniest bit green under the skin, like those photos of iridescent veins in leaves. Only, mine are moving.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” says Cappy when he spots me at my desk. “I thought I told you to take the rest of the week off.”

  Instead of replying, I hand him the manila envelope with all the hospital paperwork.

  “What’s this?”

  “The tox screen you asked for, Cap. I had a full
work-up. Tox was negative, everything’s normal.”

  “Holy mother of God,” he says under his breath. “Okay, good. Let’s hear no more about it, then, detective. What are you working on?”

  “Pulled up all my cases for the past few months to jog my memory. I’m working on a new one now. Whoever did that to me last night, I’m thinking it was connected to something in my old files.”

  He nods. “Your piece came back from SID. It’s on my desk. Hasn’t been fired.” This doesn’t surprise me. It might even mean that whoever killed me was someone I knew. Maybe someone I trusted. Which would explain why I didn’t even get a shot off.

  I’m just strapping the Glock back into my shoulder holster when my cell rings again. Ayon. Shit, I forgot to call her back.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I say when I answer it. “I was in the hospital all day. Feels like my guts went through a car-wash.”

  “Girl, I’ve been worrying myself sick about you. Where are you now?”

  “At the office.”

  “Damn. The one place I don’t want to be. Why don’t you slip away and meet me for a drink?”

  It’s hard to say no to this. Here’s why. Malena Ayon is my number four. You know: cat, job, husband, partner, in that order. Then my mom, I guess. If she has to be on the list at all.

  Ayon and I didn’t begin as partners. In fact, we didn’t even begin by liking each other. She thought I was a stuck-up white trash bitch, and I thought she was a skanky Latina ho’. Not to be too subtle about it. Two years ago when we were first posted in the detective bureau here, I was teamed with a dumbass named Di Angelo, and Ayon was with a sharp and ambitious African American detective named Perkins. Problem was, she was also with him in the literal sense of the word. She and Perkins had a torrid three-month affair that ended in hate and endless public recriminations, and both applied for transfers.