Girl Missing Read Free

telephone number, not a name—”
    “And how did you get my number?”
    “It was written on a matchbook. The police brought a woman into the morgue this morning, and she—”
    He cut in: “I’ll be right there.”
    “Mister, I didn’t catch your—”
    She heard the click of the receiver, then a dial tone. Jackass , she thought. What if he didn’t show up? What if he didn’t call back?
    She dialed Homicide and left a message forSykes and Ratchet: “Get yourselves back to the morgue.” Then she waited.
    At noon she got a buzz on the intercom from the front desk. “There’s a Mr. Quantrell here,” said the secretary. “He says you’re expecting him. Want me to send him down?”
    “I’ll meet him up there,” said Kat. “I’m on my way.”
    She knew better than to just drag a civilian in off the street and take him straight down to the morgue. He would need a chance to prepare for the shock. She pulled a white lab coat over her scrub suit. The lapel had coffee stains, but it would have to do.
    By the time she’d ridden up the basement elevator to the ground floor, she’d rearranged her hair into a semblance of presentability and straightened her name tag. She stepped out into the hallway. Through the glass door at the end of the corridor she could see the reception area with its couch and upholstered chairs, all in generic gray. She could also see a man pacing back and forth in front of the couch, oblivious to her approach. He was nicely dressed, and didn’t seem like the sort of man who’d be acquainted with a Jane Doe from South Lexington. His camel-hair jacket was perfectly tailoredto his wide shoulders. He had a tan raincoat slung over his arm, and he was tugging at his tie as though it were strangling him.
    Kat pushed the glass door open and walked in. “Mr. Quantrell?”
    At once the man turned and faced her. He had wheat-colored hair, perfectly groomed, and eyes a shade she’d never seen before. Not quite blue, not quite gray, they seemed as changeable as a spring sky. He was old enough—his early forties perhaps—to have amassed a few character lines around those eyes, a few gray hairs around his temples. His jaw was set with tension.
    “I’m Dr. Novak,” she said, holding out her hand. He shook it automatically, quickly, as though to get the formalities done and over with.
    “Adam Quantrell,” he said. “You left that message on my answering machine.”
    “Why don’t we go down to my office? You can wait there until the police—”
    “You said something about a woman,” he cut in rudely. “That the police brought in a woman.” No, it wasn’t rudeness, Kat decided. He was afraid.
    “It might be better to wait for Sergeant Sykes,” she said. “He can explain the situation.”
    “Why don’t you explain it to me?”
    “I’m just the medical examiner, Mr. Quantrell. I can’t give out information.”
    The look he shot her was withering. All at once she wished she stood a little straighter, a little taller. That she didn’t feel so threatened by that gaze of his. “This Sergeant Sykes,” he said. “He’s from Homicide.”
    “Yes.”
    “So there’s a question of murder.”
    “I don’t want to speculate.”
    “Who is she?”
    “We don’t have an ID yet.”
    “Then you don’t know.”
    “No.”
    He paused. “Let me see the body.” It wasn’t a request but a command, and a desperate one at that.
    Kat glanced at the door and wondered when the hell Sykes would arrive. She looked back at the man and realized that he was barely holding it together. He’s terrified. Terrified that the body lying in my refrigerated drawer is someone he knows and loves .
    “That’s why you called me, isn’t it?” he said. “To find out if I can identify her?”
    She nodded. “The morgue is downstairs, Mr. Quantrell. Come with me.”
    He strode beside her in silence, his tanned face looking pale under the fluorescent lights. He was silent as well on the elevator ride down to the