“The OCME in D.C. if you could. I’ll be there for the next couple of hours. We’re about to—”

“I know.” There was a soft sigh. “Poor thing. Always liked her. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

* * *

D.C.’s Office of the Chief Medical Examiner was now housed in a beautiful new state-of-the-art building off E Street, just down the street from NASA. It was a huge improvement from their old, unpleasant quarters. Sam hadn’t particularly liked going to the old shop—it was dank and dismal, nothing like the setup she’d had in Nashville at Forensic Medical. But the new building, which fit in nicely with the other office buildings in the area, was well equipped and staffed by excellent people, including her friend Amado Nocek.

Amado had offered her a position at the OCME, but she’d declined. The oppressiveness of the place would have driven her mad. Now that they had new digs, she wouldn’t be as unhappy, but she was enjoying teaching, more than she imagined she would. She was blessed with Hilary, who recognized early on having an active investigator on staff would enhance the credibility of the new forensic pathology program. She had more freedom than she’d had in years, and she had to admit she liked it. The rigidity of being the head medical examiner for the state of Tennessee—the grind, the politics, the constant influx of the dead, day in and day out—had become oppressive, even before the floods. She knew she was on the right path now.

The thought of the raging waters brought her family to mind, as it always did. I miss you all so much.

Simon’s face began to sneak into the edges of her mind, the twins, too, with their silly grins, but she firmly pushed them all away, counting as she breathed. One Mississippi. Not now. Two Mississippi. There was so much to do, so many people to talk to. Three Mississippi. Decisions to be made. She couldn’t be waylaid by panic, by grief. Four Mississippi. There would be time to indulge in memories later. Right now, there were people counting on her.

Her heart rate dropped, and her hands unclenched. Okay. You’re okay.

Close. Too close. Fletcher was well aware of her little problem, but he was on the phone, chewing someone out, and hadn’t seemed to notice her momentary loss of control. Good.

Now she just had to figure out what the hell she was doing.

Sam was used to being a part of an investigation, not driving one. She had a sudden vision of her best friend, Taylor Jackson, the homicide lieutenant in Nashville, and straightened her shoulders. Taylor would know exactly what steps to take to find out what Girabaldi was up to. Sam decided to call her when they got out of the autopsy, even if only to hear her voice.

Taylor was also engaged to John Baldwin, and he bounced a lot of information off her pretty head. Perhaps there’d be movement on both the cases she was suddenly working on.

Lost in her own thoughts, she hadn’t realized Fletcher had parked the car on the street in front of the OCME until she heard him say, “I’m here, I gotta go. Thanks for letting me know. But it still doesn’t let Robertson off the hook. Tell him to prepare for my wrath, because he’s going to hear all about it. Okay. Bye.”

“What was that about?”

“What Girabaldi’s toady said was true. None of the pathogens were active. They were vaccines. Or attempts at vaccines. So we weren’t in any danger.”

She smiled. “Feel better?”

“Hell, yes. The idea of that stuff crawling around my body...yeah, I’m very happy. And this will help us shut down the investigation quicker. If Souleyret and Cattafi had live pathogens sitting around, we’d be dealing with a whole different level of investigation. As it is, I think I can craft something that will shut down the media ballyhoo, and we’ll go forward with the claims of a domestic dispute. It’s just a matter of keeping Cattafi’s dirty laundry out of the mix. Our PR folks are putting together a statement right now saying he succumbed to his injuries. This was a domestic dispute that ended in a murder-suicide. End of case.”

“So you’re going to go forward with a cover-up?”

His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “For now.”

“Fletcher, why?”

“To buy us some time. Girabaldi’s right. If the killer knows Cattafi’s alive, he might come back for him. I want to at least get his story out of this. How he was connected to Souleyret.”

“What about the families? How do you propose to contain them?”

“His parents are still stuck on the tarmac at O’Hare, so we can afford to put them off for a bit. Let’s get moving, shall we? Maybe we can have a resolution before they land and we try to convince them to pretend their son is dead.”

Sam didn’t think the plan was a good one, but what the hell did she know? She trusted Fletcher. If he thought they could pull this off, then she’d do her best to help.

And buying time was a good thing. She wanted to see what exactly had happened to Amanda Souleyret before she formed any real opinions.

Chapter 23

OCME

AMADO NOCEK WAS waiting for them inside the lobby of the OCME, a serene look on his otherwise homely face. Tall, much too thin and oddly angular, his whole countenance insectlike, he’d put up with ridiculous nicknames like Lurch and Fly Man since childhood. But where some saw a six-foot-six praying mantis, Sam saw a dear friend. Amado was one of her favorites. Cultured and intelligent, brought up in Europe, he was an excellent dining partner, and an even better pathologist.

He shook Fletcher’s hand, gave Sam a brief hug. “Lieutenant. Samantha. It is good to see you both. You are prepared for the autopsy of Ms. Souleyret?”

Her name had such a lilt in his Neapolitan accent. It made her sad.

“We are. You’ve heard there were no pathogens, correct? That the vials were vaccines?”

The buglike head tipped to one side. “I am hearing many things in reference to this case. I suspect none are entirely false, and none are entirely true. Am I close?”

Sam nodded. “We’re a bit confused, too, Amado.”

“I am receiving a great deal of external direction, as well. The autopsy report, for example. We are to transmit it directly to you, Lieutenant, and not put it in the official system.” Nocek’s feathery eyebrows were hiked nearly to his receding hairline. “Do you know where that request came from?”

Fletcher rolled his eyes. “I’m afraid I do, and I’m not at liberty to say. Just roll with it, Dr. Nocek. It will be easier on you that way.”

“I see. Then let us do the autopsy, and see what the body tells us.”

At the sinks, they washed up, got gloved and masked, and five minutes later, they were in a separate autopsy suite made for private autopsies—posts that were especially sensitive, bodies in advance stages of decomposition or ones that had been exposed to chemical or biological hazards. Sam had been in here once before, during the biological attack scare a few months earlier, posting the body of a congressman exposed to an airborne toxin.

Amanda Souleyret’s body was laid out on the stainless-steel slab. Amado’s tech had already done the prep work. The flat-screen monitor showed the full-body radiographs; the body was naked and had been washed.

Sam was surprised by the pristine condition of the body. Amanda Souleyret’s torso was scratched and there was antemortem bruising, but she observed no apparent stab wounds, which didn’t jibe with the crime scene.

Amado caught her look of confusion. “The wounds are in her back.”

“Ah.” Sam walked to the other side of the body and saw a small puncture in Souleyret’s neck, clearly the source of much of the blood at Cattafi’s apartment.

“She was wearing a long-sleeve T-shirt and jeans when they brought her in. They were extensively bloodstained.”