Dead Man's Song

“I know, but I think I can pay him a bit better than what he makes delivering papers, and he’ll get a discount at the store. Plus,” and here he was careful not to let any of his contempt for Vic into his voice, “he won’t be out as late.”

There was a pause and Crow knew she was making the connection. Crow suspected that Lois had probably felt the back of Vic’s hand more than once, and shared awareness might work in Mike’s favor.

“That would be fine,” Lois said at last. “Do I need to sign something…?”

“Work papers, yeah, and I’ll send some home with Mike.”

There was another pause. “I heard about you on the news last night. And about your friend, Val Guthrie. I was sorry to hear about your troubles.”

“Thanks. I’ll pass that along to Val.”

A final pause. “I’ll pray for you.” She hung up quietly.

Crow looked at the phone for a bit, touched by that last comment, as hurried as it was. “Right back atcha,” he said softly.

His second call was to Terry Wolfe, but all he got was voice mail. He called Terry’s office, his home, his cell, and even his wife Sarah’s cell. Nothing. He tapped the cover of his cell phone with his thumb, thinking; then he dialed the numbered for the deputy mayor, Harry LeBeau, a fussy little man who had taken the unpaid job only because no one else wanted it. LeBeau answered on the third ring. “Harry? It’s Crow.”

“Crow! Dreadfully sorry to hear about—”

Crow cut him off. “Thanks, Harry…look, I’m trying to find Terry. Any idea where he is?”

“Heavens, no. I’ve been trying to get him since last night. Gus has been calling me every fifteen minutes since—well, since what happened to you at the hospital—but no one’s seen hide nor hair.”

“Crap. Look, if he gets in touch have him call me on my cell.” He closed his phone and mulled that over. Where the hell was Terry?

(2)

Four floors below where Crow sat in bed making calls, Dr. Saul Weinstock leaned back in the creaking wood swivel chair of the morgue attendant’s office, hefted his legs to prop his sneakered heels on his desk, crossed his ankles, and stirred six packets of raw sugar into the coffee that he steadied on his thigh. Starbucks Venti dark roast, and piping hot. A bag with two chocolate croissants lay on the desk by his feet and the office CD player was tinkling with a live recording of Jim West at the Maiko II. Carefree stuff, improvised and witty. Weinstock was constructing the moment to be as casual and relaxed as the piano jazz that filled the air, consciously stage managing his own mood because the alternative was to run screaming through the halls, and he did not think that would be good for his patients.

His cell phone chirped and he pulled it from its belt clip, saw that it was his wife, and flipped it open with a smile. “Good morning, sweetie.” He looked at the wall clock. Six-fifty-four. “What are you doing up this early? The kids okay?”

“They’re fine. I just couldn’t sleep, thinking about Val and Crow.” Rachel sounded tired. “How are they?”

“Sleeping, which is a mercy.” He filled her in on Val and Crow’s injuries and the prognosis, though he didn’t tell her that Val was pregnant—something only he and Val knew—and that because of it she was having to tough out the pain with nothing stronger than Tylenol. “They’ll be okay, though. The real thing is that I have to schedule two autopsies.”

“On Yom Kippur?” Rachel said, and Weinstock winced, then flicked a glance at the calendar. He had totally forgotten.

“I’ll be done long before sunset, honey,” he said quickly. “But even so, with all that’s going on, I don’t think God is going to single me out for punishment if I don’t atone enough. I think he’s concentrating on the entire town at once.”

“Are you fasting at least?” she asked just as Weinstock reached for a chocolate croissant, and he yanked his hand back as if he’d been burned.

“Sure,” he said.

“Saul…?”

“Well, fasting-ish, anyway. Just coffee.” He reached over and folded the bag closed, considered, and then put a file folder over the bag to hide it.

“Saul, my folks are expecting us at schul this evening. Can I tell them you’ll be there?”

“Rachel, honey…with what’s going on in town…I’m just not sure I can make that promise. Like I said, I have two autopsies to do today, and both of them are important to this police thing that’s going on.”

She made a sound like she had tasted something nasty. “Henry and that Ruger character?”

“Uh huh, and I don’t mind slicing Ruger, but I have to tell you, honey, I just can’t bring myself to take a scalpel to Henry Guthrie. It’d be like cutting up my Uncle Stanley.” Weinstock set his cup down and rubbed his eyes. “It’s weird…I never thought of what I do as gruesome before, but the thought of cutting open Henry is just plain creepy.”

“Then don’t do it,” Rachel said. “Let Bob Colbert handle it. He didn’t even know Henry.”