Maggie waited for Stan to notice and reprimand Racine, but he was occupied with getting the nests of maggots out of the girl’s pubic hair. Then she reminded herself that she needed to concentrate and not let Racine get under her skin. She continued scraping evidence from beneath each fingernail, bagging the findings and labeling each as to which finger it had been taken from.
Besides, why should she care if Racine insisted on sticking with her theory of this being a rape that got carried away? That the District PD hadn’t noticed yet that their detective was incompetent shouldn’t be Maggie’s problem. Yet, it did matter if Maggie was going to be on this case, even as a consultant. The last case she’d worked with Racine had left Maggie with a bad taste in her mouth—Racine’s mistakes had almost cost them an indictment.
Maggie swatted a strand of hair off her perspiring forehead with the back of her wrist, so as not to contaminate her latexed hands. She caught Racine watching her. Maggie looked away.
Quite honestly, other than the one botched case, Maggie knew little about Julia Racine except what she had heard through rumors. She probably had no right to judge the woman, but if there was any truth to the rumors, Detective Racine represented a breed of woman that Maggie despised, especially in law enforcement, where playing games could get someone hurt, or even killed.
Since day one of her forensics fellowship, Maggie had worked hard to be just one of the guys and to be treated as such. But women like Racine used their sex as some sort of entitlement or bribe, a means to an end. Now, as she felt Racine’s eyes watching her, Maggie hated that Racine still thought she could use that tactic, especially with her. After the last time they had worked together, Maggie thought Racine would know better—pouring on the charm or flirting wouldn’t get her any favors from her. But when Maggie glanced up and caught the woman watching her, Racine didn’t look away. Instead, she met Maggie’s eyes, held her glance and smiled.
CHAPTER 25
Ben Garrison strung the dripping prints on a short length of clothesline in his cramped darkroom. The first two rolls of film had been disappointing, but this roll…this one was incredible. He was back in the saddle again. Maybe he’d even be able to get a little bidding war started, though he wouldn’t be able to waste any time. His fingertips tingled with excitement, but his lungs ached from the fumes. He needed to take a break despite his impatience.
He took one of the prints with him, closing the door on the fumes and heading for the refrigerator. Of course, it was empty except for the regular array of condiments, some kiwi fruit he couldn’t remember putting in the back, a container of mystery goop and four long-neck bottles of Budweiser. He grabbed one of the bottles, twisted off the cap and returned to the kitchen counter to admire his masterpiece in the shitty fluorescent lighting.
A knock at the door startled him. Who the hell? He rarely got visitors, and he thought he had trained his meddling neighbors to fuck off. His artistic process was time sensitive. He couldn’t be disturbed if he had prints in the fix bath or a roll of film in the developing canister. No respect. What was fucking wrong with people?
He flipped all three locks and yanked open the door.
“What is it?” he growled, causing the small gray-haired woman to step backward and grab the railing. “Mrs. Fowler?” He scratched at his jaw and leaned against the doorjamb, blocking his landlady’s wandering eyes. Apparently he hadn’t trained everyone in this dilapidated old building to leave him alone. “Why, Mrs. Fowler, what can I help you with today?” He could turn on the charm when necessary.
“Mr. Garrison, I was just wandering by. I’ve been checking on Mrs. Stanislov down the hall.” Her beady eyes were darting around him, trying to get a glimpse into his apartment.
Several weeks ago, she’d insisted on accompanying the plumber to fix his leaky faucet. The old woman’s birdlike head pivoted around, trying to take in the African masks on his wall, the bronze fertility goddesses that adorned his bookcase and the other exotic trinkets he had amassed during his travels. That was when the money was flowing in, and there wasn’t a photo he could shoot that someone at Newsweek or Time or National Geographic wouldn’t pay top dollar