mean?" Irene asked.
Lestrade did the same shifty-eye thing as the desk sergeant to stare at Irene for a moment with no expression. Funny how all cops seemed to do that. "It means," he said, "she died of natural causes, ma'am."
An angry flush spread upward from Irene's neck. Hard to know whether it was because of the sarcasm or the "ma'am." In Irene's youth-centric world, "ma'am" was a dirty word.
I put a hand on her arm before she could say anything to drive Lestrade back into the unreachable back office. "Can't you tell us anything more than that?" I asked. "I mean, she was family to me."
Lestrade's expression remained stolid. "Sorry, ma'am, that's all I can tell you. If you want more information, you'll have to talk to the ME." He glanced at his watch. "Only John's elbow deep in an autopsy right now, so you'll have to come back later this afternoon."
"What a poet," Irene muttered.
I had to admit, the phrasing brought up some gross imagery.
"You mean you can't even tell us if the poor lady fell down the stairs or had cancer or what?" Irene pressed.
"Talk to the ME, ma'am," he repeated. "This afternoon."
"Fine," I snapped. "I'll talk to the ME. You've been very helpful, Detective."
"To protect and to serve, ma'am," he said. He turned on his heel and slithered back through the inner-sanctum door.
Irene stared after him. "Is that guy for real?"
I shrugged. "I'm sure he's got rules and regulations to follow. We'll just come back later when the medical examiner is free." I glanced at the time on my phone. "I have to get to the coffee bar anyway."
"Yeah." Irene nodded. "I have a meeting with some guys looking for a VC."
VC was short for venture capitalist, which was what most of Irene's money did for her these days—fund the latest dot-com sensation in exchange for insane returns that kept her in designer handbags and Louboutins.
"What's this one?" I asked as we made our way outside.
"It's called the Boyfriend Babysitter."
I raised a questioning eyebrow her way.
"It's an app that tracks how many times your boyfriend's heart rate spikes when he's around other women."
I barely covered a snort. "Sounds like a winner."
Irene shrugged. "We'll see. All depends on their cost to get the beta ready for market. Anyway, I'll come by the bookshop afterwards, and we can go see if John's elbows have come up for air yet."
Even coming from her, it was still gross.
CHAPTER THREE
The Medical Examiner's office was about as warm and inviting as a penitentiary. The floor was linoleum tile, beige flecked with brown and moss green. The walls were cinderblock. The lighting was fluorescent. The seats were hard, molded plastic.
"They couldn't spring for a couple of potted plants?" Irene whispered into the roaring silence. "Maybe brighten up the place?"
"Guess they don't get many visitors," I whispered back.
"Not vertical ones anyway," Irene agreed. "That's probably why they hid it away in a basement."
I shifted in my seat. My discomfort wasn't due entirely to the inhospitable seating. This place gave me the willies. There wasn't a speck of color or natural lighting. We were sitting just inside the door, but if the lights went out, I wasn't all that sure I'd be able to find my way out again. Everything seemed cold, sterile, and slightly perfumed with disinfectant.
"What do you think is taking him so long? That woman said he'd be right out."
"Be patient," Irene said. "It hasn't been that long." She looked at her white gold watch and blinked. "It's been fifteen minutes! What's taking this guy so long?"
"Hello, ladies. I'm Dr. Watson."
I looked across the room and felt myself blink in disbelief. Dr. Watson belonged on the cover of People's Sexiest Medical Examiners issue. Very blue eyes, very thick blond hair, very broad shoulders. And a slightly pouty lower lip that made his mouth hard to ignore. It was a crime that with those looks, he spent his days in the basement with cadavers, when he could have been spending them above ground, with me.
I lost myself in that thought for a second. What a waste. Maybe I could work on that.
Irene hauled me to my feet and shoved me in his direction. "Doctor, this is Marty Hudson."
His eyes crinkled slightly at the corners when he smiled. Starter crinkles that a 30-something-year-old doctor who smiled a lot would get. So he had a sense of humor. A sense of humor was good.
"Miss Hudson," he said. He looked over at Irene. "And you are?"
She flapped