Baby was right. If X had been killed, there’d be no worry that he would surface once more in her life. And yet the thought of him dead rattled her.
After they both returned to the main room, Kit phoned Avery and asked if she could arrange for her to survey the aunt’s home as early as Wednesday. No problem, she was told. The aunt was now in an assisted living facility but a neighbor would be able to show her the house. After checking flights, Kit called Detective Molinari back and made arrangements to meet her at the Dade County Medical Examiner’s at one o’clock the next day. She could hardly believe it. She would have a chance to set eyes again on X, but she’d be staring at a photo of his corpse.
By nine the next morning she was air bound. Being on the plane felt totally surreal. She thought suddenly of the Magritte painting of a pipe with the words “Ceci n’est pas une pipe”—this is not a pipe—written below the image. This was Tuesday but nothing about it seemed like Tuesday. Underneath her anxiety and dread, she felt a dull, aching sadness.
As promised, the Medical Examiner’s Building turned out to be only a short drive from the airport. The cabbie pulled into the driveway and dropped her in front of the large brick building. As he hoisted her roller bag out of the trunk, he eyed the structure with a slight grimace, as if fearful of being exposed to something contagious. She thanked him, shrugged off her trench coat, and draped it over one arm. She’d worn leggings, thinking they’d be a good transition outfit from New York to Florida, but the temperature was in the mid-eighties and the leggings had begun to stick obnoxiously to her thighs. Dragging her roller bag, she ascended a long ramp and spoke her name into an intercom. She was buzzed into the lobby by a woman sitting at a desk behind a glass barricade.
The reception area caught her by surprise. She’d expected something grim with a ghastly smell seeping through the walls or ducts. But there was deep blue carpeting and upholstered furniture in a cheery yellow fabric, the kind of look you’d expect at a dental center. No bad smell either, just icy cold air from the AC. Who were they trying to kid? Somewhere, probably in the bowels of the building, were rows of steels drawers with dead bodies lying inside.
There was no sign of Molinari at first, but then suddenly a woman came along beside her, wearing a buff-colored pant-suit and matching the description the detective had provided—fortyish, short, dark haired with streaks of gray. A badge, secured to her waistband, peeked out from just past the opening of the blazer. And there was a bulge further along the waist, where Kit realized her gun must be.
“Ms. Finn?”
Kit nodded.
“Thank you for coming all this way,” Molinari said, putting her hand out. Friendly enough but clearly, Kit saw, the no-nonsense type.
Kit shifted her coat from her right arm to her left, and shook the detective’s hand. She wondered if Molinari noticed how sweaty her palm was.
“We can speak afterward,” the detective said, “but I wanted you to view the photos first. That way we’ll know if we’re on the same page.”
In a moment they were joined by an African American woman who identified herself as an investigator with the ME’s office and led them to a “family viewing” room just off the lobby. The lights were low and there were just a few pieces of furniture—a small couch, a coffee table, and a couple of pleather-covered chairs. Baby, Kit thought ruefully, would have flinched at the sight of them. She claimed that she was allergic to pleather and her tongue swelled if she found herself within twenty feet of it.
“Why don’t you have a seat?” the investigator said, directing her to the sofa. Kit did as asked, lowering herself onto the hard surface. She wondered how many millions of tears had been shed in the room.
While Molinari stood just to the right, the investigator joined Kit on the couch. For the first time Kit noticed that the woman carried a manila-colored envelope. She laid the envelope on the table and slid the flap open with her thumb.
“There are two photos,” the investigator said. “One face forward and the other a profile.”
Please, no, Kit thought, I don’t want to see this. Her