about The Carver running people down, and the bumper on his black Caddy did look as if a few objects had bounced off it.
“Say, Coop, do you know where I could get a gun?”
Coop’s head pivoted. “Why on earth do you need a gun?”
Wesley shrugged. “You know—for protection.”
“You’re on probation, chief, or have you forgotten? Besides, I think you’re overreacting on the protective-brother thing.”
He chewed on his response for a while, then decided to talk to Coop man-to-man. “Look, I owe money to some bad dudes. One of them keeps showing up at the house and hassling my sister. I just want to be able to protect her, if necessary.”
Coop scowled. “Maybe you should call the police.”
“Yeah, right. And the next body-moving call you get will be me.”
Coop didn’t respond and Wesley wished he hadn’t brought up the subject. His buddy Chance would probably know where he could get a gun with no questions asked. “That detective back there, he’s the guy who arrested me. Jerk.”
“Jack Terry? We don’t always see eye to eye, but he’s usually just doing his job.”
“He called you doctor, just like that lady at the nursing home.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And he asked your opinion on the M.E.’s report.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So what’s up with that?”
Coop stretched in his seat and Wesley thought it was another one of those questions his boss would avoid.
“I used to be a doctor,” Coop said finally.
“Used to be?”
Coop shot him an impatient look. “Yeah, as in I’m not anymore.”
“What happened?”
The man’s profile hardened and he seemed to turn inside himself. “Long story,” he said, mimicking Wesley’s response of a couple of days ago when Cooper had probed about his family.
“Some other time, then,” Wesley said.
“Yeah. We’re here,” Coop said, pulling the van into the parking lot of the city morgue.
Wesley looked at the nondescript building, the third time he’d accompanied Coop to the place. They pulled around to the back where two guys in scrubs were just finishing a smoke break and going back into the building.
“Working in a morgue, you’d think they’d know better than to smoke,” Wesley said.
“Yeah,” Coop replied, “but sometimes the people who know better have the worst vices of all.”
Something in his voice made Wesley think once again that Cooper Craft had secrets and maybe a shady past. And the set of the man’s mouth told him that something about this body pickup had bothered him more than usual.
When Coop parked, Wesley jumped out to help him unload the body from the van and place it on a gurney. They rolled it up a ramp where Coop pressed a button on a call box and identified himself and their “delivery.” A few seconds later a buzz sounded, unlocking the door.
A slender, suited man, maybe in his fifties, met them just inside the door, a thundercloud on his bushy brow.
“Hello, Dr. Abrams,” Coop said pleasantly.
The man didn’t acknowledge the greeting. “Is this the Ashford body?”
“Yes.”
“My medical examiner just phoned in. He said he ruled the death an accidental drowning.”
“He did,” Coop said.
“So why is she here?”
“Detective Jack Terry told me to bring her here after he interviewed the husband,” Coop said, his voice even. “The M.E. had already left, Bruce.”
The chief medical examiner’s expression changed to one of suspicion. “And I suppose you had nothing to do with the detective overriding the M.E.’s report.”
Coop lifted his hands. “Just following orders.”
The man expelled a long sigh and jammed his hands on his hips. “You’re putting me in a hell of a spot. I extended the transport contract for your family’s funeral home because we go way back, and in spite of everything, I respect you, Coop. But I can’t have you on the scene second-guessing my people.”
Coop frowned. “Well, maybe I wouldn’t have to if your people would do their job. The guy barely looked at the body before writing the report and taking off. He didn’t even talk to the next of kin, only the maid.”
Dr. Abrams made an exasperated noise. “Coop, you of all people know how it is—everyone here is overworked and underpaid. We’re lucky to fill the entry-level jobs, and we got bodies stacked up in here.”
“Then one more won’t matter,” Coop said, his voice challenging.
The older man’s expression hardened and his chin went up in the air. “No, Coop. That’s not the way things are run around here anymore. We follow the rules to the letter.”
Coop’s mouth tightened, and then he shook his head, his eyes full of disdain. “That’s why you’ll never be a great M.E., Bruce.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “You arrogant son of a bitch. You have the nerve to criticize me after the disgraceful way you behaved?”
Wesley took a step back. The men obviously had history.
Coop set his jaw and looked away. When he turned back, his expression was contrite. “I’m sorry, Bruce. You’re right—I was out of line. You don’t have to do an autopsy, but I’ll have to leave the body here while I make another run. I’ll pick it up when I make the next dropoff in about—” he looked at his watch “—two hours. Okay?”
Dr. Abrams drew back, his eyes still wary despite Coop’s apology, his chin stubbornly set. “Take her to the crypt for now.”
Coop nodded in acquiescence and told Wesley where to turn once they reached the end of the hall. He seemed to know his way around the place.
The morgue was a cold, sterile building with industrial surfaces and a hushed, echoey atmosphere. At this time of day, the corners were dark, the glaring overhead lights ruthless. They passed workers wearing scrubs, their eyes and shoulders sagging in fatigue. A few of them recognized Coop and murmured hello, although their body language seemed awkward and their eye contact furtive.
Wesley slid his gaze sideways to his boss. The man was indeed a mystery, but he had a feeling now wasn’t the best time to ask questions.
As they rounded a corner, the body shifted in the gray body bag they had transferred
