he asked.
“He dismantled one of the back doors after he had cut power,” Walsh said.
“What happened to the Ginger Rogers wax figure?”
“We haven’t found it yet,” Walsh said. “He could’ve taken it as a souvenir.”
The lights turned on and a noticeable whirring noise from the central air conditioning interrupted the stillness in the building. Fred Astaire’s wax twin and Heather Brandley’s corpse began to spin in a ghoulish waltz.
Smichen noted, “It looks like the power’s been restored.”
“I’ll get that turned off,” Walsh volunteered, referring to the spinning platform.
With the additional light shining on the exhibit, what was left of Heather Brandley’s corpse looked even sadder and more diminished each time it spun so that it faced Morris.
“What do you say, Morris?” Gilman asked, his voice tighter than earlier. “Are you going to help us catch this psycho?”
Morris stood staring at the grotesque spinning spectacle. He shook his head, but that was only to try to clear away the anger rising up inside him.
“I haven’t decided yet,” he said.
Chapter 9
Dennis Polk, one of MBI’s investigators, breezed into the conference room, gave Doug Gilman a smirk, Greg Malevich a nod, and Annie Walsh a wink before taking a seat next to Morris. Gilman showed no response, Malevich nodded back, and Walsh glowered at Polk.
“What, no doughnuts or nothin’?” Polk asked.
Morris sat slumped in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyelids drooping as if he wanted to take a nap. He turned his half-lidded eyes toward Polk for a ten-count before making sense of what Polk had asked.
“Greta’s ordering food,” he muttered.
Polk raised an eyebrow as he looked at his boss. “Late night?” he asked.
“The night would’ve been fine if this hadn’t happened.”
Polk looked around the room at the morose expressions on everyone’s faces. “Driving over there was nothing on the radio about a woman being found at Star Wax who’d been cut in half—”
“A third,” Walsh corrected.
Polk made a face as if she were unnecessarily nitpicking him. “Okay, a third.” He turned back to Morris. “So are you going to keep me in suspense any longer? You hinted earlier this was someone famous. Who was the unlucky lady?”
Gilman had dug through a briefcase, and now reached across the table to hand Polk the legal document that he had pulled out of it.
“I need you to sign an NDA before you can be told anything further,” Gilman said.
Polk gave him an incredulous look before raising another eyebrow at Morris.
“Is he serious?” he asked.
“Just sign it,” Morris said.
Polk signed it.
“Heather Brandley,” Morris told him.
It took Polk a few seconds before the name registered, and then he let out a long, low whistle.
“I haven’t seen her in anything in years, but I used to watch that show she was in. Hot Times in Miami. Damn, she looked good in a bikini.” He rubbed his chin, appearing deep in thought, which was unusual for Polk. “This is going to hit hard, especially given what happened to her. Are we waiting for Charlie and Fred?” he asked.
“Charlie’s tied up with the Crawford missing person investigation, Fred’s still undercover in San Diego. I’ll be filling them in later.”
“That’s too bad.” Polk looked disappointed. Needling Fred Lemmon was one of his favorite hobbies. “So who are we waiting for?”
“Gloria Finston.”
“The FBI profiler? The one who worked with us on the Malibu Butcher?”
“Yeah.”
“I like her. A smart cookie.”
“She’s certainly that,” Morris agreed. “Doug didn’t want me showing you this until you signed the NDA, but the killer left this message behind.”
He had a manila folder in front of him, and he took out a copy of the business card that had been pinned to Heather Brandley’s gown and handed it to Polk. As Polk looked at it, a hard, angry grin etched his face.
“You gotta to be kidding me,” Polk said.
“I’m afraid not.”
“This sonofabitch is challenging us. So we’re taking on the investigation, huh?”
“Still undecided.”
Walsh gave Morris an exasperated look. “What more do you need to make up your mind?” she asked.
“Let’s see how this meeting goes.”
There was a knock on the door, and MBI’s office manager, Greta Lindstrom, brought in a platter with bagels, lox, tomato, Bermuda onion slices, and cream cheese. Everyone but Gilman, who was still looking green around the gills, helped themselves to the food. Polk wolfed down a sandwich and was working on a second when there was another knock on the door, and Gloria Finston entered.
“Sorry if I’ve been holding you up,” she announced, her thin lips forming a tiny v. “I was in San Francisco when I got the call about this murder, and took the first plane I could.”
Finston was a slight, dark-haired woman in her forties. With her narrow face, longish, thin nose and small pale eyes, she reminded Morris of a sparrow. Smart as hell, though. Finston took the empty seat between Gilman and Walsh so that she sat across from Morris. She’d already been emailed the crime scene photos and knew about the business card that had been pinned to the victim’s body.
“Polk hasn’t finished off the bagels yet,” Morris said. “If you want one, I’d advise you to dig in now before he does.”
“I get hungry when I’m pissed,” Polk said. “And the card that sonofabitch left for us is doing the job.”
Morris understood Polk’s anger because the killer’s message had the same effect on him. He asked Finston if she wanted anything to drink.
“Tea would be lovely. Chamomile if you have any.”
Morris called Greta on his cell phone and asked if she could bring in a cup of chamomile tea. When he got off the phone, Finston asked him if the ME would be joining them.
Walsh spoke up. “It was tricky disengaging the victim from the crime scene.” She checked her watch. “Roger only got the body in for a postmortem examination an hour ago. He’ll
