secretary glanced over her shoulder. In spite of her discomfort, her eyes danced excitedly. “There’s a detective outside to see you. I told him to wait in your office, but he insisted on coming down here. He said he needed to talk to you about an urgent case—”
The man pushed past Gloria into the lab, as if too impatient to wait any longer. Erin didn’t much care for his attitude, but whoever he was, he certainly had excellent bone structure, she’d give him that. She automatically cataloged his features. Wide shoulders, narrow waist, lean hips. Moving to his face, she noted the high cheekbones, the well-defined brow, and the piercing blue eyes, so striking against his dark coloring.
His impatience emanated from every nerve ending in his body. He looked incapable of standing still. He wore a sport coat with charcoal trousers, and his hand swept restlessly down his striped tie as his gaze roamed every nook and cranny of the lab, undisturbed, he would have her think, by the rows of human skulls grinning silently from the shelves.
Satisfied with what he’d seen, his blue gaze came back to rest on Erin. Her stomach fluttered, not from attraction or sexual awareness she was quite sure, but from apprehension. Somehow she knew the man’s presence here in her lab did not bode well for her future peace of mind.
“So you’re the bone lady,” he said, in a voice deepened not so much by age—Erin judged him to be in his early thirties, possibly two or three years older than she—but by confidence and authority, a man who liked telling others what to do.
She bristled instantly. “No,” she told him coolly. “I’m not the bone lady, although I thank you for the compliment. That moniker belongs to another forensic anthropologist, one I admire very much.”
“Fair enough,” he said easily, although his gaze seemed to intensify on her. “But you are Dr. Casey, aren’t you? Dr. Erin Casey?”
“Yes.” She shoved her goggles to the top of her head, then peeled off her gloves and disposed of them in the waste receptacle before she ventured across the room toward him. “And you are…?”
“Detective Gallagher,” Gloria piped in, as if she had only now remembered his name. Her voice was higher than normal, and she couldn’t seem to take her eyes off the man. “He’s with the Chicago PD.”
Detective Gallagher shot her a bemused glance. “Thanks, but I can take it from here.”
A blush sneaked up Gloria’s neck, fascinating Erin. Outspoken, flirtatious, occasionally obnoxious, Gloria Maynard was not the type to embarrass easily, but Detective Gallagher had definitely flustered her. She seemed torn between wanting to escape from the lab, and hanging around long enough to somehow get his phone number.
“What can I do for you, Detective Gallagher?” Erin asked him.
He took a few steps into the lab. “Could we speak in private?”
The blush on Gloria’s face deepened. “I’ll be at my desk if you need me,” she muttered, spinning on her heel and closing the door with a soft thud behind her. Erin was fairly certain that Gloria wasn’t used to being dismissed so curtly—at least not by a man. Her shiny black hair, short skirts, and tight sweaters usually drew lingering and longing stares from the male members of the faculty and student body alike. But Detective Gallagher didn’t even seem to take notice of her leaving. Erin warmed to him a little.
“We’re alone now,” she said, then felt her own face color at the suggestive way she’d phrased her observation. She pulled down her goggles and plunked them on her nose as she turned back to her worktable. “Mind if I work while we talk?”
“Not at all, as long as I have your attention.” Detective Gallagher walked around the table, so that they were facing each other. Erin drew on a fresh pair of latex gloves and handed him a pair. “Just in case you get curious.”
Reluctantly, he took the gloves. Erin had never understood the mindset of police officers who could work bloody crime and accident scenes so coolly and calmly, but then grew uneasy—some downright green—at the sight of skeletal remains. Detective Gallagher didn’t particularly strike her as the squeamish type, but he did seem to have a healthy respect for his surroundings.
At any rate, the bones spread over Erin’s worktable were nearly pristine. All that remained were the clues that would unravel the woman’s identity and cause of death.
“Do you know who she is yet?”
Erin glanced up in surprise. “How did you know it’s a she?”
He shrugged. “I’ve learned a few things over the years. So, who is she and what happened to her?” His tone was faintly challenging.
“I haven’t finished my examination,” Erin said almost irritably.
“Oh, come on.” His blue gaze taunted her. “Your reputation precedes you, Dr. Casey. According to Dr. Wyman, your abilities are nothing short of mystical.”
Erin had met Dr. Lawrence Wyman, the Cook County Medical Examiner, a couple of years ago at a conference in New York. They’d hit it off, spent several hours together, and since then had kept in touch by e-mail. He’d been ecstatic when he’d learned she was moving to Chicago.
“Did Dr. Wyman send you here?” Erin asked.
“Like I said, you come highly recommended.”
She frowned at his evasion. “What kind of case do you want me to consult on?”
He nodded toward the skeleton. “Tell me about her first.”
A test, Erin thought. He wanted to see for himself how good she was. Not that she needed to prove anything to him, but Erin began reciting in a monotone everything she had learned from the bones. “She gave birth to at least two children. Mongoloid, more than likely Asian. Height, around five feet. Weight, around 110, 115…” she trailed off, examining the muscle attachment markings on the tibia.
“Anything else?” Detective Gallagher quizzed her.
“She was a fairly accomplished athlete. A runner, I’d say.” Erin smiled slightly. “And of course, she was murdered.”
ERIN CASEY was a strange little woman, not at all what Nick had expected. He studied the framed diplomas, certifications and professional affiliations on her office wall with half his attention while the other half tried to reconcile his preconceived image of her with the actual person.
For one thing, she was a lot younger than he’d imagined. Dr. Wyman was in his sixties, but he’d spoken of Erin Casey with the reverence and respect usually reserved for one’s contemporaries and elders. He doubted she was even thirty, and her slight stature made her seem even younger. Nick was willing to bet she was often mistaken for a student on campus, although her intensity, her almost trancelike absorption in her work was far from juvenile. She was good at what she did. She was very, very good.
Not only had she determined that the subject on her worktable had been murdered, but also that she was likely a runner, an important detail because the habits of a victim could often lead back to the killer.
Nick needed that same resourcefulness and intuition, that same thoroughness, to tell him if the remains that had been discovered yesterday were also those of a murder victim. And, of course, he needed the identity of the dead man. But if he turned out to be who Nick suspected he was…
His
