good grace to look a little apologetic. “And a handful of miscellaneous bones that might or might not belong to the heads.”
“In other words, just like the rest of it.”
“Exactly like the rest of it,” O’Shea told her, then added quickly in a far more positive voice, “The good news is that I think that’s it.”
“The bad news is that there are twelve of them.” Malloy offered up that observation. Three sets of eyes turned toward him as he continued, “Twelve people without their entire bodies, without names and without a clue why they were unlucky enough to join this exclusive boneyard.”
He studied the piles that were already out. Because of his upbringing, to him, bodies meant families. “And twelve families waiting for some word about one of their own who is never coming home again.”
Kristin glanced in his direction, wondering if the detective had just said all that for her benefit, or if Malloy Cavanaugh actually did have a sensitive side to him.
The next moment she decided that she was probably giving the man way too much credit. Someone who looked and acted the way that Malloy Cavanaugh did didn’t have to have a more sensitive side to him. From what she had heard about him, he did just fine with what genetics had given him to work with. There was no need for sensitivity to enter the picture.
She was partial to sensitivity, responding to that far more than the good looks the man was so generously endowed with. No matter how gorgeous a person might be, looks only went skin deep. Sensitivity went clear down to the bone.
“So you’re not digging any more?” Malloy asked the CSI agents.
“Nothing left to dig,” O’Shea replied. “Not unless we want our heads handed to us by that maniacal nursery owner, Harrison, because we’re burrowing under his greenhouses and destroying those butt-ugly plants that the guy’s got everywhere for no reason. We finished digging up the perimeter.”
“You do realize that there might be more bodies on the property,” Malloy pointed out, turning toward the men. “It’s probably less likely,” he allowed, “but there is still that possibility.”
“We realize, Detective,” Reynolds replied with a hint of annoyance. “We didn’t just start working crime scene investigations yesterday.”
“Good to know,” Malloy replied matter-of-factly. “So, what’s the plan?”
“Come morning,” O’Shea answered, “we’re going to use the GPR—the ground penetrating radar machine that X-rays what’s beneath the surface,” he explained for Malloy’s benefit, “so if there are any more bones buried somewhere on the property, we’ll know where to dig.”
Malloy looked at the two men, surprised. He knew from conversations around Andrew’s table that department funds were tight. “When did CSI get that?”
“It took a bit of juggling,” Sean Cavanaugh said, answering his nephew’s question as he walked into the morgue’s exam room, “but I managed to appropriate the funds for it six months ago.” He nodded at Kristin as he continued talking to Malloy. “The last annual fund-raiser we had, after the department finished funding its usual widows and orphans charities, the rest of the money was allotted for new materials for the crime scene investigation lab.” He looked rather pleased as he added, “I thought this was a good way to utilize the money. This way, manpower isn’t needlessly wasted.
“Once the boys sweep the property,” he concluded, this time addressing his words to Kristin as O’Shea and Reynolds left the morgue, “we’ll know if there are any more bodies to put together and identify.” He looked at the different tables. “You’ve been busy.” There was admiration in his voice. “How are you doing?” Sean asked her.
She smiled ruefully at the table she was next to. It contained the body she was presently trying to reconstruct. “Not exactly like the jigsaw puzzles I used to love putting together as a kid, but I think it’s coming along.”
It was obvious that Sean was pleased with the progress her efforts were making.
“If anyone can do this,” he told her, “you can.” He glanced at his watch. “Well, I’ve got to get back to the lab. Call me if you need anything,” he told her, then added, “Good job,” just before withdrawing.
Kristin turned back to her work and saw that, unlike the others who had come in, Malloy was still in the room. “Wouldn’t that be your cue to leave, too?” she asked. By her count, he’d started to leave at least three times. Why was he still here?
Something she’d said to his uncle had caught his attention, and he wanted to ask her about it. “You worked jigsaw puzzles as a kid, too?”
Too.
The word was a warning. She gazed at him warily, wondering where he was heading with this. Was he going to turn this around somehow and use this to his advantage?
Instead of answering his question—a question she knew that he obviously had the answer to—she stated defensively, “That doesn’t bond us.”
“No,” he agreed. “But it does give us something in common.” He moved closer to her, not to crowd her but to get a better view of the various bones that were spread out on the exam table in front of her. “Want any help?”
Kristin scrutinized him, trying to determine if he was being serious. “You’re joking.”
He raised his eyes to hers. “Not at the moment.”
Rather than tell him outright what she thought of his offer, she pointed out the obvious. “You don’t have a medical degree.”
His shrug was dismissive. “I have an excellent working knowledge of anatomy, and from what I’ve read, you actually don’t need a medical degree to do this kind of work. It’s preferred, of course, but smaller towns make do with laypeople as long as they’re familiar with that old song.”
“Song?” she questioned. “What old song?” What the hell was this self-centered, conceited man going on about?
“You know the one,” he told her, trying to coax the title out of her.
She had no time for games. “No, I don’t,” she told him sharply. “If I did, I wouldn’t be wasting my breath, asking you, now would I?”
Rather than tell her the name of the song, he took her totally by surprise and began to sing it. “The leg bone’s connected to the knee bone, the knee bone’s connected to the thigh bone...”
Was he crazy? If he wasn’t, he was a completely loose canon. Either way, she wanted him out of her morgue. He was just too utterly distracting.
“Stop,” Kristin cried, holding up her hand to reinforce her point.
Abruptly ending the song, he looked at her with complete innocence. “Something wrong?”
“You’re actually going to sing that to me?” she asked incredulously.
“Sounds better than just saying it,” he told her. “And anyway, it was written as a song, so I just thought I’d get the point across better if I sang it to you. I was told I have a decent singing voice,” he added as
