Courting Death by Carol Stephenson

investigation.”
    He lifted a shoulder. “Budget cuts, work force reduction. Units aren’t as clear cut anymore. I’m a cop, Red. Whatever case the captain needs me to work on, I’ll investigate.”
    Tendons flexed in his hand as he tightened it on the steering wheel. “However, as of this morning, I’m officially no longer handling the suspicious death of the Whitman baby. That’s been reassigned.”
    I didn’t know if the constant tightrope Sam and I walked in our relationship just slackened or pulled impossibly tight.
    “Meaning you’re investigating the theft of the baby’s…” My voice trailed off.
    She has a name, Nicole, even in death. You’d never let a jury forget it. Don’t start impersonalizing her now.
    Sam shot me another glance as he pulled into the driveway of the Depp Funeral Home. “Yes.”
    “Then you’ll be able to keep me apprised of the investigation’s progress.”
    “No.”
    “May I remind you that I represent the Whitmans?”
    The corner of Sam’s mouth lifted. “Hard to forget when you remind me every hour on the hour.”
    He parked next to a black-and-white unit and switched off the ignition. Yellow tape already cordoned off the rear of the building. Several uniformed officers stood guard.
    Sam turned to face me and draped his arm along the back of the passenger seat. His fingertips grazed my neck. The adrenaline still swirling around in my system turned edgier.
    “What little I can tell you, I will. But this investigation is larger than the Whitmans’ unfortunate situation.” Exhaustion lined his face.
    I laced my fingers so I wouldn’t do anything so stupid as to reach up and try to stroke those lines away. “How large?”
    “Depp’s murder could be our first break in an organization very efficient in the black market of organ harvesting. Up until now, they’ve relied on bribes, secrecy and the power of grief to secure organs and bones.”
    “Since Rebecca’s body was mutilated during transport, at the hospital or at the funeral home, one or more of them have to be involved.”
    Sam grinned. “Haven’t lost your prosecutorial instincts.” His fingers toyed with wisps of hair at my nape. My skin practically whimpered at his touch. Too much. I needed to focus. I twisted away and he let his hand drop.
    “Here’s the play-by-play. Someone’s injured in an accident and taken to a hospital. The harvesters will find out if that person’s the right blood type for a client on their waiting list. Then suddenly the victim turns up with a missing organ or dead—often both. An immigrant working the fields and faced with crushing debt can sell a kidney for quick cash. A John Doe lying brain-dead in a hospital is a pipeline of organs for the doctors allowing to petition for transplantation rights.”
    “But I thought an organ’s transplant viability is short-lived.”
    He shrugged. “As they say, buyer beware. The FBI got the first whiff when three people who bought their organs online contracted the same rare disease and died. A widow who had begged her husband to wait for a donor saved the emails and came to the authorities after his death. Of course the trail was well-hidden, but the Feds suspect the center of operations is our fair and lovely county.”
    An unmarked car drove up to where the uniforms waited. Sam’s partner Tony Galluci emerged and headed inside followed by the others.
    Sam nodded. “There’s the search warrant.” He got out, circled around the car and opened my door.
    I eyed the building as we approached. The roof jutted at a higher level over the garage. Funeral homes had long been permitted to perform tissue donations if the deceased’s family signed consent forms. I’d already checked with the Whitmans and they hadn’t. That didn’t mean the dead director hadn’t forged their signatures.
    Tracing the same path I had earlier, we entered through the garage. I kept my gaze straight ahead as we passed where a small screen hid the cooler and