Lie Down with the Devil by Linda Barnes

probably date back years.”
    They didn’t force me to go inside. They didn’t squawk about imminent arrest. If I’d refused, I’m not sure what they’d have done. I didn’t refuse; demon curiosity won again.
    The place smelled ripe. The stink had been onlyone of the complaints voiced by a tech who’d walked off the job and into the offices of the
Herald.
The smell, the drain backup in the autopsy rooms, the shortage of body bags, the corpses stacked three to a shelf and three to a gurney, the temporary refrigerated truck pressed into service.
    The scandal at the ME’s competed for space with the grand opening of Lincoln Park’s Twin River expansion, a Rhode Island gambling haven boasting over four thousand slot machines. Massachusetts legislators were watching both stories closely. Millions of dollars of state revenue, money sorely needed to pull the ME’s office back from disgrace, might head south if citizens crossed the state line to play the slots instead of giving their spare cash to the Mass State Lottery.
    I took out a wad of Kleenex and pressed it to my nose.
    Little Mac led the way down a long linoleum hallway. “We thought we’d run this lady by you, see if maybe you can help us out. We get a couple more of these stiffs identified, we can go back out on the street like cops. So we’d appreciate it if you’d take a good look.”
    “Save it,” Big Mac said. “She’s a tough guy. She’s not gonna pass out.”
    The news stories seemed to have had a galvanizing effect. The place was chaotic, aides shoving gurneys to and fro, shouting commands. Everything was getting done in a rush, in time for rebuttal on Channel 5 at eleven. I swallowed and steeled myself.
    “This lady.” A woman. Who was she and why did they think I could make the ID? I considered turning and bolting for the door. I mean, what could they do? Shoot me?
    They didn’t guide me into any formal viewing room or ask whether I wanted to see a grief counselor. They led me to a corridor that ran perpendicular to the first one, to a gurney lined up with other gurneys along the hall.
    “Haven’t done the cut yet,” Little Mac said.
    “Why am I not surprised?” Big Mac checked the tag, glanced at me, and casually flipped the sheet.
    Not Marta.
I didn’t even realize I’d expected it to be Paolina’s mother until I saw who it actually was.
    Jessica Franklin, the beautiful, tearful young woman who’d come to me for help. Jessica Franklin, “call me Jessie,” bride-never-to-be. Lying on the narrow gurney, half her face smashed to pulp, dried blood matting the smooth dark hair.
    “You know her?”
    The hallway felt so close, suddenly too warm, suddenly stifling, airless, and still. I must have nodded.
    “Bingo.” The big cop’s voice seemed to come from far away.
    “You okay?”
    “What happened?” I said. “How—?”
    One of the Macs flipped the sheet to cover her, but I couldn’t look away.
    “Your business card in her pocket. Took a couple days to make it out, blood and stuff, but that’s all she had. No wallet, no purse.”
    “Robbery?”
    “Hit and run.”
    “When?” I managed. My voice sounded hoarse and gravelly.
    “Late Friday, early Saturday.” Little Mac yanked a notebook out of his pocket, ran a finger down a page. “Found Saturday, four in the morning.”
    “No,” I said.
    “Whaddaya mean, no? It’s in the report.”
    “She was in New York.”
    He checked the notebook again. “Nope. She was in the North End.”
    It made no sense. Had she forgotten her bag at the restaurant, taken a taxi back? Missed her train? I reached out and touched the rough sheet over Jessie’s motionless arm.
    Sometimes I stonewall the cops to protect a client. Jessica Franklin didn’t need protecting anymore.
    I spilled everything.

ELEVEN
    The rectangular light flashed green. I centered the photo of the groom-to-be facedown on the screen, closed the cover, and pressed SCAN. The cops wanted the entire Jessica Franklin file.