Indulgence in Death (In Death #31)(41)

By the time she came out of the building, New York was changing shifts. Those who played or worked by night started home, or to wherever they hoped to flop for the night. Those who lived by day switched on lights in their apartments, hurried to catch the early train or tram. Sanitation crawled down the streets, clanging dully about its work.

But along with the scent of garbage she caught the perfume of bakeries, pushing the sugary, yeasty smells outside through their venting to lure in that change of shift.

She remembered the chips she’d tossed on the passenger seat, and had them for breakfast as she drove to the morgue. There, she settled on a tube of cold caffeine, much safer than what passed as coffee.

She didn’t expect anyone to have started the PM on Crampton. She simply wanted another look at her victim before she went back to Central.





She walked into Morris’s suite, and there he was, putting on his protective gear with the body already prepped and on his table.

“Did you catch the night shift?” she asked. Then she saw it, the sadness, the signs of a sleepless night.

He wore black again, stark and unrelieved.

“No. But I see you did.” He sealed his hands as he studied the body. “She was particularly beautiful.”

“Yeah. Top-tier LC.”

“So I saw in your report. I don’t have anything for you. I haven’t started.”

“I was in the field, and wanted another look at her before I went in.” She hesitated, but the unhappiness on his face twisted her up. “Bad night?”

He looked up, met her eyes. “Yes.” Now he hesitated while she tried to figure out what to say, or if to say anything.

“There are times I miss her more than seems possible, or bearable. It’s better. I know it’s better because it’s not every moment of every day, or even every day, every night. But there are times I realize, again, there is no Amaryllis Coltraine in the world, in my life, and it chokes me.”

She didn’t think about what she could or should say now, but only said what came through the heart and into her mind. “I don’t know how much better it gets, Morris, or how long it takes. I don’t know how people get through it.”

“Minute by minute, then hour by hour, then day by day. Work is solace,” he said, “friends are comfort. Life is for the living. You and I know that, even though we spend so much time with the dead—maybe because of that we know we have to live. Chale has been a great help to me.”

“That’s good,” she said, thinking of the priest she’d suggested Morris talk to. “You can . . . you know, anytime.”

“Yes.” His lips curved. “I know. You’re work, and a friend, so have been both solace and comfort.” He sighed, looked at the body again. “So.”

“I’ll let you work.”

“Tell me about her,” he said before she turned away. “What’s not in your report.”

“She lived well. She took care of herself, of her business. I think she was smart, and I think she took pride in her work, and I think she must have enjoyed it. I don’t think you can be really good at something, not for the long haul, if you don’t enjoy it. I guess she liked people, and making them feel important and desirable, and she knew how to do it. Not just the sex, I don’t see how that’s enough. She was a native New Yorker, working-class family, parents split when she was a kid. She got her first-level license at nineteen, kept her record clean, took the classes and tests for higher levels, worked her way up. I think she lived just the way she wanted to live, for as long as she had.”

“What else is there? Thank you.”

“I’ve got to get back.” She started for the door, stopped when she reached it. “Listen, Morris, maybe you could come over for dinner or something.” When he simply watched her, smiling, she shrugged. “You know, Roarke could play with that grill he got last year. We could do a summer deal, some friends, some cow meat.”

“I’d like that.”

“Well, I’ll fix it up, let you know.”

As she walked out, she heard him speak into the record. “Victim is mixed-race female.”

She pulled out her ’link as she walked outside, and set for message only on the tag.

Even so, Charles Monroe answered. “Good morning, Lieutenant Sugar.”

“What, is everybody up at dawn today?”

“We are. Louise had night duty at the clinic and just got home. I’m making breakfast. Want an omelet?”

“I was going to leave you a message, see if you could give me a little time today.”

“For you, any . . .” The smile faded from his face. “I wasn’t thinking. You call at this hour, someone’s dead. Someone I know?”

“I’m not sure. Ava Crampton.”

“Ava?” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Yes, I know her. What happened? Can you tell me?”

“I’d rather not over my pocket ’link. I’m out in the field, not that far away. I could—”

“Come over.”

“On my way.”





The garden Louise had planted in the days before she and Charles married thrived. More sweet than elegant, with just a touch of wild, it added another layer of personality to the townhouse they shared.