Cut and Run(7)

“Was he planning to go somewhere?” Hayden asked.

“He said not to worry when I asked.”

“We didn’t find any phones in his trailer,” Hayden said.

“I don’t know what he did with them.” Ledbetter sniffed and shifted his gaze to Faith. “Can I see Crow?”

Faith nodded. “If you will follow me, I can take you to Mr. Crow.”

Tension rippled through the young man. “Sure.”

The three walked down the hallway to the viewing room, where Nancy waited with the draped body of Mr. Crow. When Ledbetter stepped closer, Nancy drew back the sheet just far enough to show his face. At first, Ledbetter hovered back; then, finding the courage, he approached the gurney. His face crumbled with a mixture of sadness and pity. “I didn’t want to believe it was really Crow, but it is.” Ledbetter patted Crow on the shoulder, turned, and left the room.

Faith covered the face, and with Hayden, followed the young man as Nancy remained with the body.

Ledbetter shook his head. “Everyone liked Crow. He kept to himself. Drank a little too much from time to time, but he never hurt anyone. Lord, he was beat so bad. He didn’t deserve an end like this.”

Hayden asked several more questions, got the man’s contact information, and Ledbetter said his goodbyes before Nancy arrived and escorted him out of the building.

“I’ll run tests for narcotics, and will let you know if anything is positive.”

“Thanks, Dr. McIntyre.”

“Here to serve, Captain Hayden.”

Hat in hand he headed toward the elevator, passing Nancy as she headed back toward Faith.

As the elevator doors closed on Hayden, Nancy asked, “Dr. McIntyre, don’t you have somewhere to be?”

Faith checked her watch. Damn. She was late.

There was now a ballroom full of people waiting for her. Tonight she was the lady of the hour and being honored by the Youth Emergency Board as their volunteer of the year. Awards didn’t interest her, but she understood these events made the donors feel good and that much more inclined to open their wallets.

There would be no time to go home and change, so fresh red lipstick, a spritz of perfume, and another quick brush of her hair would have to do. Minutes later, she dashed out of the medical examiner’s office with memories of Jack Crow close on her heels.





CHAPTER THREE

Monday, June 25, 5:15 p.m.

Faith left a voicemail message for Macy Crow on the drive to the Driskill Hotel. They’d yet to speak directly, but Ms. Crow had promised to catch up with Faith while she was in town.

As Faith crossed the marble lobby, she found herself playing back her late father’s favorite saying. “Keep your eye on the prize.”

And, for her tonight, the prize was the new youth shelter set to break ground the first of the year. The last hundred grand needed to be raised to ensure the opening.

As a string quartet played “Clair de lune,” she moved past the white columns toward round tables decorated with crystal vases stuffed with fragrant white roses and place mats made from laminated drawings done by the shelter kids.

She headed straight to the bar, ordered a stiff martini, and took several sips, hoping it would blur Jack Crow’s broken body and enable her to fake a smile and face the former peers of her parents.

Over the next few minutes she accepted the greetings of long-absent friends and regaled them with polite stories from the medical examiner’s crypt. “Yes, Princess now cuts up dead people for a living.” Reminisced about old adventures. “Nairobi was fabulous, but Paris was wicked fun.” And accepted lunch dates from women she’d not seen in years.

“Faith, you’re charming everyone, as usual.”

Smiling, she turned toward the familiar deep voice of Peter Slater, PJ to his friends. She’d known PJ since they both had played hide-and-seek in the law office their fathers, Russell McIntyre and Peter Slater Sr., had maintained for over forty years.

Their fathers had met in college, attended the same law school, and hung out their shingles when they were in their late twenties. The families were intertwined to the core. PJ had mourned with her when her mother died a decade ago and her father five years later. In April, when Peter Sr. had died, she’d grieved as deeply as PJ and his mother, Margaret, who’d been a second mother to Faith.

Faith kissed PJ on the cheek, savoring the familiar brand of aftershave his father had also worn. “I’m sorry I’m late. Work. Where’s Margaret? She’s done a spectacular job of arranging all this.” Margaret was a small woman in her sixties who was always immaculately dressed and had more energy than women half her age.

“My lovely mother is drifting around the room, deciding if she’ll hold her stroke awareness fundraiser here next year. You know Mom, never satisfied unless she has twenty things going on at once.”

“How is Margaret holding up? This is her first event since your father died.”

“She has her low moments, but all and all she’s doing well. And be warned, she’s talking about inviting you onto one of her event-planning boards.”

“I love your mother, but I don’t think so.”

PJ laughed. “Good luck refusing her. My father never could.”

She surveyed the room and the bounty of flower arrangements, food, and drink. “For the cost of these kinds of events, it would be far easier for the board members to simply write a check to the shelter and call it a day.”