LITMIR.BIZ

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she wanted to kill him. Amazing she wasn’t in jail,” Dewey said.

      “We can pick people up, but we can’t always get them past the legal systems and the pleas and the deals,” Jagger said. “Seems she got off that because she had some drug connections and the D.A. offered her a plea in order to pick up a few of her friends who were higher up in the drug chain.”

      “Not a nice girl. Actually a deadly girl—and now a dead one,” Dewey commented. “Well, anyway, there you have it. I guess you’ll be heading off to the strip club,” Dewey said, punching him lightly on the arm. “Have fun.”

      “Thanks.”

      Jagger walked out of the autopsy room and left the morgue. He called Tony Miro, and told him where to head to start questioning Tina Lawrence’s friends, coworkers and employer, and to pull the credit card receipts and find out who had been in attendance at Tina’s last show. He needed to hang around near the morgue.

      Waiting for the sun to fall.

      As Dewey had said, Tina Lawrence hadn’t been a nice girl. She’d been a deadly one.

      He could only begin to imagine the horror that would be Tina Lawrence as a vampire.

       Chapter 3

      The coroner’s office never closed. It employed all manner of forensic specialists, along with financial and clerical staff. Under the Napoleonic Code of Law still in effect in Louisiana, the New Orleans coroner’s office was responsible not only for the classification of death, but also the evaluation of sex crimes and the overall general health of the citizens of the city, specifically recognizing serious threats from disease. It was a busy place. By day pathologists, forensic psychiatrists, patient liaisons, nurses in charge of sexual assault exams, forensic anthropologists, forensic odontologists and more clogged the corridors.

      Death didn’t stop at any particular time of day, so naturally a morgue couldn’t close.

      But by nightfall the accountants, assistants and usually even the experts in such fields as toxicology, entomology and more had called it quits for the day, and only a skeleton crew—if the pun could be forgiven—were on duty. The dead, after all, were dead.

      Usually.

      Fiona headed down Martin Luther King Boulevard and arrived outside the building’s entrance while it was still early; she watched as people came and went, and then kept on watching as they mainly went.

      There was no choice then but to go through the change, to concentrate and enter as a vampire would, in a shroud of mist.

      The guards never suspected a thing as she went by; the outer offices, where a few doctors were still working, were easily breeched; and she breezed by the night attendant sitting outside the morgue without being noticed. Because several people had died in recent days, she took a chance and searched through the records to find the right body.

      Then she headed into the dim, chilly room.

      To her surprise, the body of Tina Lawrence had not been slid away neatly into a refrigerated slot but she was stretched out on an autopsy table.

      The room smelled heavily of antiseptics and chemical compounds, not so much of death itself, yet the very antiseptics made it seem that the scent of death was prevalent in the air.

      She slipped in and concentrated hard on regaining her customary form, aware that during the good times she should have been practicing her transformations techniques. But all the while she couldn’t help wondering why they had left Tina Lawrence as she was.

      Fiona knew that the tenor of the investigation had changed; the news media had released the woman’s identification and touted her past record. Reporters had a knack for finding out what the investigators had barely discovered themselves.

      While the media had no doubt thought that releasing the victim’s background was a good thing—a reassurance to most citizens that they were safe—Fiona was certain that Jagger considered the knowledge to be dangerous. It was hard to catch a killer when everyone knew too many details about the victim and the crime. Cranks, crackheads and anyone else looking for a little notoriety might decide to confess to the crime. But New Orleans was still raw, still learning painful lessons after Katrina’s devastation, and Fiona was certain that most of the media believed they had done a good thing by releasing the information that the victim had led something much less than a blameless life. A majority of the city’s women would be able to think, I’m safe. I’m not a stripper or a prostitute, and I’ve certainly never been arrested.

      On the other hand, the news about the victim’s past had made Fiona incredibly nervous. Tina Lawrence must not be allowed to go through the change. Fiona had known what she had to do from the beginning; the information about Tina’s past had only made it all the more urgent.

      And so, as she retook her human form there in the autopsy room, she worried that the medical examiner assigned to the body might come back any minute to begin working on it still, that the assistant she’d passed in the hall might step in at any time, or that she might be caught by someone else entirely unanticipated who could enter any second.

      A sheet covered the body, and all she had to do was pull it back and use the stiletto sharp stake she had brought, making sure that she pierced the heart.

      She wasn’t surprised that Tina Lawrence wasn’t yet marked by the Y shaped incision of autopsy. Given the circumstances, Fiona was certain that it had taken some time to transfer the body to the morgue, and then the victim would have been fingerprinted, photographed and …

      She wasn’t sure what else.

      She actually didn’t want to know what else.

      All she had to do was make sure that Tina Lawrence did not wake up.

      But as she approached the corpse, she heard a noise in the hallway and the door started to open, so she dived behind a stainless table holding an array of instruments, most of them totally unfamiliar.

      The night attendant stuck his head in, looked around briefly, then closed the door and left.

      She started to breathe a sigh of relief, then realized that she was hearing something in the room. No, someone. She glanced quickly up at the table, but the corpse hadn’t moved. She held her ground, listening, her heart pounding.

      Nothing. She looked around in the dim light and waited. Still nothing. She started to rise and saw a flurry of motion behind her.

      Instantly alarmed, she started to change, but she wasn’t quick enough.

      Someone tackled her hard and forced her down to the ground.

      She instantly went into combat mode, lashing out with her arms and legs, delivering one solid punch that brought out a startled “Oomph,” from her attacker before he caught and secured her arms, straddling her.

      She found herself looking up into the eyes of Jagger DeFarge.

      “Fiona!”

      “DeFarge!” she lashed back angrily. “Get off me.”

      He didn’t comply, though he released her arms as he remained straddled over her, staring down at her angrily.

      “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.

      “It’s obvious what I’m doing here—cleaning up the mess,” she replied.

      “It’s my concern,” he told her.

      “No, it’s mine. I’m responsible in circumstances like these, and I have no guarantee that you’ll do the right thing,” she replied.

      “Well, I’m here, and I’m handling the situation,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest and staring down at her.

      “Will you please get off me?” she inquired.

      Before he could respond, the door opened. The young night attendant walked in, flicking on the bright overhead

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