The Ties That Bind Read Online Free PDF Page A

of
people, especially to young women visitors coming to the capital of the only
superpower left in the world.
    There also seemed another ploy at work. The Eggplant was
putting her out front on this one. There would be no place to hide. She
supposed there was a gender twist to it as well.
    Hanging up the phone, she gave her face a passing glance in
the mirror. Her skin looked pallid and a nerve was twitching in her cheek. This
was the face of a distressed woman.
    Back in the bedroom, she noted that Gail had placed a small
footstool next to the bed to minimize any disturbance to the floor. She had
also put plastic booties over her shoes, which emphasized the preparation and
attention to detail she invested in her work. She was kneeling on the footstool
and writing in her notebook. When she saw Fiona returning, she looked up and
began to read from her notes.
    "A Caucasian woman, twenties, hard bod. Name is Phyla
Herbert, from Chicago. Two suits, one skirt, three blouses, all hung up like soldiers
in the closet. Underwear in top drawer of chest. Small empty suitcase in closet
as well. Beside it, a briefcase. Lots of résumés and other paraphernalia of a
job seeker. Should be easy to trace her movements using the hotel telephone
log."
    Fiona listened carefully to Gail's recitation, but kept her
eyes averted from the body, hoping her action or lack of it would go unnoticed.
She was bluffing and knew it. This was not like her. She would have to force
herself to look.
    "I told you, my dad was a surgeon," Gail said.
Nothing escaped her. "I've watched him operate."
    Fiona ignored the comment. Squeamishness seemed her only
logical cover. Gail appeared to relish the inspection. Fiona noted her
intensity, her large yellow-flecked brown eyes studying the body and
surroundings with laser-like thoroughness.
    She felt an odd resentment, as if her authority was being
usurped, although she knew that Gail would be deferential, respectful.
Nevertheless, the feeling was there. Yet, there was no escaping that she had to
deal with the body and its implications, including the personal aspect. She
was, after all, a homicide detective, the senior officer in charge of the crime
scene.
    "Suck," Gail muttered.
    "What?"
    "Suck," she repeated. "Here, printed under
her bangs. And over here on both thighs, 'scum' on one thigh and 'cunt' on the
other."
    She must force herself to look, Fiona cried inside herself,
her head turning, eyes focusing. There it was, the body dead-white under its
blanket of speckled, browning blood. And the words Gail had spoken were clearly
printed in cherry red lipstick in block letters on the dead woman's forehead,
inner thighs and arms. Her areolas, too, were reddened by lipstick, unevenly,
like a child's crayoning.
    And more. A long red streak led down from her neck to below
her navel with the word "whore" printed in a crude semi-circle around
her pubic area. For a brief moment Fiona's eyes clouded, then, by force of
will, cleared again. Was it possible? Déjà vu, or fate playing an ugly game.
    "Graffiti," Fiona said, croaking the word,
fighting for her bearings, desperately trying to control her agitation. Another
flash of memory exloded in her mind. Oh God, she needed to run from this.
    Gail continued to observe the body as Fiona again turned
her eyes away and forced her concentration on other details of the scene,
hoping to find something that Gail had not yet noted, an unlikely prospect.
Soon Flannagan and the tech boys would arrive and the body would be carted off
and studied by the medical examiner's office. She was certain that Dr. Benson
would do the autopsy.
    What Fiona wanted most was to leave this place. The room
was oppressive, claustrophobic. She became aware of a growing knot in the pit
of her stomach that would not dissolve. Her hands shook and droplets of
perspiration were oozing out of her pores.
    "You okay?"
    It was Gail, towering over her, studying her face. Fiona
nodded, wishing that Gail would stop