Decoherence (13 page)

Bosco stretched, his butt going skyward as his front legs reached out.

“The yoga feel good, puppy?”

He hung his tongue out in response.

“Yeah. I could use a few sun salutes, too.” Maybe meditation would help her gain some focus. Move her away from this place of panic. It felt like her heart rate hadn't dropped in a month.

“You know what? There's a yoga place south of here,” she told Bosco with a speculative smile. A farm down south of Titusville run by a family who opened their home to anyone who wanted to drop by and help in the garden. They wouldn't want her ID or money. She'd probably even be able to convince them to let her trade cooking for the garden work. “How do you feel about watching some goats this week?”

If Bosco was going to answer with one of his expressive doggy looks, he didn't have a chance to. Sam was distracted by the sunlight flaring off the precinct door as Ivy Clemens walked out.

Sam smiled for real for the first time in weeks. “Come on, puppy. Look cute. One of us has to convince Ivy to play ball with us.”

At the word “ball,” Bosco jumped to his feet, tail wagging.

With a slight tug at the leash, Sam led him across the parking lot to corner poor Officer Clemens. “Hey.”

Ivy froze beside her car, eyes wide with fear, lips puckered as if she'd just bit a lemon.

“We didn't seem to hit it off earlier.”

“I told you the case was closed.”

Sam leaned on the roof of Ivy's car, arms pillowed under her chin. “You think Troom killed Lexie.”

“Because he did.”

“Did he kill the other nine girls?”

Ivy had yet to learn how to hide her emotions. She stepped back, shock written in every moment. “What other girls?”

“When I started looking into Lexie's case, I found nine other victims. All physically similar. All killed in the same way. I'm thinking serial killer.”

“You should take the information to the CBI. I have no jurisdiction. We didn't even make the arrest. The CBI handled the murder with cooperation from the police in District 7.”

Bugger all.
There were so many reasons she could not go to the CBI. Especially since her younger self was still dealing with the shadow of the accusation that she was a clone. Sam wrinkled her nose. “You know, the CBI . . . they're . . . how should I put this? They're a little dull. A little too by-­the-­book for my style of fact-­finding.”

Ivy squared her shoulders. “The bureau is one of the finest organizations in our country. They do so much more than they ever receive credit for.”

Saints and angels!
“Yup, great ­people. Just not superhelpful.”

“Have you talked to them?” Ivy asked accusingly.

“I did.” It was only a half lie. She'd sent several anonymous tips to Agent Parker before Mac disappeared. “The agent I spoke with wasn't cooperative.”

“Have you tried Agent Rose here in District 8?”

If her hands hadn't been busy holding the leash as she leaned on the car, they would have been fists. “Not yet. But!” Sam cut Ivy off before the other woman could object. “I don't have enough evidence for her yet. If Agent Parker in Alabama wouldn't listen to me, I doubt an agent here in a busy district would. And the victim was found in another district. They'd bounce me around.”

“So why are you here?”

“I would like to work with the police to verify that Henry Troom is the killer. Or find the real one if they're still out there.”

Ivy shook her head. “No one is going to help you with that.”

“What about you?” Sam stretched and smiled. “Wouldn't that be a feather in your cap? The underrated officer bringing a serial killer to justice and helping the CBI. It'll look good on your record.”

Ivy's eyes closed in frustration. Sam knew what the officer wanted her to understand, and she was being obtuse on purpose. Clones were legally ­people, but like all bigotry that had been codified into law, it was hard to convince ­people that clones were equal human beings. Ivy was struggling with years of being a slave to the police department. She'd been handed the worst jobs, received the least credit, and treated like the department gofer for too long. She didn't think she could help, and she didn't want to be anyone's fetch-­girl.

“Listen, I'm not wrong about this. There's not a large risk.”

Ivy sighed in defeat. “Define large risk.”

“We'll find the killer. I can all but guarantee that. The only risk is the killer might find us first. It happens, only once or twice to me, but look at this way: I'm the one with the bull's-­eye on my back. You should be perfectly safe.”

Her laugh was bitter and humorless. “Safe? I can't even fight back in self-­defense.”

“That's why we take Bosco,” Sam said. “In Florida, he's allowed to eat ­people in self-­defense.”

Bosco whined helpfully.

“Don't let his tough-­guy act fool you. He's fierce,” Sam said.

Ivy shook her head, and her shoulder slumped. “I'll think about it. Where are you staying?”

“Tickseed Meadow off Manatee Lane,” Sam said. “It's south of Titusville.”

“Tickseed?”

“It was once the state flower. Saw that in the brochure.” Nearly six years ago now. Somehow, it had stuck. “Their number is in public records. Call me if you're willing to help.”

Ivy looked down at Bosco and shrugged. “Yeah. Sure. I'll think about it.”

“That's all I'm asking,” Sam said.

She watched Ivy drive off, and her smile failed. “I really hope this works.”

 

CHAPTER 25

“Even when you have the ability to walk through time, you still live only one day at a time.”

~ a private conversation with Agent 5—­I1—­2078

Tuesday January 7, 2070

Florida District 8

Commonwealth of North America

Iteration 2

“R
osie? Oh, Rose! Oh, hello, puppy. What a sweet puppikins.”

Sam opened one eye and peered out from under the duvet. Her face had been swallowed by the most wonderful, butter-­soft pillow in the world on a bed curtained by vines. This Eden was idyllic. Also, noisy. Her fingers clenched over the butt of the truncheon as she oriented herself.

“Rosie?” A magpie of a woman wearing a fluttery, multicolored caftan hovered just out of reach. Wild daisies were braided into her fading red hair. “Rose?”

Sam gave up on the idea of going back to sleep and rolled over. “Yes?”

“I'm so sorry to wake you. Anyone with half a third eye can tell you need to rejuvenate and realign your chakras, but there's an Officer Clemens on the phone. She's most insistent, dear. Would you like me to tell her to leave you alone? You have rights, you know. Our Davin is a lawyer. Still licensed, too. Very popular with the nudists.”

“Did she say what it was about?”

“Nope!” The woman could make even that sound cheerful.

“Okay—­can you check?”

“Of course!” The woman hurried away, leaving Sam to contemplate the vines hanging from the ceiling in macramé nests. Mac would hate this place. Sam could see herself enjoying it for a week or so before the novelty of living in a fairy garden wore off. As soon as someone asked her to sew her own clothes, she'd be gone.

For now, it wasn't so bad.

“Oh, Rosie!” The woman bustled back in with a big smile. “She says it's about a corpse, dear. Did you kill someone?”

Sam groaned. “No. I'm trying to find a killer. The police thought he was in jail. I was playing a hunch he wasn't.” She rolled out of bed and stretched. “Is Ivy still on the phone?”

“Is that Officer Clemens?”

“Yes . . .” Her memory for names failed her.

“Maribel,” the woman said kindly. “Maribel Moonchild First Breath Ocean Peace Starchild Jensen.”

At least they kept a family name
.

“Jensen is the name of mother's favorite actor,” Maribel said, as if reading Sam's mind, “goddess rest her soul. A sweet woman, my mother. Not a vegan, but we can't all be perfect.” Maribel beamed at her. “You look delightful this morning, Rose. Rose Dewdrop Honey Sun, that should be your name.”

Sam nodded because disagreeing would have only prolonged the painful conversation. “Sure. Why not? Where's the phone?”

“Third door on the left. Just hit the gong when you're done. It clears the negative vibrations from the room.” Maribel took off again, knees bent and arms swinging, but somehow her scuffed-­slipper-­clad feet never left the bamboo floor. It was an odd little walk for an odd little woman.

Amused, Sam tugged the borrowed plum bathrobe tight and walked into the study. Tickweed Meadow had an honest-­to-­goodness vintage phone complete with tangled cord attached to the wall. “Hello?” Sam said as she lifted the heavy phone to her ear. “Ivy?”

“Miss MacKenzie?”

“That's still me,” Sam said. “Although they're planning a naming ceremony this evening, and if Maribel gets her way, I'll be Dewdrop Honey Sun.”

Ivy's horrified silence was delightful.

Everything was delightful this morning. It made her wonder what exactly had been in the tea at dinner. Sam made a mental note to drink water before leaving. “You still there, Officer Clemens?”

“I . . . yes. Sorry. I wasn't sure if you were joking or not.”

“I was. Maribel probably isn't. But if you have news on the case, I'll probably be working late tonight. What happened?”

“We found a body right on the district line. It's in the morgue while everyone argues jurisdiction, and I thought you might want to look.”

“I'd love to!” Sam said with a little bit too much enthusiasm. Ivy was going to start thinking she was a real mental case. “Where can I meet you?”

“District 6. The medical examiner is Lawrence Dom. I should be there before you, but if I'm not, I called ahead, so he knows you're coming. He's a little . . . weird,” Ivy said apologetically. “He's very particular about where everything is. You should be fine as long as you don't touch anything.”

“Got it,” Sam said. “I'll be on the road in a few minutes.”

“Do you want directions?”

Sam winced and lied. “Yes! Thank you. I'm not at the top of my game first thing in the morning.” She listened as Ivy gave her the directions and repeated the street names back as if she were writing them down. As long as Ivy didn't ask to see the written material, she'd be fine. After hanging up, she sighed and let reality set back in.

She had three changes of clothes, no real ID, and a giant mastiff who couldn't come in the morgue or be left in the car. She hit the gong.

It didn't seem to fix her problems.

Maribel's frizzy red nest of hair appeared in the doorway. “Rosie? Are you done? Is your friend all right?”

“She's fine. I'm going to drive up and go help her with this.” Sam tugged at her braided, far-­too-­blond hair. “Can Bosco stay here today? Chase the chickens or something for you?”

“Oh, of course! Dogs have very healing souls. Especially him. There's so much wisdom in his eyes.”

Sam narrowed her eyes. “Now you're pulling my leg.”

Maribel shrugged, and an impish smile appeared. “Well, ­people say cats are healing. Why not dogs? I like them better than cats anyway.”

Sam laughed. “I knew I liked you for a reason.”

“Do you have time for breakfast before you go?”

“No, probably not. I need to get to the morgue in District 6.”

“Oh.” Her wrinkled face sagged into the most despondent frown. “It isn't anyone you know, is it?”

“No.” Sam shook her head. “It shouldn't be. But I need to get there and help Officer Clemens find the perpetrator before it happens again.”

“I'll pack you a goodie bag. Do you think Officer Clemens would like some dandelion cookies? They're very nourishing.”

“I don't know her that well, but she might. Who says no to free cookies?” She paused. “Wait, is there any of that spinach salad left over from dinner?”

“Of course! I'll put together a little lunch for you.”

“You're the best,” Sam said. She rushed to back to the nursery-­turned-­bedroom, changed, and was out the door with a cooler full of nourishing goodies in under twenty minutes.

T
he labs in District 6 made Sam sick with envy. A gleaming chrome-­and-­glass edifice to science surged from the white sidewalks like a temple to research. There was even a fountain. She hadn't been able to get a full-­time medical examiner, and Petrilli had a fountain.

That was unfair.

She parked the rental in the back of the lot and walked in, with her hair hanging loose and wavy. From the Tickweed Meadow's communal closet she'd grabbed a pair of bright, Mediterranean-­blue pants that hung loose on her hips, some short black, faux-­leather boots, a white tube top, and a white crop-­top jacket. With a few tasteful pieces of costume jewelry she'd grabbed at the flea market on the side of the road, she looked exactly like a trashy California PI from a movie.

Even she was startled by her reflection in the mirrored glass of the lobby. The look was Not Her in so many ways. But that was the point. She'd met Lawrence Dom once, very early in her move to Florida, and she didn't want to risk a run-­in with Petrilli. If either of them recognized her, she'd be the one in the detention center explaining things. There was no way it would end well.

The doors swung open automatically, inviting her to step out of the pleasant Florida plaza into a sterile, ultramodern lobby that looked eerily familiar. She'd bet a milk shake and a side of fries the architect for the District 6 labs was the same person who had drawn up the plans for N-­V Nova Laboratories in Alabama.

A bright silver half dome rolled past. It took her a moment to realize it was the latest model of cleaning bots. She'd seen the ads before, but District 8 had never been on the list for the upgrades.

Feo Petrilli really was a lucky dog.

“Rose MacKenzie here to see Dr. Dom, please.” She held up a fake ID with her thumb over the fine details as she approached the security desk.

The guard was a middle-­aged woman who reminded Sam of her old landlady, Miss Azalea. Except Miss Azalea smiled and cooked fried chicken, and this woman looked like she'd been sucking lemons for the past six hours. “Are you expected?”

“Yes, ma'am.” A hint of Southern twang slipped out. Sam prayed the women wouldn't think she was being rude.

The guard sighed and handed over a datpad. “Sign in here.”

Sam scribbled some loops in place and handed it back with a smile.

“This is your name?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“There are letters in there?” The woman had missed her true calling. The nuns at St. Agnes would have welcomed her with open arms.

Sam pretended to inspect the signature with interest. “Right there's an R and that's an M.”

“That M doesn't quit.”

“Neither do I.” Sam winked at her.

The guard rolled her eyes. “Fourth door down the green corridor. Follow the tiles. Hit the buzzer when you get there and smile for the camera. I'll unlock the door from here.”

Following green agate tiles to the eastern wing, Sam buzzed in and stepped through the doorway into the memorable
Eau de Morgue
. The fug was something she'd tried to scrub from her brain, but, like the procedure for securing a crime scene, it just wouldn't leave. Her heels clomped on the hard floor, the sound echoing down the whitewalled hall and warping on its return.

When the door behind her opened, she spun.

“Miss MacKenzie?” Ivy stood in the doorway, frozen.

Sam forced a smile. “Sorry, you startled me. Morgues always give me the creeps. All alone . . . I thought maybe one of the corpses wanted to go out for a donut.”

Ivy chuckled nervously as if she wasn't entirely sure Sam was joking, or how she was supposed to handle the situation if she wasn't. “District 6 has some of the best facilities in the state. The precinct considers ourselves lucky that we get to work with them.”

“It's lovely if modern architecture is your thing.” Sam waited for Ivy to catch up, then followed her down the hall to the ME's office. “I prefer some greenery. Fresh plants or a fish tank maybe. Something alive.”

“I think it's a very practical design.” Ivy stopped in front of Dom's door. “Have you ever seen a corpse before?”

“Several,” Sam said. Two of them had been Sams from other iterations.
Hopefully
other iterations. There was still an uncomfortable question mark over Jane Doe's origin. “I'll let you know if I have a problem.”

Even Ivy's smile was apologetic. “Last time I was here was with Detective Monroe, and she had morning sickness. The formaldehyde did her in. I didn't want to . . . you don't have anything like that, do you?”

“Not in several years,” Sam said, biting back the bitter sorrow.

She pretended not to note as Ivy's eyes dipped to her abdomen. “Oh. You have—­”

“No.” Sam cut her off. “I miscarried. I don't like pineapple. My first kiss was in college. Are you done prying into my personal life? Can we get to work now?”

Ivy shrunk in on herself, and Sam silently cursed her own temper.

“I'm sorry. That was curt of me. It's a touchy subject.” Sam held her hands up in apology. “Can we, please, move on?”

Ivy quickly nodded and opened the door, but Sam noticed how she stepped away. It was like kicking a puppy, it really was. Ivy had opened up to her—­would open up to her—­before Sam had slipped back in time and moved to Australia. She knew what was going on, how hard Ivy fought to be seen as human.

A mutinous voice in Sam's head muttered that getting snapped at was human, too. She wished Mac were with her. He was good at tag-­teaming these situations. Playing the gormless medic with big, hazel eyes and a sad smile while she did her job as the by-­the-­book agent. ­People trusted Mac. She just made them angry.

“Dr. Dom,” Ivy said to the room at large. “Doctor? It's Officer Clemens from New Smyrna.”

A chubby man with a gleaming bald head wheeled across the room in an oversized office chair. “Officer Clemens! And visitor. They sent me the visitor's signature, but I couldn't read this.” Narrowed eyes glared up at Sam accusingly. “With handwriting like that, you better have a Ph.D. Who are you?”

“Call me MacKenzie,” Sam said, holding out her hand.

Dom shuddered. “Eww. No. I have spent too much time studying the wealth of biology growing on human flesh.” He looked away in disgust and took a moment to recover. After making a gagging face, he said, “I'd say please come in, but we all know I don't really want that. But, come in anyway. There's not much to see.”

“Have you identified her yet?” Ivy asked.

“One of my assistants is running the dental work now. Very unusual amalgam.”

A red flag went up in Sam's mind. “Can I make a guess about her physical description?” Sam asked. “Female, Latina, long black hair, beaten-­in face, just over average height, below average weight, and under thirty?”

The ME turned his chair to look at her with focused interest. “Do you want to guess the lotto numbers next?”

“Miss MacKenzie was hired by Lexie Muñoz's family to ensure her killer comes to justice,” Ivy said. “She thinks that Lexie was possibly murdered by a serial killer.”