Divine Intervention (8 page)

Natassia knew exactly what the woman meant.

Beranski was a loner. Kept to himself, no real friends, no family. A prime candidate for someone out to prove himself.
A prime suspect.

"So what's different today?" Natassia prodded.

"Jay―I mean, Mr. Beranski has been whistling and smiling all day. He's even been friendly to our customers, asking them how they feel. Every few minutes I hear him saying
'It's a great day today'
, like he's won the lottery or something."

"Doris, why do
you
think he's so happy?"

The assistant smirked. "I'll tell you exactly why I think he's so happy. This morning, on the radio? We all heard that some doctor in Kelowna was killed in a fire. The store went quiet―all except Jason. He was stocking the new shipment and dropped a case of
Amoxil
. Luckily it was bubble-wrapped."

"So he dropped the pills…and?"

Doris's eyes strayed toward the ceiling while she tried to remember the order of events.

"Yeah," she managed finally. "And then he smiled. It was weird. Here we all were, thinking about that poor doctor's family, and Mr. Beranski was smiling."

"Is that it?"

"No. When I asked him what was so funny? He just said
'It's a great day today. The bastard finally got what was coming to him.'
And since then, he's been smiling and friendly to everyone. Weird! That's all I can say."

Doris chewed on her fingernail, then blinked.

"Hey! Was that the same fire you're investigating?"

"Voice record off," Natassia replied, without answering the woman's question. "I'm sorry, but I can't tell you any more."

She thanked Doris for her time and watched the woman rush back to the pharmacy.

The gossip was going to be good today.

Natassia checked her watch.

Time to join Jasi and Beranski.

But first she would do a quick, although illegal, search of the back room. Perhaps one of the boxes contained IV tubing. And if a piece of it just happened to be on the floor then she would need no other reason to investigate. She knew that Jasi would keep Jason Beranski busy for at least fifteen minutes.

That would give Natassia plenty of time.

Outside in the back alley, Jasi fumed.

She had wasted her time trying to establish Beranski's background and his whereabouts during the early morning. The man was clueless and infuriating.

"Mr. Beranski, are you aware that Dr. Norman Washburn was murdered this morning?"

"Yeah, so what of it? You expect m-me to feel s-sorry for him?"

"We're fully informed about the charges you filed against Dr. Washburn. We also know that he was found not guilty in your mother's WD case."

Pacing in front of her, Beranski booted a rusted coffee can against the Dumpster.

"Not guilty? That d-d-drunken bastard killed my mother! He s-slaughtered her in the operating room so that no other surgeon could p-put her together again. And the h-hospital officials? Those assholes d-defended him. They m-made up some excuse that he b-blacked out. A stroke, they said."

Jasi clipped her data-com to her jacket and slid a photo toward him. "You hate him enough to do this?"

The X-Disc had taken the photograph on its fly-by. It showed Washburn's body, blistered and burned to a crisp. In fact, it was impossible to discern where the body ended and the chair began. It was an image of death, a macabre thing to show a suspect.

But Jasi wanted to see the man's reaction.

She wasn't expecting his face to turn green, though.

"The ME had to identify the body by dental records," she nudged. "Every inch of him was roasted, the flesh was peeled from his bones like an overcooked turkey."

The pharmacist stood up, knocking over his coffee mug. He reached for the back door, desperate for escape.

"S-stop it!"

"Look at the picture again, Mr. Beranski, and then try to remember what you were doing this morning around one o'clock." She could tell he was fighting not to gag.

When he grabbed the door handle, she shoved the photograph toward him.

There are certain moments when it seems as though time moves in slow motion. This was definitely one of those times, Jasi realized a little too late.

Just as Jason Beranski reached the door, it was pushed open from inside. Agent Natassia Prushenko had the misfortune of stepping into the alley at the same moment that the pharmacist tried to get to the washroom.

Beranski didn't make it.

Neither did Natassia's blouse.

"What did you get from Beranski the Barfer?" Natassia asked her when they reached the women's washroom.

"Not much," Jasi answered, handing her some paper towel. "Beranski the Barfer seemed confused. The guy can't remember whether he was home last night or at the movies. Changed his story a couple of times."

"I searched the back room," Natassia grinned. "Nothing."

Jasi watched her friend valiantly trying to plug her nose while cleaning vomit from her blouse. "Sorry about this. I guess I pushed him a bit too hard."

Natassia raised a dark eyebrow. "Who, you?"

Jasi let the comment ride. "We'll have to check out the movie alibi. He says he saw a remake of
Titanic
last night…midnight show. That would put him there until three."

She was frustrated with Beranski. Because he had changed his story twice, she'd have to spend valuable time determining exactly where the man had been.

"I have an appointment with the coroner
and
a corpse," Natassia reminded her.

Tossing the soiled paper towel in the garbage, Jasi said, "I should come with you, be your reality line."

"No, I'll ask the coroner to stay. All I need is a voice to pull me out if I go in too far. I'll be fine."

"Okay, I'll take the theatre then. You hear from Ben?"

"Yeah, he said he'll meet us for dinner." Natassia's eyes drifted down the front of her blouse. "Crap!" she pouted, plucking at her damp shirt. "Ben has my pack."

Jasi aimed an apologetic look in her partner's direction.

She didn't envy the coroner…or the corpse.

7

Entering the Kelowna Coroner's Office, Natassia held her head high, eyes front. Her blouse had dried but the stench of vomit trailed after her like cheap 'knock-off' cologne. People stared at her but she ignored them, heading straight for the information desk. She was buzzed through a security door while the receptionist sniffed the air trying to detect where the foul odor came from.

"Agent Prushenko?"

The security guard that greeted her sported a tattoo of a shark's head that was barely visible above the collar of his crisp white shirt. The man was long-limbed, dark-eyed and dark-skinned.

Ebonic
, she reminded herself. That was now the politically correct term for people of African or 'black' origin. In 2006, the word had replaced
African American
and all other related descriptions because Ebonic people had protested being lumped into
African
or
American
phraseology.
Ebonic
was more general, like
Caucasian
or
Hispanic
.

"You sure you want to go to the morgue?" the guard asked. The shark's mouth pulsed menacingly.

Natassia waited, silent and impatient.

The man shrugged. "The coroner will meet you at the bottom."

He carefully scanned her badge and then escorted her down a long corridor. When they stepped inside the elevator he keyed in a code and hastily moved back into the hallway before the doors closed.

The elevator was quick and settled with a gentle lurch.

When the doors opened, Natassia took a few seconds to readjust her blouse, examining it in the dim light. The smell was dissipating. Or maybe it had killed off her olfactory senses. Perhaps no one else would notice.

A tall man with a close-shaved goatee lunged toward her and pulled her from the elevator.

"Agent Prushenko, we meet again."

Winded, her eyes locked on the face of the suave Marcel Desrocher, Quebec City coroner
extraordinaire
.

"Marcel! What in God's name are you doing here?"

The man loosened his death grip and kissed her firmly.

Natassia shrugged him off, then studied him.

They had met when she had been transferred to Quebec City after basic training. One of her first cases as a rookie VE pitted her against a skeptical and somewhat older coroner who had swept her off her feet.

"Ah,
mon Dieu
!" Marcel sniffed.

He wrinkled his nose in disgust when a waft of something rotten hit him. "What is that terrible
parfum
you are wearing?"

Pushing him away, she scowled. "
Eau de vomi
!"

Vomit.

He backed away a few feet and frowned.

Then waving at the space between them, he grinned wickedly. "Ah,
mon chéri
, it has been too long."

"Not long enough," she muttered disdainfully.

Marcel Desrocher hadn't aged a bit, Natassia thought. His silver-tipped black hair was trimmed neatly, his moustache and goatee a bare shadow, and his dark eyes still gleamed like a wild child at an illicit rendezvous. Tall and thin, the man appeared unbelievably fit―for someone who was in his late forties.

She followed him down a short corridor. "How's the new girlfriend…uh, Maureen, is it?"

"Marilyn. She's in Cuba."

Natassia really didn't want to discuss his latest conquest, so she changed the subject. "Are you here permanently or just on loan?"

"Which would you prefer
, ma belle
?"

When she didn't answer, he chuckled. "On loan. The regular coroner is on holiday in Greece, probably sunbathing
tout nu
…naked." His dark eyes glimmered with desire as they rested on her breasts.

Natassia huffed indignantly, then firmly fastened the top button of her blouse.

Marcel leered at her, then stopped at a door marked
'City Morgue'
. He scanned his thumbprint and keyed in his password.

Then, with a sweep of his arms, he opened the heavy door. "
Voici,
ma château!
"

The morgue gleamed with brushed stainless steel cabinetry, tables and counters. The concrete walls were beige―what little wall space there was. On the ceiling, small track lights were aimed in various directions. One light illuminated an older model forensics body scanner that hovered over a polyurethane table in a far corner of the room. Beside this, a low dividing wall separated an area of desks that held computers, printers and a fax machine. Two walls housed a variety of shelving, filing cabinets and six sinks. Steel tables extended from each of the sinks, with drainage hoses attached.

The tables were clean.

And all were unoccupied―except one.

Marcel indicated the fully clothed man lying on the table. "Nathan Watts. My assistant. We've had a long night and Nathan is
trés fatigué
."

Natassia suspiciously eyed the man on the table. She searched his chest for signs of life. The man's eyes were closed and his hands were folded across his chest. His pristine white lab coat was the only indication that he didn't really belong on a slab of dead cold metal.

"Over here," Marcel beckoned.

He led her to the third wall―the one lined with sliding drawers each labeled meticulously with the name of the deceased.

"Dr. Norman Washburn, case H085A.
Prête
?"

"Ready," Natassia nodded.

Marcel pressed a red button.

A noise issued from the wall. The humming sound was high-pitched and intermittent. The sound stopped abruptly when a bottom drawer slid fully open, revealing the black body bag that preserved Washburn's remains.

"Jesus!" Natassia muttered under her breath.

The stench of death oozed from the bag.

A waft of pungent air was released when she eased the zipper down, and she swallowed hard.

Don't lose it, Natassia!

Removing a tube of
Mentho
from her pocket, she sprayed it into both nostrils and inhaled deeply. The heavy menthol base coated her olfactory nerves. For thirty minutes, she would have no sense of smell.