Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 02 - Elective Procedures (12 page)

Spindly bare legs sprawled across the tiles. The image didn’t register until I saw the clotted dark puddle. I twisted to see around the wall.

And somewhere close by, someone screamed.

The woman’s name was Greta Mosley. Her face had been slashed to ribbons. Sergeant Perez wouldn’t tell us much more, just that her face had been unrecognizable. And that she’d been stabbed so many times that it was impossible to tell which wound or wounds had caused her death.

“Did either of you hear anything unusual in the night?” Sergeant Perez looked at Susan, then at me.

Susan shook her head. “I fell asleep early.”

I took a breath. Said that I’d heard a woman out on her balcony, talking to two different men. Didn’t mention that one of them was Alain Du Bois. “But I heard both of the men leave. And when I went to bed around midnight, she was still alive.”

“How do you know that?”

“I heard her talking. I think she was on the phone.”

“We checked her phone,” Perez remarked. “She did make some calls. Did you hear that last conversation?”

I felt Susan’s eyes. Couldn’t read her expression. Puzzled? Worried? Did she want me to stop talking?

“I heard her tell someone to come over.”

“Uh-huh.” Perez nodded. “So the last person she called might be our killer.”

“Not necessarily,” Susan, the defense attorney, corrected him. “We don’t know that the person actually came over. And we certainly don’t know that this person killed her.”

“
Gracias, señora
.” Perez’s tone was condescending. “I believe I said this person ‘might’ be our killer.”

“All I’m saying is—”

“That will do, señora.” Perez turned from Susan to me. “Is there anything else you remember?”

I thought back. Recalled the ghost of Claudia Madison warning that her killer would come after me. But that hadn’t been real, wasn’t relevant.

“She was crying,” I said. “She told one of the men that she thought she was hideous.”

Perez stroked his chin. Watched me. Waited.

I pictured Alain with her. Heard him kissing her. Then refusing her, leaving her in tears. And I remembered leaning over the balcony. Seeing Greta cry.

“She was alone when I went to bed.”

“And how do you know that? You couldn’t see her.”

“Well, actually I could.” I bit my lip. “I leaned over the balcony.”

“You what?” Susan blinked at me, appalled.

“She was sobbing—I was concerned about her.” And curious about her relationship with Alain.

“And when you looked around the wall,” Perez demanded, “you saw only her. No one else.”

“Yes. No one was there.” I shrugged. “Well, except for a maid, turning down her bed.”

“A maid.” Perez echoed.

I nodded. “Maybe the maid saw someone.”

“What did she look like?”

I thought back, had no idea. Remembered only her uniform. “I didn’t see her face.”

He nodded. “Well, the hotel will know who was working. If you think of anything else, let me know.” He stood, ready to go. “As you can see, two deaths have occurred in the same room right next to yours in a short period of time.” He paused, as if he’d said something profound.

“What are you trying to say, Sergeant?” Susan pressed.

“Only that I urge you to be vigilant.” Sergeant Perez looked at each of us, registering his point. “If you see or hear anything suspicious, contact the police.”

Becky rushed in while he was still speaking. “Guys,” she pointed out the door, “there’s police tape all over the hall. What hap—”

When she saw Sergeant Perez, she stopped, breathless, and looked at me. “Elle? Oh God. Did someone else die?” She asked me, not the others. As if I was the one who’d know. As if death were somehow my area of expertise.

Alain arrived, black bag in hand, right after Becky. Sergeant Perez took him aside, conferred quietly at the door. Telling him the news? Alain’s face turned gray and he staggered. I thought he might faint, but he didn’t. He lowered his head and put a hand over his eyes. Perez continued talking.

I sat on the sofa, trying not to stare at Alain. Trying to block out Susan’s voice and tune into Perez’s, eavesdropping. Not having much luck.

“Wow. I can’t believe another woman died.” Becky was wearing one of Chichi’s t-shirts. It said, “Cha-cha with Chichi” on the front and “Limbo with Luis” on the back. “Maybe we should ask to change rooms. There’s too much bad juju here.”

“Well, why would that concern you?” Susan scowled, crossed her arms. “You’re not exactly staying here.”

Becky’s eyes widened. “What?”

“You pop in, not knowing anything that’s happened. You weren’t here for Jen. You drop by when it suits you and expect us to update you.”

“Susan,” I tried to intervene. “None of this is Becky’s fault.”

Susan’s phone began ringing. “Damn.” She glared at it. “What would they do if I just didn’t answer?” But she did answer and, gesturing emphatically with her free hand, she wandered onto the balcony, arguing with someone in her office.

“She’s tired,” I told Becky. “She spent the whole day with Jen, and her office is sending her work, and now this.”

“No. It’s not just that. Susan never takes me seriously. She
thinks my life is a party, or a joke. She doesn’t believe I can really be serious about a guy. Or that my relationships matter. Only hers.”

“That’s not true.” Except, probably it was. “She’s just stressed.” I looked over Becky’s shoulder at Alain. He looked steadier, but was still engrossed in conversation with Sergeant Perez. Was he talking about his visit to Greta Mosley last night? I watched his lips, tried to read them. Couldn’t.

Becky was chattering, saying something about how hard it was to choose between her lover and her friends, especially when time with Chichi was so finite. How it wasn’t her fault people kept dying next door. How she shouldn’t be blamed for wanting to live her life and make her own choices.

The room hummed with voices. Susan’s, Becky’s, Alain’s, and Sergeant Perez’s. They blended into nervous fuzz. I pictured the woman next door, her face cut into spaghetti strands. Who would slash someone’s face? And why? The face was personal, the part of the body that was unique, that distinguished one person from another. Stabbing it—destroying it seemed much more hateful than stabbing a chest or a stomach. Especially, in a suite reserved for patients of cosmetic surgery.

But was Greta actually a patient? The night before, I’d heard Alain turning her down, telling Greta that he couldn’t do what she wanted. He’d also told her that she was already beautiful, that her face was perfect. That her body was like a goddess. I heard his voice assure her that he couldn’t “remember seeing a more desirable woman.”

Really? Recalling his words, I felt a pang. Lord, was I jealous? Of a dead woman? And anyway, what did I care what Alain had said to her? We’d had one dinner. He was no one to me. And he was married. No, wait, I was losing the point. What was the point again? I tried to remember. Oh, right. The point was that the murderer hadn’t been happy just to kill Greta, but had needed to destroy her face, demolishing her beauty.

I was onto something. An idea began to form, something
about beauty and the killer’s motive or identity. But before it took on definition, a piercing scream shattered it to shards.

It came from Susan and Jen’s room. “SUBBODY!”

Oh God—Jen! Was she being attacked? I was on my feet. Everyone was. We stampeded, all four of us, tripping over each other to get through the doorway.

“Where the hell’s everbody bid?” Even with her bandages, I could see Jen’s indignant pout. “I’ve bid calligg for half ad hour.”

Becky put up a defensive hand. “Hold on, I just got here.”

“Dr. Du Bois.” Jen ignored her. “You fucked be up. By doze is stuffed.”

“It’s packing,” his voice was thick. His eyes looked glassy. “It’ll come out soon.”

“Those goddabbed pills dote work—I deed subthigg that works. I’b id terrible paid. I deed drugs. Ad I think I have ad idfectiod—”

“Let me take a look.” Alain snapped into his professional role, opened his black bag, and pulled out tools: a stethoscope, a thermometer.

“And dabbit, Susad. Get off the phode. You said you’d get be subthigg to eat ad hour ago.”

Apparently, neither pain nor infection had dulled her appetite. Susan, still on her cell, waved at Jen and headed for the kitchenette, Becky trailing behind her.

Jen turned her glare to me. “Well? Is adybody goigg to help be get to the toilet? Or do you want be to fuckigg pee id bed?”

Alain stuck a thermometer into her mouth, stifling her. When he removed it, I helped her out of bed and guided her to the bathroom. He didn’t say anything to me nor did I to him, but I felt his heavy gaze on my back as I led Jen away.

I sat on the balcony while Alain conducted Jen’s post-op checkup. Becky made coffee and poured juice while Susan
simultaneously scrambled eggs and scrapped with someone at her law office.

Down at the pool, Chichi and Luis were setting up equipment for water basketball. A barrel-bellied man rode down the alligator slide, splashing into the pool. People carrying towels staked claims to lounge chairs or walked to the beach to the rhythm of piped-in salsa music.

Two women were dead, both staying in the suite next door. And I had been there both times, had seen or heard both of them just before they’d died. I thought about the night before. About the men with Greta. The maid turning down her bed. Had there been a maid in Claudia’s room too? I tried to remember, pictured her on the railing. Couldn’t see into the room.

“The one who killed me,” I heard her warn, “will come for you.”

Claudia’s death had most likely been a murder, like Greta’s. But why would her killer care about, let alone come after me? I didn’t know either of the victims. Had no incriminating information about their killers. What would be the reason for targeting me?

There was none. No reason.

“Just be careful,” Claudia said. Or was it Greta this time?

I would be careful. Yes.

“That’s good to know,” Alain answered.

I spun around. Oh God. Had I said that out loud? He was standing behind me. How long had he been there? What else had I said?

“Are you all right, Elle?”

I nodded. Asked if he was.