Exhume (Dr. Schwartzman Series Book 1) Read online

  ALSO BY DANIELLE GIRARD

  Savage Art

  Ruthless Game

  Chasing Darkness

  Cold Silence

  Dead Center

  One Clean Shot

  Dark Passage

  Interference

  Everything to loser

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2016 Danielle Girard

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503939301

  ISBN-10: 1503939308

  Cover design by Mecob Design Ltd

  For Randle—first reader, story navigator, rock star

  CONTENTS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  1

  San Francisco, California

  Dr. Annabelle Schwartzman threaded her half-circle number-five suture needle, the kind normally used in orthopedic surgery. Pinching together the edges of the Y-incision she’d made an hour earlier, she began the process of closing the victim’s chest.

  The chest and torso had been badly burned, and the fire left the skin fragile. Since there wasn’t going to be an open casket, the standard protocol was to use staples to close the incision. Schwartzman preferred sutures. Staples were effective but seemed too industrial. The sutures were slower, and she enjoyed these last minutes with the victim, the time to fully process the death before contacting the investigator.

  Both the intensity and the reward of the medical examiner’s job were in being the final voice for a victim. Schwartzman was the last person to have access to the body, the one who decided if death was from natural causes or at the hand of another. It was intense and quiet work, the hours spent studying each piece in a puzzle that needed to be worked out.

  In medical school, many of her peers chose specialties in order to interact with patients—gynecology for the joys of birth, or pediatrics for the children.

  But those jobs came with sadness, too. Fetuses didn’t always make it to full term. Children developed diseases and died.

  As an ME, Schwartzman interacted with patients in the most intimate way—limitless in the depths she could go to diagnose a death. For many, forensic pathology would seem like an impossible choice. For her, it was the only one. People chose medicine for the heroics—to cure disease, save lives. In forensic pathology, there were no heroics. Just unanswered questions.

  The overhead light shut off. She waved her arm in the air to trigger the motion sensor. After 7:00 p.m., the lights automatically turned off after ten minutes. The halogen in the corner crackled angrily as it flickered on and off before settling into a solid glow. The hallways were dark, the room silent.

  Some of the department’s other medical examiners worked with loud music, but Schwartzman appreciated the silence. One reason she enjoyed being in the morgue at odd hours.

  She had been heading home from a dinner with some women from the police force when the morgue called to her, left her energized, ready for work.

  She didn’t go to the morgue because there was work—the work was always there. What she loved about the morgue was the space. The smell of the grapefruit lotion she used after she’d washed up and before she donned gloves, the vinegar scent of the clean instruments and table.

  She always smelled these before the body.

  The girls’ night out with her coworkers on the force had given her a chance to talk to Homicide Inspector Hailey Wyatt, to get to know her away from the crime scenes they had worked together. Schwartzman had surprised herself by opening up about Spencer.

  How long since she had done that?

  Melanie in the last year of medical school—six and a half years ago—that was the last time she’d allowed herself to get close to someone.

  Her phone buzzed. A text from Hailey. Glad u came tonight. See u tmrrw.

  Schwartzman smiled. She had felt a growing closeness. They might become friends.

  Spencer kept her isolated, certainly while they were married but even after she’d escaped. He had planted the notion that he was always close—confiding in someone was offering a key that might be used against her.

  Dinner hadn’t felt that way at all. It was a relief to get her truth out there—a man she hadn’t seen in more than seven years was stalking her. He’d made her believe her mother was in the hospital. Had managed to elude building security at her apartment and deliver a bouquet of yellow flowers. A color Spencer loved and she despised.

  But he was a fool to think he could get to her.

  She was with the police department. That bouquet of flowers was being processed by Roger Sampers—the head of the Crime Scene Unit himself. In only six months, San Francisco had started to feel like home. Here, for the first time, she had her own space. She was in charge of her own work, which gave her the opportunity to give it the focus it deserved and to excel at something she loved.

  Because she was good; she was appreciated. She had the support of her peers. She had . . . friends. A ridiculous thought for a thirty-six-year-old woman, but there it was. She liked it here.

  Seattle had always been temporary. The first city away from Spencer, a place to regroup, finish her training. Seattle was perfect for that period of her life.

  She was a doctor now, ready to begin her career, put down roots. She had spent long enough looking over one shoulder. She was determined to stay in San Francisco, even more so after the evening with those women.

  She made her final notes and signed off on the work. Her phone buzzed in her pocket as she was sliding the body back into the drawer. She snapped off her gloves and pulled the phone from her lab coat. Hal.

  “You’re psychic,” she said in lieu of hello.

  “Oh yeah?” Homicide Inspector Hal Harris said. In the six months they had worked together, she and Hal had created a comfortable banter that made cases with him her favorites.

  “How’s that?”

  “I just finished our burn victim.”

  “And?” Hal asked.

  “Autopsy showed massive bilateral pulmonary thromboembolism with pulmonary infarction.”

  Hal groaned. “English, Schwartzman.”

  “Natural causes,” she said. “He died of massive blood clots in his lungs.”

  “Guy dies of natural causes, then drops a cigarette i
n bed and torches his own house.” Hal had a knack for pointing out the ironies of their job, but they were always relieved when the autopsy revealed a death was due to natural causes.

  “Yep. You want me to call Hailey?”

  “No. I’ll tell her,” Hal said. “You ready for another one?”

  “Sure,” Schwartzman said. She was always game for another case. Lost in a case at the morgue, home alone with a book or occasionally an old black-and-white movie—usually one her father had loved—those were her best moments.

  The distractions were all the more important now that Spencer had found her again. The phone calls, the creepy bouquet of yellow flowers that had appeared outside her apartment door. Worse was the fact that no one in the heavily secured building could explain how the deliveryman gained access to her floor. Seven years and five months since she’d left, and he would not give up.

  “I’ll text the address and send over a picture from Dispatch,” Hal said. “I’m about five minutes out.”

  “I’ll try to leave here in the next ten.”

  “Great,” Hal said. “See you then.”

  She was ready to end the call when he said, “Hey, Schwartzman?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Nice work on that last one.”

  She smiled. Hal was good at praising his peers—herself, the crime scene techs, the patrol officers. It was another of his endearing qualities. “Thanks, Hal.”

  She ended the call and removed her lab coat, hanging it in her narrow locker. After exchanging the orange Crocs she wore in the lab for her street shoes, she packed up her case for the scene. Her phone buzzed with the address Hal had sent. She double-clicked on the attached image. Waited as it loaded.

  The image came into focus.

  A woman. About Schwartzman’s age. Wavy, brunette hair. Laid out on her bed. Shivers rippled across Schwartzman’s skin like aftershocks. Someone had already put a sheet over her legs and stomach, as though she’d been found nude, but a thin stripe of her clothing was visible above her waist. Other than the pale color of her skin, she might have been sleeping.

  In her hands was a small bouquet of yellow flowers.

  2

  San Francisco, California

  Schwartzman studied the flashing lights of the patrol car parked on the curb. In between the rotating bursts of blue, her vision was stained the color of blooming daffodils. She couldn’t shake the image of the flowers she’d found outside her door. No call from the front desk to tell her she had a delivery. The sole alert had been the sound of the bell right outside her door. Through the peephole, she’d seen an empty hallway. Then she’d opened the door and found the huge bouquet beside the door. Pale- and bright-yellow roses, calla lilies, freesia, mums.

  She clenched her fists, fought off the fear.

  On the street, the lights painted shadows across the front of the stucco building and washed the undersides of leaves on the small oak trees that lined the boulevard, giving everything the appearance of being underwater.

  Neighbors stood along the sidewalk, jackets closed over pajamas or sweats to ward off the chill in the San Francisco night air. They huddled in small groups, arms crossed, watching. Waiting for answers. This was not the kind of neighborhood where people were murdered. They looked cold and frightened. Schwartzman felt the same.

  She would not give in to it. She didn’t know that Spencer was behind this death. Rule one of forensic pathology: never expect an outcome. Something she appreciated about the job. Shortcuts didn’t work.

  She emerged from the car and popped the trunk to remove a hard-sided black case. Focused, she crossed the sidewalk to the building, showed her credentials at the door, and stepped over the threshold.

  Ken Macy was the patrol officer at the door. “Evening, Doc.”

  Schwartzman smiled at the friendly face. “Evening, Ken. I didn’t expect to see you on tonight.” She removed her short black boots and slid into the pair of navy Crocs she used for indoor scenes.

  “Traded a shift for Hardy. He got tickets to the Warriors tonight, taking the family.”

  “Lucky him,” she said, enjoying the moment of banter.

  “I know, right?”

  Schwartzman stretched blue booties over the Crocs. “Any new restaurants to add to my list?”

  “Did you try that Lebanese place I recommended?” he asked.

  “Mazzat,” she confirmed. “Yes. I did. Last week. I meant to e-mail you. I had the kafta. It was amazing.”

  Ken smiled. “That’s one of my favorites, too. That and the bamia.”

  Ken had a seemingly endless list of the best spots for ethnic takeout in the city. “I’m ready for a new one.”

  “Absolutely,” he said. “I’ll have something for you when you come back out.”

  “Perfect. I’m sure I’ll be starving.” One of the things she’d noticed about her new life in San Francisco was how her appetite had grown. Seattle had amazing restaurants, but her time there had been intense and focused. Stressed by Spencer and by school, she’d rarely eaten out, and the food she did pick up had been for sustenance rather than enjoyment.

  Now, living in a new city, out from under some of that weight, her appetite was rejuvenated. It wasn’t unusual for her to have a second dinner after a late crime scene. She picked up her bag and turned her attention to the building, shifting into work mode. She glanced into the foyer, unsure where she was headed.

  “Oh right,” Ken said, shaking his head. “Sorry. Take the elevator on up to four. It’s real clean. No blood at all.”

  “Thanks, Ken,” Schwartzman said, carrying her case into the foyer.

  The building was probably built in the 1940s. Narrow entry, large marble tiles in the pinkish salmon that was popular then. She passed a woman in pajamas and stepped into the empty elevator just as the doors were closing. The elevator bumped and shook slightly as it rose. Schwartzman was grateful for the lift anyway. She was not a fan of stairs, especially not with the case.

  The interior of the victim’s apartment had been recently remodeled. Wide-plank hardwood floors throughout. Walls finished in a concrete-like texture that she recognized as American Clay. Sage green. Two large oils hung on the biggest walls. Both rustic scenes, one of a river and a mill, the other an old barn. A tasteful chenille couch with silk floral throw pillows.

  Despite the decor, dark undertones were palpable. The room was too bright. Too perfect. Pictures framed on the table, set at perfect angles to one another. Nothing out of place.

  Someone used to controlling things.

  Or making it look that way.

  Her first thought was domestic murder. People assumed domestic murders were committed by alcoholics and druggies, but a perfect home was as clear a sign of dysfunction as a slovenly one.

  Under all the illusion of perfection, something ugly was often at play.

  In Spencer’s house, everything had its place. Down to the white porcelain cup where the toothbrush lived when it wasn’t being used. The way the towels were folded in the towel rings, the direction in which the toilet paper unrolled. Her towels were never folded now. Not in more than seven years. She wondered which way the roll in her bathroom faced. She hadn’t noticed. Progress.

  Hailey Wyatt was on the far side of the living room with one of the crime scene analysts, working intently. Like herself, Hailey still wore the clothes she’d had on at dinner. Not wanting to interrupt, Schwartzman passed the kitchen. A single wineglass with an inch of red wine sat on the counter next to a dark-wood cutting board with an inlaid bamboo center. A thin knife lay across its edge, the blade jutting off the side as though, at any moment, it might fall. Crumbs. Dinner perhaps. Wine and cheese with bread. Schwartzman’s favorite meal.

  Three doors opened off a short hallway. The rooms were tidy and feminine, similar in style to the living room. No sign of a second inhabitant. She paused at the office door. Nothing out of place there either. A desk with an open book. A yellow bookmark lay between the two pages. No computer, n
o papers. Tidy. Too tidy. She moved on.

  The body would be in the next room.

  The dead did not spook her. Skin slippage, blistering, the blackness of putrefaction—those were all natural parts of death. Even the smell had lost its sharp edges and grown manageable. Especially when the body was discovered early, as it had been here.

  The room smelled faintly of a candle that had been lit. Something earthy with a slight spice. Perhaps sandalwood.

  Homicide Inspector Hal Harris stood by the bed, staring down at the victim as Schwartzman entered the room. Detectives in San Francisco were still referred to as inspectors, though she had yet to find someone who knew exactly why.

  Even in the large room, he took up a sizable chunk of real estate. An imposing figure at six four and somewhere north of 220, Hal had flawless dark skin that made his hazel eyes look green, especially in bright light. His expression stern, he gave off the impression of being someone not to mess with. Behind the facade, Hal was both easygoing and extremely kind.

  She was particularly glad that he and Hailey had caught this case. She had seen them solve a couple of tough cases since her arrival in San Francisco. A combination of smarts and determination. Those flowers unnerved her, and she felt calmer knowing that they were here.

  He didn’t bombard her when she walked into the scene. As usual, he didn’t say a word.

  It was a grand bedroom, particularly for an apartment in a city whose square feet sold for a multiple of hundreds of dollars each. As she did in every case, Schwartzman studied the space before the body. Often the surroundings gave context to the body. What she saw here was more of the same. A single, generic painting on the wall of a meadow, tall wheat bent in the wind.

  There were several photographs in small frames on the coffee table in the living room, but none in the bedroom. Nothing personal at all.

  The body was arranged on the neatly made-up bed. The sheet that had covered her in the image from Dispatch had been removed. She was not nude. The victim wore a lightly patterned yellow dress.

  Schwartzman was reminded of the matching outfits from Lilly Pulitzer that Spencer so loved. Christmas, Easter, even the Fourth of July were occasions marked with a new dress for her and a matching button-down for him. Like they were children dressed by a wealthy housewife.