NOW, ISN’T THAT ODD?

Holly was unsettled. Ethan Montclair had turned into a monosyllabic zombie the moment they’d arrested him. He’d been sitting in a holding cell for the better part of the evening, awaiting an arraignment in the morning. She stopped by to check on him a couple of times, and found him staring bleakly at the dirty floor.

She’d been given a thousand tasks in the wake of the arrest. Most involved typing up reports, which she thought might be the one thing about being a detective that bit donkey butts. Filling out forms about homicide was a very dry experience anyway, and she wanted to be sure she had them right.

She hadn’t gotten any sleep; her hands were shaky from downing cup after cup of coffee. Moreno told her the case was just beginning now. They all knew Montclair had murdered his wife. Now they had to prove it.

She’d asked to be at the autopsy, but Moreno had declined the request, wanting her to keep going on the paperwork instead, since there’d be too many witnesses already. She didn’t bristle at the injunction; there wasn’t much to be gleaned from a burned body, anyway. Plus, that smell...the reek of burned flesh still hadn’t left her sinuses. She didn’t know if she really wanted to stand around while the ME drove needles into the eyes to try to get a vitreous, which would probably be all they could salvage from that mess.

She checked her watch. Nearly eight. The autopsy must be finished by now. And as she thought it, the file in front of her flashed a red message indicator. A new file had been added from Forensic Medical, up in Nashville. She clicked on it, but it was empty.

Damn it.

She grabbed the phone and called the morgue. Got a receptionist, who forwarded her call to a voice mail. She left a message, hung up, scrubbed her hands through her hair, took another gulp of caffeine, and within moments, her phone lit up. It was the morgue.

“Graham.”

“Fox, from Forensic Medical. You rang?”

“Hello, Dr. Fox. I got word you’ve finished the post on Sutton Montclair? My file updated but it’s empty.”

“Right. It takes a while for the details to upload sometimes. We have a lot of photos.”

“Do you have a positive ID?”

“We haven’t gotten DNA or dentals back yet, but we’re still operating under the assumption that this is Sutton Montclair. The dentist is on a mission trip to Africa, and his office manager locked herself out of his computer using the wrong password. They’ll send the radiographs as soon as they catch up with him, probably tonight. He’s supposed to be out in some remote village this week, but he’s been calling in every few days.”

“Good grief. Can you tell me her cause of death?”