I keep my facial expressions to a minimum. “What’s up?”

She rolls her eyes upward. “He insisted that he wanted to see her. I told him that the body was prepped for an exam and that an ID had already been made. He could see her postexam, when the body’s released to the funeral home.”

“That didn’t satisfy him,” I say, knowing already that probably nothing satisfies Frank Flynn. He’s left at least seven messages for me since Saturday. Each message offered a pointed—and unsolicited—suggestion to “help” with the investigation.

“No,” she says. “He and his wife are in the viewing room waiting for someone to lift the blinds.”

“Can the pathologist make that happen?” I ask.

“Sure,” Celia says.

In Loving Memory. I think that’s the tattoo. The tops of the letters indicate I, L, and M. The spacing is about right. I wonder who’s being remembered on her chest, but I don’t ask.

“The little girl is with Deb in Records,” she adds.

I’m stunned. “They brought her?”

“I know. Right? Who brings a three-year-old to the morgue?”

“Frank Flynn does,” I say. “That’s who.”

“I could tell that Mrs. Flynn was none too happy about it. She barely said a word.”

I want to tell Celia that’s Helen’s normal MO, but I don’t. I head into the viewing room, where I find Sophie’s mother clutching a box of tissues and Frank positioned in front of the viewing window as though he doesn’t want to miss a football play on TV.

He glares at me. “Jesus,” he says. “I thought you’d never get here.”

I’m actually ten minutes early, but I don’t bring that up.

“I’m here now,” I say.

I hear the sound of tissues being pulled from the box. Helen is already sobbing.

I place my hand on her shoulder. “You don’t need to be here, Mrs. Flynn.”

She nods at me and then looks at her husband.

“She wants to be here,” he says. “This is our only child. We want justice for Sophie, and we’re going to be involved in everything that we can.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, more mouthing the words than actually speaking.

Frank hurls a look so powerful that Helen immediately looks away as if she’d been struck in the face.

“We all want justice,” I say. “That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’ll be fighting for Sophie until I catch who’s responsible for her murder. Do we really need to be at odds over something we obviously agree on?”

Frank keeps his attention locked on his wife for several seconds before turning back to face me.

“You say the right things,” he says, “but I did some checking on you. You don’t have the best record, you know.”

“Frank!” Helen says. “Please.”