Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 77292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
17
MADDOX
Alissa throws her arms around me. “Thank you. Thank you.”
I break the embrace and caress her cheek. It’s like silk. “For what?”
“For…everything, Maddox. The good and the bad. Everything. But most recently, for bringing me here tonight. For insisting that we take a moment to appreciate something magnificent, despite all the malice we’ve witnessed since Sunday night. If you hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t have a shot at that flute chair.”
I smile at her. “Of course, baby. I just want what’s best for you. And from what I’ve seen, you belong in this world.”
She frowns. “Plenty of people belong in this world, but this world doesn’t have a place for all of them.”
“But people who have the passion, the drive, they find a place. Even if it just means we come to Symphony Center more often.” I caress her cheek. “I saw a side of you tonight that really touched me. It really touched me because of how touched you were by what you were hearing.”
She reaches into her handbag, grabs another tissue. “My goodness, you’re going to make me cry again.”
I grab her hand. “Sorry, baby. That wasn’t my intent.”
She shakes her head. “No. It’s crying for a good reason. Just like when the finale of the symphony got me.”
“I’m happy we came. I really enjoyed it, too.” I check my watch. “But we’d better scoot. Bill has those updates for us.”
She nods and tosses her tissue into a nearby trash can. “Of course. You lead the way.”
I lace the fingers of my left hand into her right, and we walk out onto Michigan Avenue. Soon we’re back at my car in the Aces parking garage. The classical station is playing the same symphony we just heard, interspersed with a lecture by the CSO’s resident historian.
It’s interesting. Apparently, the symphony is based on the first Russian revolution in 1905. At least, that’s what Shostakovich told the Soviet cultural censors. Some historical scholars believe, however, that the symphony actually refers to the Hungarian Revolution of 1956, which was a direct result of the policies of the Soviet Union. Stalin was dead by then, and Khrushchev had taken charge, but the government still had a tight stranglehold on popular culture. Shostakovich only claimed the symphony was written in reference to a pre-Soviet event to get a message of defiance out to the Russian people. Fascinating stuff.
I’m actually getting into the lecture when we arrive at the mortuary, and I’m kind of bummed to flip the radio off.
But we have bigger fish to fry tonight.
If I’d thought this through, I would have suggested we take Alissa’s car to the symphony tonight, in case we had to stop here on the way home. My car sticks out like a damn sore thumb parked on the city streets.
Hopefully none of Rouge’s allies are passing through tonight.
Bill is standing outside the main door. I put the car into park, exit, and walk around it to open Alissa’s door.
She steps out right as a gust of wind cuts through the parking lot. She rubs her arms against the chill. “I should have worn a jacket tonight.”
“Christ, what am I thinking?” I take my own blazer off and hand it to her. “Here you go. Sorry. Should have given this to you sooner.”
“No apology necessary.” She wraps the jacket around her, buttoning it in the front. “Thank you. My knight in woolen armor saves the day again.”
I wrap my arm around her shoulder and we walk over to Bill.
He opens the door for us. “Come in, quick.”
Bill leads us to the same room where we met with him before. He reaches into a file cabinet with a manila folder. On its tab I see a question mark followed by a comma and the word May.
“Thank you for coming over,” Bill says. “I realize it’s a little late, but since you had no problem dragging me out of bed at three in the morning Sunday night, I figured I’d return the favor.”
I nod. “Fair enough.”
Bill takes a few sheets of paper out of the folder and spreads them neatly on one of the stainless-steel tables. “My initial impression was correct. Further examination of the deceased’s hyoid bone in her throat shows fracturing. That in tandem with the petechial hemorrhages present in her eyes and the coagulation of the blood around her neck indicate that she was strangled before the head was removed. At the very least, we know she was unconscious upon decapitation, so she didn’t feel anything.”
Alissa scoffs. “You mean, besides being strangled to death?”
Bill scratches his arm. “Well, yes. That would have likely been highly unpleasant. There is the possibility that she was attacked in her sleep.”
“Was she knocked out? Any drugs in her bloodstream?”
“I only have her head and hands to work with. But the few tests I ran showed no presence of any drugs, recreational or otherwise. Her lips and eyes had no discoloration besides that associated with the natural putrefaction process of the human body, so I think we can rule out poisoning.”