Chapter 45
LOREN MUSE’S CELL PHONE RANG. It was Max Darrow’s widow calling back.
“I found something,” she said.
“What?”
“It looks like an autopsy file on Candace Potter,” Gertie Darrow said. “I mean, it is an autopsy. It’s signed by the old medical examiner. I remember him. He was a very nice man.”
“What does it say?”
“It says a lot of things. Height, weight. You want me to read it all to you?”
“How about a cause of death?”
“It says something here about strangulation. It also says something about a severe beating and trauma to the head.”
That fit in with what they already had. So what had Max Darrow noticed after all these years? What had sent him to Newark, to Emma Lemay as Sister Mary Rose? “Mrs. Darrow, do you have a fax machine?”
“There’s one in Max’s office.”
“Could you fax me the file?”
“Of course.”
Loren gave her the fax number.
“Investigator Muse?”
“Yes.”
“Are you married?”
Loren held back a sigh. First Yates, now Mrs. Darrow. “No, I’m not.”
“Ever been?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“I believed the other investigator. Mr. Wine, is it?”
“That’s right.”
“What he said about Max being in the car with, well, a woman of questionable morals, as we used to say.”
“Right.”
“I just wanted to let you know.”
“Know what, Mrs. Darrow?”
“See, Max, well, he wasn’t always a good husband, you know what I mean?”
“I think so,” Loren said.
“What I’m trying to say is Max had done that in the past. In a car like that. More than once. That’s why I was so quick to believe. I thought you should know. Just in case this doesn’t pan out.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Darrow.”
“I’ll fax it over now.”
She hung up without saying anything more. Loren stood and waited by the fax machine.
Adam Yates came back with two Cokes. He offered her one, but she shook him off. “Uh, what I said before, about not having kids—”
“Forget it,” Loren said. “I know what you were trying to get at.”
“Still stupid of me to put it that way.”
“Yeah. Yeah, it was.”
“What’s going on here?”
“Max Darrow was looking into Candace Potter’s autopsy.”
Yates frowned. “What does that have to do with this?”
“Not a clue, but I doubt it’s a coincidence.”
The phone rang and the fax machines began their mating screech. The first sheet churned out slowly. There was no cover letter. That was good. Loren hated the waste of paper. She grabbed the sheet and started searching for the conclusion. In truth she read very little else in autopsy reports. Weights of livers and hearts might interest some people, but she was only interested in what they meant to her case.
Adam Yates read over her shoulder. It all seemed pretty normal.
“You see anything?” she asked.
“No.”
“Me neither.”
“This could be a dead end.”
“Probably is.”
Another sheet came in. They both started reading it.
Yates pointed midway down the right-hand column. “What’s this over here?”
There was check mark in the middle of the body description.
Loren read it out loud: “No ovaries, testes hidden, probable AIS.”
“AIS?”
“It stands for Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome,” Loren said. “I had a friend in college who had it.”
“What’s the relevance of that?” Yates asked.
“I’m not sure. AIS women look and feel like typical females and for all practical purposes, they’re considered female. They can legally marry and adopt.” She stopped, tried to think it through.
“But?”
“But in short it means that Candace Potter was genetically male. She had testes and XY chromosomes.”
He made a face. “You mean she was, what, a transsexual?”
“No.”
“Then, what, she was a guy?”
“Genetically, yes. But probably not in any other way. Oftentimes an AIS woman doesn’t know she’s any different until she reaches puberty and doesn’t menstruate. It’s not that uncommon. There was a Miss Teen USA a few years back who was AIS. Many believe Queen Elizabeth I and Joan of Arc and a slew of supermodels and actresses have it, but that’s really nothing more than speculation. Either way you can lead a perfectly normal life. In fact, if Candace Potter was a prostitute, perverse as this sounds, it may even have benefited her.”
“Benefited her how?”
Loren looked up at him. “Women with AIS can’t get pregnant.”
Chapter 46
MATT DROVE AWAY. Sonya McGrath headed back inside. Their relationship, if there had ever been one, was over. It felt odd and yet, despite the honesty and raw emotion, anything built on such misery was bound to cave. It was all too fragile. They were simply two people needing something that neither could ever get.
He wondered if Sonya would call the police. He wondered if it mattered.
God, he’d been stupid to come here.
He was hurting badly. He needed to rest. But there was no time. He’d have to push through. He checked the gas gauge. It was near empty. He stopped at a nearby Shell station and used the rest of his money to fill the tank.
During his ride, he thought about the bombshell Olivia had just dropped on him. At the end of the day, as weird or naïve as this might sound, he wondered what it really changed. He still loved Olivia. He loved the way she frowned when she checked herself in the mirror, that little smile she made when she was thinking of something funny, the way she rolled her eyes when he made a clumsy double entendre, the way she tucked her feet under when she read, the way she took deep, almost cartoon breaths when she was irritated, the way her eyes welled up with tears when they made love, the way his heart pumped a little faster when she laughed, the way he’d catch her studying him when she thought he wouldn’t notice, the soft way her eyes closed when she listened to a favorite song on the radio, the way her hand would just take his at any time without hesitation or embarrassment, the way her skin felt, the charge at her touch, the way she’d drape a leg over him on the lazy mornings, the way her chest felt pressed against his back when they slept, the way when she slipped out of bed in the early morning she’d kiss his cheek and make sure the blankets still covered him.