Deadly Code by Lin Anderson Read Free Book Online Page A

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    Okay, so the club was popular with her colleagues. But not everyone in the law and order establishment appreciated their Chief Forensic's relationship with an ex-con, good musician or not.
    Sean was a working partner in the jazz club. If this Esther girl was using or supplying on the premises, Sean could be held responsible.
    Rhona decided she needed a drink. Propped up on the bar was an invitation to try a cocktail. Room service would be delighted to mix it for her. Something with at least two different types of alcohol sounded good to Rhona. She dialled room service and headed for the shower.
    The pounding needles on her head didn't help. She would have to speak to Sean. Find out what he had to say. She turned her attention to the missing samples.
    Every sample bag was strictly monitored. Every movement had to be logged. If the samples went missing from her lab, then it was ultimately her responsibility.
    And, according to Chrissy, the foot was no longer in the mortuary. Rhona could not imagine the eminent Doctor Sissons countenancing anything underhand. But if the MOD was involved . . . Rhona cut her shower short and pulled on a bathrobe.
    The hum of the air conditioner had strengthened, making the air cold and almost drowning the background sound of the television. The bedroom had suddenly turned from empty silence to electronic overload. Rhona stared at the shifting television screen she'd switched on for company.
    It was then she noticed the man's shadow.
    He was in the alcove that housed the desk with her laptop, bent over the computer screen.
    Two thoughts raced through Rhona's mind in quick succession. One, she had nothing to defend herself with. And two, she should have kept the chain on the door.
    It was too late. Her visitor had heard her.
    Rhona stepped back a little, trying to judge how far the bathroom and a lockable door might be while her eyes noted the plain black jacket and grey trousers and hoped her instinct was right and it was room service come to make her cocktail.
    It was.
    Her intruder's body language moved swiftly from surprise through discomfort to formality.
    'You ordered a cocktail, ma'am?' The young man stood to attention and indicated the shaker on the desk beside her computer. 'A Manhattan?'
    'Great.'
    Rhona hastily retreated to the bathroom to try and regain her dignity.
    When she reappeared a few minutes later, the television had been turned down and the room had returned to a comfortable temperature.
    'Your drink, ma'am,' said the young man holding out a little silver tray with a stemmed glass of pale golden liquid.
    He waited while she tasted it.
    The liquid was cold and sharp against her throat Rhona resisted the desire to cough and smiled instead. 'Good,' she said.
    He looked relieved. Rhona wondered how many customers complained just for the hell of it. She thought about trying to engage him in conversation, then decided against it. She had already tried that with various members of hotel staff. It hadn't worked. Polite and helpful, real conversation was not considered part of the job.              
    The waiter was replacing the bottles in the drink cabinet, tidying up. Behind him, the computer screen was flashing Chrissy's downloaded file. Rhona went over for a look.
    The screen held six images, three above and three below. In the top lefthand comer was the photograph she had taken with the digital camera of the area above the decomposing ankle. From left to right, what was little more than a smudge began to take shape and change colour. By the third image it had become a definite pattern.
    Maybe a letter?
    The pattern was complex, but the middle part might be a letter. Rhona sat down at the desk for a closer look. If it was a letter it was one of those oldfashioned ones, all curves and sweeping lines. Real writing. It wasn't crystal clear, but if the computer guys had achieved this from that photograph of spongy grey flesh then she would have to stop slagging them off