The Cold Room by Robert Knightly Read Free Book Online

agape, her lips folded back in what could have been mistaken for a smile. ‘How long will she be here?’ I asked. ‘If I can’t find someone to claim her body?’
    â€˜A couple of months.’
    â€˜And then what?’
    â€˜And then the city will pick up the cost of her burial.’
    â€˜On Hart’s Island?’
    Hyong snorted. ‘What were you expecting, detective? A mausoleum?’
    I moved toward the door without responding. What questions could be answered had been answered and there was other work to be done. With no tools, I’d been unable to collect the cut link in the fence on South Fifth Street. I’d take care of that now, on my way to work, as I’d prepare myself for the briefing Lieutenant Drew Millard would undoubtedly demand.
    â€˜That’s it?’ Hyong asked.
    I turned to face him, suddenly remembering my conversation with Adele. ‘One more thing. Will you test her blood to find out if she was pregnant?’
    â€˜What makes you ask that question?’ Hyong was standing at the sink, washing his hands.
    â€˜It’s possible that her organs were removed because her killer was after a developing fetus. The idea was to prevent a comparison with the father’s DNA.’
    â€˜Now that is brilliant. Perhaps there’s hope for you yet. The blood test in question is for a hormone called human chorionic gonadotrophin. We run it routinely.’
    I got a call from Adele on my way to the Nine-Two. She’d used her connections at the DA’s office to reach the NYPD’s profiler, John Roach, who would grant me an interview on the following morning, should I so desire. I had no more faith in profilers than in Gypsy fortune tellers, but I wasn’t about to rain on Adele’s parade. There was something in her voice, some hint of regret that I didn’t care to acknowledge.
    â€˜I think that’d be a very good idea, Adele, because the puzzle has suddenly gotten more complex. According to Hyong, the red lividity was most likely caused by prolonged exposure to cold before she was killed.’
    â€˜How much cold?’
    â€˜Refrigerator cold.’ I hesitated, but Adele remained silent. ‘I can’t imagine forcing someone into a home refrigerator while they were still able to fight back. The unit has to be commercial. Maybe a restaurant.’
    Adele sighed into the phone. ‘She’s placed in a refrigerator long enough to alter her blood chemistry, then bludgeoned. It doesn’t make sense. If you wanted to kill her, why not leave her where she was?’
    â€˜That’s what I’m supposed to find out, being as I’m the detective assigned to the case. I’ll let you know when I succeed.’
    Adele laughed, then sighed. ‘I’ve got a train to catch.’
    â€˜And I’m on my way to work. Let’s both have a good time.’
    â€˜Yes, Corbin, let’s do that.’
    The 92nd Precinct is located on Meserole Street, near Union Avenue, in a two story building erected in 1904, a year after the completion of the Williamsburg Bridge, the second bridge to span the East River. The upper story of the building is of red brick, the lower of limestone blocks. Though not massive by New York standards, the blocks are large enough to impress, especially around the double-doors at the Nine-Two’s main entrance where they tilt gradually up to form a true arch. There are other nice touches as well. The fanlight window over the entrance way is dark with age, its rippled panes now more reflective than transparent. Directly above, a weathered terracotta medallion bears the shield of the NYPD, while a pair of wrought-iron stanchions flanking the doors are capped with Kelly-green globes.
    I’d stood outside the Nine-Two for a good fifteen minutes on the day I first reported for duty. That was on a mid-April afternoon, with a spring breeze riffling my hair. By then, I pretty much knew my fate.