“That’s good. Anything else?”

“Tonya Eastman recently got a bad result on a mammogram, but she hasn’t told her husband yet. She’s worried he’ll leave her. That’s what Reba said. Is this what you want?”

“Yes. Keep going.”

He rattled off a few more. Clarence took notes. When Neil Cordova seemed out of steam, Muse got to the heart of the matter.

“Mr. Cordova?”

She met his eye and held it.

“I need you to do me a favor. I really don’t want to go into long explanations on why or what it might mean-”

He interrupted her. “Inspector Muse?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t waste time holding my hand. What do you want?”

“We have a body here. It is definitely notyour wife. Do you understand? Notyour wife. This woman was found dead the night before. We don’t know who she is.”

“And you think I might?”

“I want you to take a look and see.”

His hands lay folded in his lap, and he sat up a little too straight. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Muse had considered using photographs for this part and sparing him the horror of viewing the actual corpse. Pictures don’t work though. If she had a clear one of the face, sure, maybe, but in this case, it was as if the face had spent too much time under a lawn mower. There was nothing but bone fragments and frayed sinew. Muse could have shown him photos of the torso with the height and weight listed, but experience showed that it was hard to get a real feel that way.

Neil Cordova hadn’t wondered about the venue for this interrogation, but that was understandable. They were on Norfolk Street in Newark -the county morgue. Muse had already set it up so they wouldn’t have to waste time driving over. She opened the door. Cordova tried to keep his head high. His gait was steady, but the shoulders told more; Muse could see the bunching through the blazer.

The body was ready. Tara O’Neill, the medical examiner, had wrapped gauze around the face. That was the first thing Neil Cordova noticed-the bandages like something out of a mummy movie. He asked why they were there.

“Her face suffered extensive damage,” Muse said.

“How am I supposed to recognize her?”

“We were hoping by body type, maybe height, anything.”

“I think it would help if I could see the face.”

“It won’t help, Mr. Cordova.”

He took a deep swallow, took another look.

“What happened to her?”

“She was beaten badly.”

He turned to Muse. “Do you think something like this happened to my wife?”

“I don’t know.”

Cordova closed his eyes for a moment, gathered himself, opened them, nodded. “Okay.” He nodded some more. “Okay, I understand.”

“I know this isn’t easy.”

“I’m fine.” She could see the wet in his eyes. He took one swipe with his sleeve. He looked so much like a little boy when he did that Muse nearly hugged him. She watched him turn back to the body.

“Do you know her?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Take your time.”

“The thing is, she’s naked.” His eyes were still on the bandaged face, as if trying to maintain modesty. “I mean, if she’s someone I know, I would have never seen her that way, you know what I mean?”

“I do. Would it help if we clothed her somehow?”

“No, that’s okay. It’s just…” He frowned.

“What?”

Neil Cordova’s eyes had been on the victim’s neck area. Now they traveled south to her legs. “Can you turn her over?”

“Onto her stomach?”

“Yes. I need to see the back of the leg mostly. But yes.”

Muse glanced at Tara O’Neill, who immediately brought an orderly over. They carefully turned Jane Doe facedown. Cordova took a step forward. Muse did not move, not wanting to disturb his concentration. Tara O’Neill and the orderly stepped away. Neil Cordova’s eyes continued down the legs. They stopped at the back of her right ankle.

There was a birthmark.

Seconds passed. Muse finally said, “Mr. Cordova?”

“I know who this is.”

Muse waited. He started shaking. His hand fluttered to his mouth. His eyes closed.

“Mr. Cordova?”

“It’s Marianne,” he said. “Dear God, it’s Marianne.”

27

D R. Ilene Goldfarb slid into the diner booth across from Susan Loriman.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Susan said.

They had discussed going out of town, but in the end Ilene had nixed that idea. Anyone who saw them would simply assume that they were two ladies at lunch, an activity Ilene had never had the time nor desire to indulge in because she worked too many hours at the hospital and feared becoming, well, one of the ladies who lunched.

Even when her children were young, traditional motherhood never called to her. There had never been a yearning to give up her medical career to stay at home and play a more traditional role in her chil- dren’s lives. Just the opposite-she couldn’t wait until maternity leave was over and she could respectably go back to work. Her kids seemed no worse for it. She hadn’t always been there, but in her mind that had helped make her children that much more independent with a healthier life attitude.

At least that was what she’d told herself.

But last year, there had been a party held at the hospital in her honor. Many of her former residents and interns came to pay respects to their favorite teacher. Ilene overheard one of her best students raving to Kelci about what a dedicated teacher Ilene had been and how proud she must be to have Ilene Goldfarb for a mother. Kelci, with a drink or two in her, responded, “She spent so much time here I never got to see any of that.”

Yep. Career, motherhood, happy marriage-she had juggled all three with shocking ease, hadn’t she?

Except now the balls were dropping to the floor with a splat. Even her career was in jeopardy, if what those agents had told her was true.

“Is there anything new from the donor banks?” Susan Loriman asked.

“No.”

“Dante and I are working on something. A major donor drive. I went to Lucas’s elementary school. Mike’s daughter, Jill, goes to the same one. I spoke to a few of the teachers. They love the idea. We’re going to hold it next Saturday, get everyone to sign up for the donor bank.”

Ilene nodded. “That might be helpful.”

“And you’re still looking, right? I mean, it’s not hopeless?”

Ilene was simply not in the mood. “It’s not hopeful either.”

Susan Loriman bit down on her lower lip. She had that effortless beauty it was hard not to envy. Men got funny around that kind of beauty, Ilene knew. Even Mike spoke with a weird vibe in his voice when Susan Loriman was in the room.

The diner waitress came over with a pot of coffee. Ilene nodded for her to pour, but Susan asked what herbal teas they carried. The waitress looked at her as if she’d asked for an enema. Susan said any tea would do. The waitress came back with a Lipton tea bag and poured hot water into the mug.

Susan Loriman stared down at the drink as if it held some divine secret.

“Lucas was a difficult birth. The week before he was born I caught pneumonia and I started coughing so hard I actually cracked a rib. I was hospitalized. The pain was unreal. Dante stayed with me the whole time. He wouldn’t leave my side.”

Susan slowly brought the tea to her lips, using both hands as though cradling an injured bird.

“When we found out Lucas was sick, we held a family meeting. Dante put on this whole brave act and talked about how we’d beat it as a family-‘We are Lorimans,’ he kept saying-and then that night he walked outside and cried so hard I thought he would hurt himself.”

“Mrs. Loriman?”

“Please call me Susan.”

“Susan, I get the picture. He’s a Hallmark-card father. He bathed him when he was young. He changed his diapers and coached his soccer team, and he’d be crushed to learn that he isn’t the boy’s father. Does that about sum it up?”