Free The Story Teller by Margaret Coel Page A

Vicky flinched, as if to ward off some unseen blow. She waited.
    “There’s no good way to say this,” the detective began. “Looks like he was beaten to death, Vicky. The face isn’t what you’re gonna want to see every time you close your eyes the rest of your life. We’ll have a positive ID by tomorrow.”
    Vicky pressed the receiver hard against her ear, silently cursing whatever it was that pushed her forward. She could have a relaxing dinner, a long heart-to-heart with an old friend, and a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow she would know whether it was Todd who had washed up in the South Platte River or some otherpoor kid. Except she knew there would be no eating or sleeping, no respite from the anxiety fluttering inside her. She said, “I want to know tonight.”
    A soft shush came over the line, as if the detective had taken a pull from a mug of hot coffee. “I was just about to leave the station.”
    “I’ll come right away,” she said.
    *   *   *   
    Steve was waiting outside the front entrance to the Denver Coroner’s Office, a five-story brick building across from the Denver Health Medical Center in an old, dust-strewn part of the city wrapped in the roar of traffic. Vicky had made the drive in twenty minutes, after leaving Marcy in the kitchen with a platter of linguine swimming in some kind of green sauce, saying she would explain later. Marcy had handed her a house key, which Vicky dropped into her handbag as she slammed out the front door.
    A hot breeze plucked at her T-shirt, and the sidewalk burned through the soles of her sandals. Steve came to meet her, hands in the pockets of his tan slacks, the fronts of his blue blazer pulled back. She would have known him anywhere—the squared shoulders and sandy hair—lighter now, about to be invaded by gray—the dark eyes focused and intent.
    “You look great, Vicky,” he said, his eyes traveling over her.
    “I appreciate this, Steve,” she said.
    He moved closer and took his hands from his pockets. He let them dangle at his sides, as if he had considered putting his arms around her but had thought better of it. She extended her hand. His grasp felt warm and reassuring. “You sure you want to do this?” he asked.
    “Let’s just get it over with.”
    Steve stepped aside, ushering her to the glass outer door that gave onto an enclosed entry. She waited as he pressed the button on the intercom in the outside wall.Suddenly the inner door swung open, and a young woman in a gray pantsuit stepped across the entry and opened the glass door. They followed her into an L-shaped waiting room, slabs of beige tile on the floor, and two rows of metal, straight-backed chairs against the green walls. Like a million waiting rooms, arranged for people who had nothing, really, to wait for. The air-conditioning hummed from a metal vent next to the ceiling, belching a stream of cold air that smelled of floor wax and antiseptic. Vicky shivered involuntarily.
    “Meet Priscilla DeAngelo, the coroner’s investigator,” Steve said, taking Vicky’s arm and turning her toward the pantsuited woman with short, brown hair and eyebrows penciled into a look of efficiency. Then: “This is Vicky Holden. She might know the homicide we brought in this morning.”
    Vicky shook the woman’s hand and told her she appreciated the opportunity to view the body.
    “Not a problem.” The investigator gave a quick shrug, as if to say it was a problem—a huge inconvenience to stay late because some woman had a hunch she knew the victim in the latest homicide in the news. But once in a while the hunches, the out-of-the-blue calls, paid off, which was why she had agreed.
    Flinging open an inside door, the investigator led the way down a corridor, past a series of closed doors before stopping abruptly and pushing one open. They followed her into a small room, with heavy drapes along the wall on the left, a small sofa on the right. There was a faint chemical odor, like air