Free No Immunity by Susan Dunlap Page A

monuments to diversity in facade design. At the next light she called her own message number.
    “You have one message.”
    “Dr. O’Shaughnessy? This is Sheriff Fox at the sheriff’s department in Gattozzi. Please call me immediately.”
    She patted around for a pen. In her own Jeep there was a pad on the dash. Here, in this rental car, there was nothing extra. She wrote the sheriff’s number on her hand.
    So Jeff Tremaine did report the body. It made her think better of him. Jeff knew as much as, maybe more than she did about hemorrhagic fevers. What could she possibly tell the sheriff? Didn’t matter. Before she’d started in the detecting business, she’d assumed second opinions were confined to medicine. Then she’d run into police departments, sheriff’s departments, coroners, district attorneys, health departments, and discovered that the second opinion was the CHA opinion, as in Cover His Ass. Well, she’d have time at the airport to call and cover Jeff Tremaine’s tail.
    She turned right. She could see the Car Rental Return sign now. By tomorrow investigators from Public Health and the Centers for Disease Control would outnumber the residents in Gattozzi. Every assay would be begun, every lead would be followed. By the time she got home tonight, she’d be exhausted, but it would be from energy well spent. A day she could be proud of. She should be glad.... But she couldn’t shake off the picture of the woman on the slab. She might have been an immigrant. But she could as easily have lived in Nevada all her life. Her family might have lived here for generations. Her hemorrhagic condition might not be contagious. The truth was, Kiernan admitted mentally, she knew next to nothing about the woman’s death and truly nothing about her life. And yet the situation got to her in a way she didn’t want to think about. Who had been so callous or so desperate as to dump her disfigured body in the morgue? The act resonated of the Black Plague, with terrified villagers throwing their sick sisters, brothers, parents outside the door to die. Of undertakers picking up bodies like litter in the gutters. Who was this woman who had died with a face too distorted to recognize? These were questions too personal for Public Health. The case cried out for a good investigator.
    Was that why Jeff Tremaine really called her? She turned right again, into the rental return area. Cars were lined up at the return port. She pulled in behind a nondescript white car and began gathering her few belongings. All around her, car doors were opening and slamming, trunk lids being shoved up, suitcases smacked to the macadam. Voices were sharp with end-of-trip accusations and instructions that referenced years of failures to please. To her right a black cocker spaniel leaped excitedly. She pictured Ezra, alone in the flat, his big wiry face on crossed paws, big brown eyes widening excitedly when he heard her footsteps.
    She registered the slap of shoes on pavement at the same time a man said, “Dr. O’Shaughnessy?”
    “Yes?”
    “Deputy Potter.” He emphasized the title in a way that made her think he was new to it. The shield he flashed looked shiny and his tan uniform was crisp and fit his young thickset body well. “Sheriff Fox would like to speak with you. My car is right over here.”
    “Fine,” she said, walking the few steps to the blue-and-gold patrol car. “I do have a five o’clock plane.”
    “We know that, ma’am.” Without looking at her, he opened the back door. “What airline are you flying?”
    “Southwest.”
    “No problem. I’ll give them a call for you and reschedule your flight.”
    “Reschedule? I don’t think so. Are you arresting me?”
    “No, ma’am. We’re just asking for your cooperation in our investigation.” His hand was still on the car door, and he stepped back so that she could see the grating that divided front seat from back to protect him from the likes of her.
    Her shoulders tightened.