Sam considered the goth girl for a moment. Not so innocent, with a good shot at being a professional actress, she decided.
“Okay Nina, I’m going to have an officer take you home now. If anything happens that you think I should know about, call me.” Sam paused, recalling that her phone was dead and now sitting in the IT department in a bag of white rice. “Call my partner, Detective Ochoa. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
That made Sam feel old. She was now firmly on T-Bone’s side at this point in regard to kids.
She saw Nina and the officer to the door and went back to her desk. Maybe the updated autopsy would show something.
T-Bone was on his cell, speaking Spanish rapidly as only one born to it can do, leaning against his desk.
“Melinda,” he mouthed at her. Sam smiled and waved. T-Bone switched to English.
“Sam says hi. Look, I gotta run. Loves and kisses.” He made smooching noises in the phone and ended the call. He turned to Sam, looking a little sheepish.
“Don’t look at me. I don’t care if you get mushy with your wife.”
“It makes her happy.”
“Ha. It makes you happy. Nothing wrong with that.”
He shrugged. “She said she had to tell me something, but then wouldn’t tell me. Why do you women do that?”
“You’re lumping me in with most women?”
His hand gesture said ‘no, but.’
“My guess, being an average woman and all… She wants to see your reaction to whatever it is she’s telling you.”
He pondered that for a second. “We’re going to dinner. Wanna join us?”
“Not really.” It was an automatic answer and Sam snorted at herself. “Thank you for the invite. You solve the Melinda mystery. I’m going to do some research.”
“Don’t forget to take a break, Sammy-samurai.”
“First 48, T-Bony.”
“T-Bony – ha.” He shook his head and left.
Sam got some coffee from the break room and settled at her desk. The official autopsy report read as Hurley said it did, with the added information that the larger teeth marks were more likely canine than feline, per the expert at the Desert Museum. The body not cut up using any mechanical thing and it seems the victim either died shortly before or during being ripped up.
Sam’s coffee tasted like dirt all of the sudden.
Her computer told her that Madam Boveri had been in business for fifteen years, seven of them in Las Vegas – where there were no strange dog attacks or dismembered bodies in washes that were not accounted for.
After digging for a bit and accessing the national database, the London Affair file provided an interesting tidbit: An American reporter had been on scene.
Sam called him.
“Detective, any news?”
“No, Mr. Boveri. Sorry. I have a question though. Have you ever been in London?”