“I didn’t know Carter was in the military.”
“He’s a World War Two buff. That jerk. My access to my computer is blocked. Sheila is taking my calls out front, and it’s just as well. Ninety-nine out of a hundred calls are from the tabloids. And then there are the calls from next of kin wanting to check that their loved ones hadn’t been sold to body shops for spare parts.”
“This is so wrong.”
“When Dr. Morse arrives, I’m supposed to give him administrative assistance until—”
“Dr. Morse?”
“Retired ME from Orange County. Last time he held a scalpel was in 2003. I don’t know if he can even manage the paperwork, let alone the actual job. Anyway. He can have my desk,” Claire said with a sigh, “until we find Faye Farmer’s body.”
“What’s your gut say happened to her?”
“My guts are, like, taking Lombard Street at ninety miles per hour, at night, without headlights—and no brakes, either. So I’m not consulting my gut.
“But listen, Lindsay. I do have an idea who could have had something to do with it.”
Chapter 30
“TAKE A LOOK at this.”
Claire handed me a manila folder with a name printed on the tab: Tracey Pendleton.
There was a photo stapled to the top sheet of Tracey Pendleton’s employment records. She had short gray hair and her face was plain, without a single distinguishing feature. Her DOB said that she was in her late thirties, but she looked fifty. She probably smoked and drank, might have had drugs in her past.
The word Hired was stamped on the first page, as was the date—August 23, 2009. Reading further, I learned that Ms. Pendleton had a license to carry a weapon, owned a registered 9mm Glock semiauto, and was employed as a security guard for the ME’s office.
I flipped through her time sheets.
Tracey Pendleton worked nights—including last night.
Claire was watching me, and when I looked up, she said, “Tracey clocked in at twelve oh two. She didn’t punch out.”
“You’ve called her?”
“Every ten minutes. No answer. I also texted her and sent her a bunch of e-mails. No answer to those, either.”
“Tell me what you know about her,” I said.
I teed up the question, but my mind was already racing ahead. Had Tracey Pendleton stolen Faye Farmer’s body? If so, what was her motive?
“I don’t know her at all,” Claire said. “Our schedules only overlap if I come in way early or I’m working way late. And even then, it’s ‘Hey, how ya doing?’”
“When was the last time you saw Pendleton?”
“A couple of weeks ago. She seemed okay to me, Lindsay. But when I look at her, I’m just looking to see
if she’s sober. She failed to show up for work a couple of times and was on warning. But not showing up and not punching out are two different things entirely.”
I asked, “She just forgot to punch out?”
Claire shrugged.
“It would be the first time. The time clock is right there at the back door.”
“Okay. Could she have taken the surveillance disk, switched the John Doe for Faye Farmer, and gotten Farmer’s body into her car? Is she strong enough to do that?”
“I think it’s physically possible.”