The Eighth Day

Chapter 5

"Hello, detective," Shawn Jaffe said.

The surprise on Harrington's face was replaced by a look of suspicion. "What are you doing here?" he asked. "Did you have something to do with this?"

Shawn turned up his palms. "I read about it online."

"Why are you here?"

"I'm trying to figure out what's going on."

The head of security, Frederickson, cleared his throat. "I take it you two know each other?"

"Mr. Jaffe was a witness this morning at the Café del Mar," Harrington said. "The victim spoke with him shortly before he was killed."

"You mean the victim whose body disappeared?"

Harrington nodded.

Now it was Frederickson's turn to narrow his eyes at Shawn with brow knit and face darkened. "He was asking if we had any leads about the man's identity," he said.

Shawn shook his head and held up his hands defensively. "I told you, I'm just trying to figure out what's going on."

Harrington jabbed a finger at him. "Stay here and don't move. I'm gonna talk to Frederickson, and then you're coming with me."

"I didn't mean to—"

"Stay here." The detective put an arm around Frederickson's shoulder and led him toward a far corner.

Shawn sighed. That went well. If Harrington didn't think he was a suspect before, he did now.

He scanned the faces in the crowd, looking for someone familiar, someone he might've seen in another crowd, in another place. Someone watching him.

But none of the faces were familiar, and none showed any particular interest in him. At least, not that he could tell. He sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets, then took them out and clasped them in front of him. He checked his watch, folded his arms over his chest, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

He waited, glancing at Sam and Frederickson, who stood together in a conspiratorial huddle, the detective hunched over a notepad and pen, the head of security just hunched over. He wondered what they were talking about.

He'd begun brainstorming reasons to approach them—had in fact been on the verge of approaching them anyway, reason or not—when Sam slipped his notepad into the inside pocket of his jacket, and the two turned and made their way back toward him.

"I need to talk to the medical examiner," Harrington said. "You're coming with me."

"Did you find out anything?"

Harrington glanced at Frederickson, who remained silent.

"Let's go," the detective said.

He escorted Shawn to the security checkpoint, and Shawn followed the detective through the metal detector, removing his belt and emptying his pockets into a plastic tray before passing through to the far side.

They traveled ever deeper into the heart of the medical center, the stench of bleach growing stronger with each twist and turn of the hallway. The two passed through a pair of steel doors, and a dim corridor stretched before them, lit by bulbs encased in wire mesh spaced along the chalk-blue ceiling. Metal doors blended into the length of the hall, betrayed by silver doorknobs and lines of darkness that marred their edges. A pair of police officers lounged outside one of the doors, a thin stream of light seeping from beneath it. They turned toward Shawn and Harrington, and one extended a hand in greeting. Harrington shook it.