Butterfly Kills. Brenda Chapman

he was waiting for her to react. If so, he was going to wait a long time. “I’ll come back in after I’ve interviewed the ex,” she said before the emptiness on the line stretched out too long. “Don’t worry, I’m used to working alone.”

      She turned off the phone without waiting for his reply and flung it onto the map lying next to her.

      Gundersund slipped his phone back into his pocket and thought about having a cigarette. Autopsies were stressful and being teamed with Stonechild was becoming another thing to worry about. What was she doing tracking down a prime suspect by herself, especially someone named Wolf? He could feel the beginnings of a headache starting up behind his right temple.

      He’d quit the habit for two months and three days but could conjure up the taste of nicotine and the round feel of one between his fingers at will. Usually, it was enough. This autopsy was the first real test of his resolve and it was weakening. All he had to do was step outside and head to the smoking area on the north side of the building where he could easily bum one. He could feel the pull.

      He looked down the hallway. Fiona was walking toward him with two coffees in her hands. The baggy green scrubs hid her slender body and the heart tattoo on her left shoulder. Her rubber-soled shoes squeaked on the waxed floor. She stopped a foot away and handed over one of the Styrofoam cups. Her fingers touched his hand longer than they needed to.

      “No sugar, right?”

      “You remembered.”

      “I remember lots of stuff when it comes to you.”

      Gundersund laughed to cover his discomfort. “Let’s not dredge up the bad memories. As I recall, you had a long list of my failings by the time you moved out.”

      She tilted her head so that her blond hair swung over one shoulder. Her perfume filled the space between them. It was spicier than what she’d worn when they were together. “We had more good than bad between us.” She sipped her coffee. Her blue eyes stared into his. “I’m living alone again.”

      “What happened to the surgeon?”

      “Long gone. Why don’t you come for dinner tomorrow night? I could barbeque steaks, bake some potatoes, uncork a bottle of red.”

      “This case will probably have me tied up.” He was quite certain that taking her up on her offer was a very bad idea.

      “Well, if you end up free, the invitation’s always there.” She pushed the door behind them open with her hip and stepped inside the autopsy room. She looked over her shoulder. “Coming? I’m cutting into her brain next.”

      “Well, since you put it that way.”

      He followed his wife through the door and realized he’d forgotten all about the cigarette, but he hadn’t forgotten about the maddening Kala Stonechild. He should call Rouleau to let him know what she was up to, but that would alienate her and get their partnership off to a bad start. He’d try to finish up early here and track her down. She was turning out to be just one more woman out to make his life hell.

      Guitar music circled the house from the backyard. Kala pushed open the gate and followed a brick path into a small patio area wrapped in flower gardens and shrubs. A man sat on a stool with his back to her, a guitar in his lap, one leather-sandaled foot crossed over the other leg. She recognized a Gordon Lightfoot song: “Railroad Trilogy.” The man’s brown hair was pulled back into a curly ponytail. He was shirtless, his broad shoulders and back lean and muscled. When he turned around, Kala saw why he’d been nicknamed Wolf. The lower half of his face was bearded and his eyes were almond-shaped and a curious shade of green and gold. His hands and body went still.

      “Yes? Can I help you?”

      She stepped around clay flowerpots bursting with begonias and impatiens. Thyme grew between the bricks at her feet, sending up a dusky fragrance as she walked closer. “Are you Wolf Edwards?”

      “I am. And who might you be?” He smiled, his face friendly, unguarded.