CHAPTER SEVEN
“Catching up on your beauty sleep, Mayfield?” Bill Sutter asked when she walked into Homicide. His skin color was even more pasty than usual. “I didn't hear that you've done anything to help advance our case. Oh, wait. You're sick. How could I forget?”
“What do I have to do?” she snapped. “Bring a note from my doctor?” She was irate, and unfortunately for Sutter, he was the only person nearby to take it out on.
A thin blue vein stood out in the center of his forehead. “You could have asked the medical examiner for one—she's a doctor. Oh, wait. You missed the autopsy, didn't you? Because you felt bad.”
“But not nearly as bad as I'd feel if I let our prime suspect escape!” She marched to her desk, leaving Sutter with his mouth hanging open.
She sat and took a deep breath.
