Blood on the Tracks Read Online Free

sucked in air and followed him up the steps.
    “I saw your interview in the Denver Post ,” he said, making conversation as we walked through the house. “I had no idea about Mortuary Affairs.”
    “Most people don’t.” It was why I’d agreed to the interview. But as soon as I saw my name in print, I’d regretted it. People still didn’t understand. And I’d said too much.
    In the hallway outside the apartment, I signed the log offered up by a patrolman and reached for a pair of cloth booties to pull over my shoes.
    “She’s in the back bedroom,” Cohen said.
    “Got an ID on her?” I asked.
    “Driver’s license found in a purse in the kitchen is for Elise Hensley, age twenty.”
    Holding a bootie and balancing on one leg, I looked up at him. “Well, fuck.”
    “Know her?”
    “Yeah. We weren’t close, but yeah. She’s niece to one of the men in my department. Senior Special Agent Nik Lasko. Elise was a good girl. Did well in school, never caused trouble. Did some modeling for a while. Works at Al’s Diner on 36th.” I snugged the bootie in place. “Worked.”
    Cohen looked away, the bones of his face shifting toward something heavy. Hard week, I figured.
    Hard weeks pile up in his line of work.
    “I’m sorry, Parnell,” he said.
    “You do a next-of-kin notification?”
    “Not yet.”
    “Mind if I do it?” This would kill Nik. He loved Elise like a daughter, much as he had always loved me. His two orphans. Better the news came from me.
    Cohen finally nodded. “Give me fifteen minutes inside first. Then the body crew can move her. You let Special Agent Lasko know, and we’ll follow up with him later.”
    “Thanks.”
    The first thing I noticed was that the apartment was cold. The front room was full of people, none of whom I knew. Plainclothes Denver PD and detectives from the crime lab, probably. I might have been in training with some of these people but, if so, their faces hadn’t registered. They nodded and went back to their work.
    “There’s a lot I want you to see in her bedroom,” Cohen said. “First, though, take a look at some of these photos, see if you know any of these people.”
    There were framed photographs arranged throughout the living room and more covering the refrigerator door in clear, magnetized frames. I began a circuit, studying each picture. I noticed a Bible open on the dining room table, passages highlighted. A cross hung on the wall next to the largest collection of photos.
    “Take your time,” Cohen said.
    I shot him a glance to see if he was being sarcastic, but he was writing something in an oversize spiral notebook.
    I came to a stop in front of the refrigerator.
    “Anything?” Cohen finally asked.
    “They’re hobos. All of them. Nik never shared this, but my guess is Elise was what is known as a kindhearted lady, someone who feeds the rail riders. That’s what the drawing of a cat outside the window means. She probably helped them in other ways, too. Clothing. Jobs. Medical care if they needed it, rehab if they’d take it. Sometimes these women try to save them, in the Christian sense of the word. They’re soul catchers.”
    “Soul catchers? You mean like some sort of voodoo thing?”
    “Only if you consider the mysticism of the Holy Trinity a black art. Elise probably preached to them, tried to get them to accept Jesus in their hearts and return to their families.”
    “These guys have real homes?”
    “Some of them. But often the families don’t want them back. People who ride the rails usually have problems of one kind or another. A lot of them are pretty antisocial.” Something I understood. I shoved my hands in my pockets. “I’m ready to see the bedroom.”
    “One more room, first.”
    He led the way down the hallway. Our feet whispered on the plastic runner laid by the crime scene guys.
    “This room,” he said. “See anything in here?”
    I took in the neatly made bed with its feminine quilt. A battered oak nightstand. On the