And here’s me thinking you had a distaste for corpses.” “I do,” growled Donovan, chewing on the end of his unlit cigarette. He was back in Vettel’s laboratory, staring at the milky-white corpse of an overweight mobster. This one had been in the morgue for well over a week, chilling in one of the storage cabinets, and the flesh had taken on a pale, sickly hue. The man was going blue around the lips, and his eyelids were shut tight and rimed with frost. Donovan could see the little ice crystals, resting on the tips of his eyelashes. There was a six-inch gash in his throat, yawning open to expose the muscles and arteries inside. “I have to hand it to you,” she said. “You hide it well.” “Very droll,” said Donovan. He bit down too hard on the cigarette and it split, flooding his mouth with dry tobacco. He plucked it out and tossed it in the trash, trying to hide his distaste. “Whoever tipped you off was really on to something, Felix. Take a look at this.” She crossed to the corpse and lifted the man’s arm, presenting his wrist.
