Hospital Europeen Georges Pompidou

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Georgette Duguay

Georgette watched as Samara watched Dr. Bonnaire leave, her eyes pining after him like a kitten watched their owners walk away after leaving it in a box on the side of the road: blissfully ignorant, staring with naïve admiration. It was sad that her friend wasted her emotions on such an unavailable man. Dr. Bonnaire was more dedicated to his work than to any human being on this earth, and, should he ever sleep in the company of another, that person would be flat chested and male, not well endowed with a nice rack and female like Samara. It was a sad truth Samara had to face one day. Just like the lost kitten had to come to terms with that a car was going to run over it. Or something like that.

“Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”

“You really don’t have to get him his coffee, you know. He’s sweet, but terribly uninterested .” How did Georgette say this discreetly? How did she break the news to Samara without everyone knowing Dr. Bonnaire’s secret? “You know, Sammi,” Georgette said, looking for the right words, “he complimented me on my shoes the other day, and not for their colour. What does that tell you?”

Straight complimented blouses and pants to discreetly say “Yeah… I was looking there,” but to sugar coat it enough so women took the bait. Gay men complimented shoes. It was a fact. Not scientifically proven, of course, but it hadn’t been disproven thus in Georgette’s experience.

[The Exodus]

Samara al-Jabiri

Samara started towards the lounge, but Georgette called her back.

“You really don’t have to get him his coffee, you know. He’s sweet, but terribly uninterested .”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Samara folded her arms and started walking again. “It’s my job to get him his coffee.”

“You know, Sammi,” Georgette continued. “He complimented me on my shoes the other day, and not for their colour. What does that tell you?”

“He’s not gay,” Samara whispered firmly. “His mother is a fashion designer; you can’t blame him for having good taste. I’m going to make coffee.”

There was no way a man like Gerard Bonnaire was gay. No way. Firstly, it would be a cruel injustice to the women of the world—an the gene pool. He was handsome and wickedly smart. Those traits deserved to be passed on. Never mind how kind he was. Samara had never seen him treat a woman ill. She’d never seen him treat anyone poorly. But that didn’t make him gay. She walked down the hallway. It meant he was respectful. A good man. Besides, Samara had never seen him with a date—male or female. And she’d never had to take calls from male suitors for him. No female ones, either. But, still. That didn’t make him gay. He was a busy man. He didn’t have time to date. And that didn’t deter Samara. A good man was hard to find in this city. Maybe they could help each other find time to date.

It wasn’t that unusual, really, for a doctor and his secretary to fall in love. It happened plenty; to the point of cliché. But it happened for a reason: a busy man and a busy woman who only saw each other regularly. Love would eventually come. Georgette would see. And she’d be eating her words.

And just to pour salt onto Georgette’s wounded pride, Samara would make her a bridesmaid.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Georgette Duguay

“He’s not gay,” Samara whispered firmly. “His mother is a fashion designer; you can’t blame him for having good taste. I’m going to make coffee.”

Georgette followed her down the hallway, flickering her wrist. “whoop-shh” she exclaimed with each flick, “whoop-shh… He has you eating out of the palm of his hand, Samara. I promise. Save yourself the grief and heartache and just leave him be. Make the coffee—mocha with for shots or something—and leave it at that. Platonic and professional. And come see this dead guy. It’s probably the coolest thing ever.”

It really was. The man had died from yawning and snapped his jaw off. It was really an interesting case. Either the poor man had a bad case of untreated TMJ, or he had a pre-existing injury that had made his jaw already loose and…

Georgette was even digressing in her thoughts. She refocused. “Come on, Sammi. Don’t do something you’ll regret.”

[The Exodus]

Samara al-Jabiri

Georgette trailed behind her, imitating the sounds of whip lashes. Samara ignored her.

“He has you eating out of the palm of his hand, Samara. I promise. Save yourself the grief and heartache and just leave him be. Make the coffee—mocha with for shots or something—and leave it at that. Platonic and professional. And come see this dead guy. It’s probably the coolest thing ever.”

“Hazelnut and sugar,” Samara said tightly as they swept into the break room. She went to the coffee machine and began to grind coffee beans with too much gusto.


“Come on, Sammi. Don’t do something you’ll regret.”

“Like put shots in his coffee and get fired? No, thank you.” She poured the grinds into the top of the coffee maker and filled the carafe with water. Then she started the machine. “Look, I don’t mind. Really. One of two things will happen. Either he’ll come to his senses or I’ll make enough money to leave and do what I’m meant to do. In the meantime… Tell me about this dead guy.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Georgette Duguay

Georgette watched Samara grind the coffee beans as if the noise would drown her out, make her disappear with each whirr and whizz of the little machine. Georgette shook her head, hanging it limply at the nape of her neck. Her poor friend, making coffee from scratch, putting a tasty combination of creamer and love into it, all for a man who would never see as more than a secretary and friend, who would never look over her with the roving eyes of lusty desire any logical straight man would.

“Like put shots in his coffee and get fired? No, thank you. Look, I don’t mind. Really. One of two things will happen. Either he’ll come to his senses or I’ll make enough money to leave and do what I’m meant to do. In the meantime… Tell me about this dead guy.”

“Died by yawning, snapped his jaw off, which broke some teeth, which he choked on, but that’s not what’s important right now.” Georgette dismissed the topic of her work and moved , like a train switching obtrusively to its original track. “What’s important is your happiness. I want you to be happy, which you won’t be if you go around chase after Dr. Bonnaire. He’s a great man, really he is. I don’t need to tell you that, but he’s not interested in getting anything from you but your service and maybe friendship. You don’t have to believe me, but it’d be nice if you did…”

Georgette sighed with a heavy, exaggerated shrug, her shoulders slumping in a querulous pout. “So… Now that your little coffee-flavoured love potion is brewed, want to go see the dead guy? He’s pretty grotesque.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Georgette Duguay

There was nothing like the smell of death to get you going in the morning. That and the smell of coffee brewing one room over. She hoped the boys were having fun with their groggy, sleep filled eyes and black-four-sugars mugs. As for her, she was perfectly satisfied wheeling dead corpses from refrigeration. And on this slow, frigid morning, Georgette was currently reopening what looked like a closed case. Her colleagues were smart, trained, male, but incredibly human. Georgette hadn’t the chance to look at this corpse yet and she wanted to get her hands on it before cause of death was set in (no pun intended) stone.

Dehydration, her co-workers had decided, was what did her (Phoebe Villaneuve, as identified) in. But Georgette wasn’t so sure. Their decision was decided so quickly, so assuredly, that Georgette was certain they missed something. A simple blood test would disprove their theory or affirm it. It didn’t hurt to double check.

She looked at the body. “Poor girl. She was so pretty, so young…” She drained a small vile of blood. It was always odd thinking that that was it: there’d be no more in this person’s body once this was all gone. She peered at in under the microscope.

Ecstasy. How had the boys not caught that? It caused heat exhaustion, especially in crowded places. And the red marks on her feet, the blistered toes proved that she had been dancing, just like her friends’ stories had said. “And so stupid.” She added. An athlete throwing away her career for a night of fun? It cost her her life. It was sad, really, but it came with the territory of the job.

“Well, Phoebe, I’m just going to change out this toe tag here.” Talking to corpses, Georgette had learned, was a tad better than talking to real people because corpses couldn’t respond or hold grudged or judge you. “You poor thing, your whole life ahead of you and one small drink just ends it. I’ll sew you up nice and neat and—“ But the sound of the door opening and the figure of a man standing in her morgue (well, not her morgue (it belonged to the hospital), but it might as well have been) stopped her. “Hello. Can I help you?”

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

Before going inside the hospital, Santiago had spent a good fifteen minutes outside, smoking, and trying to convince himself he was a detective. With Catalina’s boundless resources, he’d been fashioned as Detective Ortiz of the CNSP-ARP. For Santiago, all that meant was he carried a badge now—a forgery that even the police would have trouble identifying as such—and he got a haircut. He didn’t mean to sound like a bratty ten year old, but his hair now made him look too clean-cut. Even not shaving in protest didn’t mitigate the damage. He looked like a cop and it made him angry. What was wrong with five o’clock shadow? He looked like a man then. Now, he thought he looked rather like someone had taken a shearing tool to his head and his balls alike.

Detective Santiago Luis Castaneda-Guadalupe Ortiz had fake papers, too, tucked away in a safe in Santiago’s apartment. He had immigrated to Paris as a child with his mother and father. Both parents were deceased—car accident—and buried back home in Barcelona. He’d grown up here, this alter-ego, and received Private Investigator Certification. Catalina, wonderful, ingenious Catalina, had paid a few of his “classmates” and “mentors” off to support their story. At the academy, he’d been average at most things—a seeming insult to Santiago’s actual abilities, but a necessary lie to blend in. He was now a plain-clothes detective; unmarried, no kids. A dog, though. Not much set him apart, except that instead of reporting his findings to a chief, Santiago reported only to Catalina Reyes.

The only real upside to being Detective Santiago Luis Castaneda-Guadalupe Ortiz was that Detective Santiago Luis Castaneda-Guadalupe Ortiz was 29 years old to Santiago’s 32.

When the cigarette was done, Santiago stamped it into ash on the sidewalk. It was an almost satisfying “squish” under his shoe. He wanted to punch a wall, shoot off a few rounds, pick up a girl in a bar for a rough and tumble night, anything to blow off steam, but first things first, he had to get into the morgue.

The girl at the secretarial desk had a set of headphones in. Not professional headphones, bright, green things that covered her ears. Santiago waited patiently for a few seconds before clearing his throat. No response. Jesus, how hard was it to be a f*cking secretary and pay attention? Santiago rapped on the desk with his knuckles. No response. Finally, he reached over the desk and tugged her headphones off. They ripped out of the speaker plug and electronic music filled the air noisily. Dozens of eyes looked over at them, but the girl in front of him glared specifically at Santiago. If looks could kill, Santiago wouldn’t have had time to draw his gun. They had a small scowling match going and Santiago was surprised that some young, petite and clearly indolent girl could have such a potent stare.

Oh well, he’d been up against scarier. A slimy imitation of a smile wormed its way onto Santiago’s lips.

“Hi,” he said, not at all warmly. “Detective Ortiz. Can you direct me to the morgue?”

“Depends,” said the girl, looking more than mildly annoyed about the headphones. “Can you show me some identification?”

Santiago pulled out the fake ID and held his breath. He waited. And waited. And waited as the girl held it up to the light and squinted at it. Santiago, as he so often did when breaking the law, found himself praying.

Please, please, please…

“This can’t be right,” the girl said.

Santiago’s spine was tight at it’s base, but he didn’t flinch. “No?”

“Nope,” the girl said. “The Detective Ortiz on here is actually quite good looking.”

She handed the card back, grinning madly, as if she was the smartest, cleverest girl in the world for that one. Santiago stared at her, deadpan.

“I’ll unlock the doors for you and let Georgie know you’re coming.”

“Great. Thanks.”

The morgue was a walk down a long, white corridor that sloped gently until Santiago was certain he was underground. He left behind the smells of sterility and soap and a new smell filled the air. You only knew it if you’d been as close to death as Santiago himself had. A feeling of disgust shuddered through him. Santiago didn’t kill because he liked death; he killed out of self defense, necessity. What kind of whack job wanted to surround himself with dead bodies for a living?

He stuck his head into the break room, where even the coffee smelled like death. There was no one in there, though, so he continued until reaching two big metal doors. He slipped inside and the sight he was greeted by was not one he expected.

A pretty young woman stood beside a corpse, looking at it in a tender way that Santiago had never looked at a corpse before. Her hair cascaded in soft waves down her back and shoulders, falling ever so slightly into her face. He couldn’t see her face, but he caught sight of her white neck and part of her collar bone. Santiago’s gaze trickled down the length of her body, past a masculine jacket to her flowing skirt and long, long legs.

Santiago had forgotten how much of a sucker he was for a nice pair of legs. And in those shoes, the woman was taller than most of the women Santiago had cause to come close too. Taller than pint-sized pistol Catalina and fun size Reese. Taller than Rachel had been. As tall as—

No. He was not thinking about Gisele. Santiago refused to go to that dark, emotional place while he was on a case. The case. His only case. If he messed this one up, he would have no more. Not because of police discharge, but because Catalina would murder him.

“You poor thing,” the beautiful woman said. Santiago looked up, shocked at her mind reading skills, but the woman was addressing the corpse. He shifted, a little disconcerted by her one-sided exchange. His too-shiny shoe squeaked against the tile. “your whole life ahead of you and one small drink just ends it. I’ll sew you up nice and neat and—“

She stopped and turned to face him. Santiago didn’t have time to react.

“Hello. Can I help you?” the woman asked.

“Are you talking to me or the dead girl now?” he asked, forgetting who he was—or who he was supposed to be—for a moment. Then, blinking and pulling out his badge again, “Detective Santiago Ortiz. How are you, mademoiselle?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Georgette Duguay

“Are you talking to me or the dead girl now?”

Georgette looked the man up and down. When Sammy said she was sending down a tall, dark, handsome stranger to her little cave of a work place, she expected a tongue to be involved, but never expected it to be brusque and rude. She expected it to explore beneath her dress and taste like some exotic wine. Next time, she’d make sure Sam checked these sort of things.

Georgette crossed her arms over her chest. “Detective Santiago Ortiz. How are you, mademoiselle?”

“I’d be better if I knew your business here. If you have any questions, I’d be happy to answer them over phone or e-mail. I’m sorry, but I have some important work to do.”

She was never the one to deal with Private Detectives. That wasn’t her job. But there was something about the professionalism and urgency in his voice that made her want him to stay. “Unless you’d like to help me, then maybe I could help you in return, as well.”

Gandhi had once said A t*t for a tat makes the world go around. And that was how the world worked. You did something for someone if they did something for you, right? It was Karma. Or maybe Gandhi had never said that. Georgette though maybe it was philosophical and sweet Gerard. But he didn’t like anything, not even sayings, that had to do with t*ts, so that ruled him out. Perhaps it was just Georgette’s mind spewing faux-philosophies that suited her in the moment. Whatever it was, she liked it. “Is there anything in particular you need?” she asked. “A corpse perhaps, they are plentiful here, I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

D*mn. He’d probably blown his cover, being so casual and cavalier. Santiago had overcompensated with that “how are you” crap. That wasn’t how he talked; it probably wasn’t how a detective talked. But there was an attractive woman and a dead body in the room. That changed things.

“I’d be better if I knew your business here,” the woman said dryly. “If you have any questions, I’d be happy to answer them over phone or e-mail. I’m sorry, but I have some important work to do.”

Santiago smiled, cocked his head, and folded his arms over his chest. He was not a man easily deterred.

“Unless you’d like to help me, then maybe I could help you in return, as well.”

He was in. Santiago thanked God and as many saints as he could think of that he somehow made for a convincing cop. A better one than that Dubois guy who’d tailed him last year. He could have snapped that twig’s resolve in half; Santiago, meanwhile was making small victories on the information-gathering front.

“Is there anything in particular you need?” she asked. “A corpse perhaps, they are plentiful here, I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

Santiago chuckled.

“I’ll take a rain-check on that,” he said, knowing that however sarcastic it could have sounded, he was dead serious. He’d read up on how legitimate detectives worked. If they needed to infiltrate a gang with a blood-in, blood-out policy, they couldn’t just kill some bum off the streets. It was illegal. Sometimes, they worked with morgues to fake murders. Santiago wondered if he might have to do that. It sounded unpleasantly hassle-filled and messy. “No, I just have a quick question for you.”

He flicked through his wallet for a picture of Lorenzo. Catalina had given it to Santiago, but he didn’t need to study it hard to remember the occasion. Catalina’s wedding. Lorenzo had given her away and it was one of the rare occasions the man allowed himself to be photographed. He was smiling, but his eyes weren’t. Lorenzo seldom smiled out of happiness. Santiago remembered that much.

“I’m looking for this man,” he said, handing the woman the picture. “Lorenzo Reyes. His sister reported him missing two days ago. Has he come through your… office?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Georgette Duguay

The man laughed softly at Georgette’s dark humour. Dark humour was all you knew when you worked in a morgue for more than half your week.

“I’ll take a rain-check on that. No, I just have a quick question for you.” Georgette pursed her lips. Hadn’t she just said she’d answer his questions over phone or e-mail? That she had work to do?

“Okay,” she said curtly. “What is it?”

“I’m looking for this man,” He said, and Georgette took the picture, examining it. Something about the man was familiar, but she was unsure. If he had been a client of hers, she would have remembered. She remembered every dead body, indistinguishable or not that lay unmoving on her table.

“Lorenzo Reyes. His sister reported him missing two days ago. Has he come through your… office?”

“Hmmm….” Georgette bit her lip handing the picture back. “It’s possible. But I’m not the only one who works here, you know. My pretty much dead-beat colleagues are here, too. Feel free to look around. My refrigerator is your refrigerator. But, while you’re over there, can you hand me my sewing kit?” Georgette asked, handing over the picture and indicating the area he needed to go to find his man. “I have to sew up this gash my careless partner left.”

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

Santiago half-hoped this woman recognized Lorenzo well enough to point him in the right direction. Case open, case shut, then Santiago could go back to his unexamined life as the Garnier’s stage manager. No more gangs, no more lies, no more detective work.

Even if he was enjoying himself a little bit.

Which was more than he could say about most things.

“Hmmm…” the woman studied the picture. She bit down on her lip and Santiago stared, mildly transfixed by them. They looked really soft; she looked soft. A pretty, delicate woman working with dead bodies. Truth really was stranger than fiction. “It’s possible. But I’m not the only one who works here, you know. My pretty much dead-beat colleagues are here, too. Feel free to look around. My refrigerator is your refrigerator. But, while you’re over there, can you hand me my sewing kit?”

She returned the picture and pointed near what looked like a giant refrigerator. On a table, beside some nasty looking scalpels, was a small tool-kit like box unlike any sewing kit Santiago had ever seen before.

“I have to sew up this gash my careless partner left.”

“Of course,” Santiago said.

He brought her the kit before walking back towards the giant refrigerator. He’d never been on this side of death before. It was an interesting angle. Not something he was likely to say, though, to this woman. Santiago opened the doors to the refrigerator. Inside, was a dead body of a small child. A boy, looked to be about eight or ten. Santiago, curious, studied the corpse. The boy would have had skin a shade or two darker than Santiago’s own, if he didn’t have a nasty grey hue overcasting his natural color. Santiago swallowed. He had a thing against seeing dead kids. It always unsettled him. He closed that door and moved to the next.

“I appreciate your cooperation, Mademoiselle….?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Georgette Duguay

The man, Monsieur Ortiz, brought her the sewing kit and she wordlessly went to work as he searched about her version of an office. Admittedly, it made her a tad uncomfortable to have a stranger of a man snoop through her office for the dead body of man who, by the image that had be procured, looked as soulless in life as he indubitably did in death.

“I appreciate your cooperation, Mademoiselle….?

“Duguay,” Georgette said, motioning to her shiny nametag on her jacket. “Georgette. But Mademoiselle Duguay works just as well, too, thank you, Monsieur Ortiz.”

She snipped off the final string that hung loose on the cadaver with finality and pulled the sheet back over the poor, dead Phoebe, and pushed her back into her refrigerated cubbyhole.

With the thick, wooly shawl that hung over the pair of them (excluding the dead bodies, of course), Georgette figured she had better use the sharp needles in the sewing kit to her advantage, to puncture little holes into that thick, strangulating, silence. “So how long have you been a private investigator, Monsieur Ortiz?” Georgette asked, her hand moving swiftly and with faux clumsiness, sending her sewing kit crashing to the floor. “Oops. Sorry. Mind helping me a bit?”

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

Santiago looked over at the woman and leaned against the refrigerator so he could get a better look at her.

“Duguay,” the woman said, indicating a badge and positively asking Santiago to look at her chest. His eyes lingered only a hair of a second too long; just long enough to pretend to read and actually appreciate. “Georgette. But Mademoiselle Duguay works just as well, too, thank you, Monsieur Ortiz.”

Maybe that hadn’t gone unnoticed. But she wouldn’t have given a first name if she didn’t want it used. Santiago tucked it in his mind safely. Georgette. He liked it. The soft “G” sound; a strong, male name softened with a feminine ending. He nodded and turned back to the refrigerator.

The next one was filled with geriatric corpses. Santiago didn’t know how to feel about looking at dead old people; or live old people for that matter. It just reminded him he’d be one of them one of these days, if he kept out of trouble. He doubted that would be the case. He shut that refrigerator and moved to the next. Georgette put the dead girl in a nearby cubbyhole.

“So how long have you been a private investigator, Monsieur Ortiz?” she asked, reaching for the sewing kit, which clattered to the floor. “Oops. Sorry. Mind helping me a bit?”

“Sure.” Santiago said, walking to her and crouching by the mess of needles. “Wouldn’t want you to accidentally step on one.”

Then, unsure what prompted it, except maybe his nature, Santiago grinned. “If you did, we’d be lucky there’s a hospital upstairs.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Georgette Duguay

Ortiz came to help her out, carefully but quickly putting the sewing hit, strewn higgledy-piggledy across the hard tiled floor that reflected blindingly the fluorescent lighting.

“I hate these lights!” Albert would often say. “It aggravates my lupus.” Georgette would have been willing to be sympathetic if Albert actually had lupus and wasn’t just looking for a way out of work.

She glanced at the office where Albert sat, talking loudly, drinking coffee, oblivious to the fact Georgette was with a man in the workspace, that she was getting work done.

“Wouldn’t want you to accidentally step on one.” Ortiz said, plunging a small handful of needles into a small pin cushion, which Georgette plucked it from his hand and plopped back into her kit.

She watched a smile, tinted with dark humour spread across his lips. “If you did, we’d be lucky there’s a hospital upstairs.”

Georgette snickered and smiled. “It’s the best place to work, you know, beneath a hospital. It’s a pity Private Investigators don’t always have that priveledge.”

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

To Santiago’s amusement (relief?), Georgette laughed at his joke. He wasn’t used to women doing that. An uncomfortable giggle, maybe, or an eye roll, but Georgette was genuinely laughing. Santiago smiled lopsidedly at Georgette. He then reminded himself he was a private detective talking to a medical examiner, not a stage manager panning for a date.

“It’s the best place to work, you know, beneath a hospital. It’s a pity Private Investigators don’t always have that privilege.”

Santiago shrugged. It was true of legitimate private investigators and Santiago both. But, he had a few advantages.

“I know enough first aid to get by,” he said.

He thought about the times he’d stitched himself up because he wasn’t going to risk turning up at a hospital with bullet wounds or a gash from a knife where normal people didn’t get gashes. Or the times when he downed half a bottle of whisky to kill the pain after having his face beaten and his nose reset by a friend after a fistfight. It wasn’t real medicine, but it did in a pinch. Santiago was often in a pinch. It really would have been beneficial to have a medical officer on his side.

“So, did you always want to be a medical examiner?” he asked, still crouching, but now looking at her and not gathering sewing supplies. “Or was it the healthcare benefits that made you choose to spend your days talking to corpses and cops?”