by Jen Blood
“It could have been anyone. Hell, it could have been me. No doubt I’ve wanted to throttle her before, and I know anybody who loves animals has felt the same. Most wouldn’t act on that, though.”
“Most?” Jack echoed.
I shrugged. “It’s hard to know what a body might do in the heat of the moment.” The face of Brock Campbell, Bear’s abusive father, flashed through my mind, in those final seconds before he closed his eyes for the last time. I pushed the image away.
“They’re looking for Albie now,” Jack said, oblivious to my own dark thoughts. “The police have some questions.”
“I bet.” I tried to imagine what the scene possibly could have been before Albie fled. He must have been terrified. “Wait,” I said, understanding dawning. “They can’t think he had anything to do with this.”
Jack shrugged. “You saw how upset he was when we left yesterday.”
“Yes, but—” I stopped. The truth was, I had no idea what had happened. And definitely no clue what Albie had been going through in the months and years that led up to this tragic ending.
“I should get back to the island,” I said. “Thanks for coming here today. You didn’t have to, you know.”
“I know,” he said. He studied me a moment, and I got the uneasy sense there was something he wanted to tell me. A flicker of guilt crossed his face before it vanished. “I heard about everything that happened, and came out to see for myself. To be honest, I was surprised to hear about it secondhand rather than getting a call from you. I would have come out to help sooner.”
“Thank you. But I know you’re trying to run a business now. You can’t just come traipsing out whenever I get a notion it might be nice to have you on board.”
“I’ll let you know if I don’t have the time,” he said. “Let me make that call, okay?”
“Okay,” I agreed. “Talk to you later?”
“Count on it. I’m sure I’ll need some pointers once I get Cash home.”
I smiled, watching him walk away. Try as I might, I still couldn’t shake the feeling that I was missing something significant about his presence here today.
Chapter 7
FOR MOST OF THE AFTERNOON, Jack stayed at the Davis home helping round up animals, clear debris, and whatever else anyone might ask of him. While it was true that he liked being seen as useful, particularly where Jamie was concerned, he didn’t fool himself thinking this was altruism on his part. He was here for Bear and the case as much as anything.
He watched Fred Davis, Nancy’s older son, observing the man’s interaction with Jamie from a distance. He seemed genuinely distraught, as much by his brother’s disappearance as the fact that his mother was dead.
After he’d reconnected briefly with Jamie and they had parted ways, Jack made his way over to the spot where Fred Davis and Sheriff Finnegan were still speaking. He lurked discreetly in the background, straining to hear their conversation.
“Will you give us a hand?” Tracy asked him as he lingered by the house, trying mightily to look like he wasn’t eavesdropping.
He glanced at Tracy, who nodded toward several pallets of rotting pet food stacked beside the house.
“Of course. What did you want to do with them?”
“There’s some food that’s still good here—I hate to see it go to waste. A couple of local shelters and pet food pantries got it together for Nancy in the hopes that maybe she’d be able to make it through the winter. I just want to go through and pull the bags out that we can use. The others will be hauled away by the garbage collector in the next few days, if the rats don’t eat their way through them before that.”
Jack suppressed a shudder, but nodded. He didn’t care for rats. Or rot, for that matter. Regardless, he stepped in beside Tracy and set to work, conveniently within hearing range of Fred Davis and the sheriff.
“What happened to her?” Fred asked, his voice more curious than despairing. Which struck Jack as interesting, if not overtly suspicious. People reacted in all manner of ways to grief, in his experience. No one way was really any better than any others.
“I told you, Fred, I’m not going to know anything until the M.E. has a chance to look at her.”
“You have to know something, though,” Fred insisted. “Somebody said something about a heart attack. You think that’s what happened?”
Jack perked up, relieved that Tracy seemed too intent on the job at hand to bother with chitchat.
“Honestly?” Sheriff Finnegan began. “I’m sorry, Fred, but no. It wasn’t a heart attack. Can you tell me where you were last night, between the hours of midnight and three a.m.?”
There was a pause. “Me? You can’t think I had anything to do with…” Fred paused. “Right,” he said, voice resigned. “Of course you would think that. I’m probably the number one suspect.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” the sheriff said, not without kindness. “But in these sorts of crimes, the family is often involved. I just need to rule you out so I can focus on catching whoever did do this.”
The sheriff handled the man well, with just the right balance between compassion and strength. Jack had seen Finnegan in action before, but it had been some time. He was pleased to see that the sheriff hadn’t lost his edge.
“Of course,” Fred said dully. “I was in Portland last night, and planned to head this way today. I’d just flown in from Philadelphia, where I’m living now.”
“Where did you stay?”
“The Hampton Inn by the airport. It was stupid—I knew that. Way too expensive, especially this time of year. I just wanted one more night with sanity and clean sheets before I came back here.”
“And you have someone who’ll confirm you were there?”
Jack glanced up as he handed off another undamaged bag of dog chow to Tracy. Fred stood facing the sheriff, his shoulders hunched and head down. The body language of a defeated man. So much so that Jack wondered if he might be overselling it.
“Just hotel staff,” Fred said. “I got there at a little past ten. Checked out as soon as I got the call this morning, at seven o’clock.”
So whoever gave him the news about his mother this morning had decided not to wake him, Jack noted. They had known Nancy was dead and Albie missing by four a.m., according to Jamie. The choice not to call sooner struck Jack as off, though Sheriff Finnegan said nothing.
“Did anyone see you while you were in the room?” the sheriff pressed. “Maybe you ordered room service? Talked to someone at the front desk?”
Fred shook his head. “I just went straight to my room, took a shower, and went to bed. I don’t think anyone saw me.”
Jack knew that it took just under two hours to get to Cushing from Portland. If Fred had wanted to, he could have checked into the hotel, then gotten in his car and driven straight through to his mother’s house. Killed her, done…something, with his brother, and then driven back to Portland. It would have been a long night, but Jack had known plenty of killers who had gone to more trouble to cover their tracks.
He was certain based on the sheriff’s lack of response that he was thinking the same thing.
“There’s something else I needed to talk to you about, Fred, and I’m sorry about this.”
The sheriff glanced in Jack’s direction, and Jack quickly returned his attention to the pallets of food before him. Unfortunately, he’d reacted too late.
“Here,” the sheriff said, more quietly now. “Why don’t you come with me, and we’ll find somewhere out of the way to talk about this.”
Fred nodded, clearly concerned, and Jack cursed his position. He was used to having a front-row seat to briefings and interrogations, even if local law enforcement hadn’t always been crazy about the presence of the FBI. This would take some getting used to.
“Can I give you a hand?” a woman’s voice said, just behind him.
“I think we’re all right here,” Tracy said, before Jack could respond. He turned to find an attractive woman in her mid-thirties, peti
te and blond, focused on them both. Barbara Monroe, Jack remembered, recalling meeting the woman yesterday.
She smiled when Jack met her eye, and extended her hand. “We weren’t really properly introduced yesterday—things were a little bit crazy. I’m Barb. Barbara Monroe. That’s our house over there.”
She nodded toward an attractive old New England farmhouse on the hill, the yard immaculate and the house clearly well cared for.
Jack shook her hand. It was delicate, the grip firm but distinctly feminine. “Jack Juarez,” he said. She smiled but said nothing, waiting for more information. Jack offered none.
“Jack’s new in town,” Tracy said. “He’s lending a hand.”
“You’re the private investigator, aren’t you?” Barb asked, gazing up at him with striking green eyes. “I heard you’ve been helping Jamie, and then Julie—my daughter—said Bear was talking about your work.”
“That’s right,” Jack agreed, inexplicably self-conscious. It also occurred to him that he couldn’t imagine Bear saying anything about him to anyone, much less Julie Monroe. “I just moved to Rockland a few months ago.”
She shifted where she stood, her gaze wavering. She had a question; Jack could read her face well enough to see that clearly. Before she could ask it, however, Jack’s attention was drawn to a station wagon that had just pulled into the drive. A small, silver-haired woman got out of the driver’s side.
Jack squelched a grin.
He might have been locked out of the investigation before, but his luck had just taken a turn.
“I actually need to speak with someone,” he said, addressing Tracy more than Barb. “I’m sorry. I can come back afterward if you still need me.”
Tracy waved him off. “The rest of this stuff is no good. I’ll have Ronny haul it off when he comes for the rest of the trash.”
“Let me know if there’s anything else I can do,” Jack said.
“Does the offer still stand for you taking Cash and the kittens?”
He hesitated a second before nodding. Tracy grinned outright. “That’s good news. I’ll let you know as soon as the lab tests come back, probably within the hour. If you could take them as soon as tonight, that would be a lifesaver. We’ll send you with food, blankets, cat carrier, and litter pans.”
He had a brief moment of panic before he nodded. “Of course. Whatever you need.”
Barb had been silent throughout this exchange, but Jack got the sense she hadn’t let go of her question, whatever it might be. He gave her another moment, but when she made no move, he left the women and walked as casually as he could toward the house. At the back, not far from where he’d made his exit an hour before, the woman he’d spotted at the station wagon was slipping into a white Hazmat suit that looked two sizes too big.
She was assisted by one of Sheriff Finnegan’s deputies and another medical assistant—a young man who was suiting up at the same time. At sight of Jack, however, the woman stopped. Her eyebrows raised, disbelief plain in dark brown eyes.
“Jack Juarez? But it can’t be! What are you doing here?” She spoke in rapid-fire French, her eyes alight.
“It’s a long story,” Jack replied, also in French. “The FBI and I parted ways. I’m working as a private investigator not far from here. It’s good to see you, Sophie.”
“And you,” she assured him with a slip of a smile. “Despite the circumstances. I was vacationing nearby when I got this call—Maine already has a top-notch forensic anthropologist, but she’s on leave for the summer. It sounded interesting, and…well, I’m not that good at vacations anyway.”
“Shocking,” Jack said dryly. “I never would have guessed.”
He leaned in and kissed her cheeks, warmed at the enthusiasm of the woman’s greeting. Dr. Sophie Laurent was a forensic anthropologist who worked out of Quebec. Jack had worked with her on multiple cases over the years, most recently when he was tracking a serial killer in Northern Maine whose victims had extended beyond the Maine/Canada border.
“So you’re here to look at the bodies in the basement, then?” Jack asked. At the look of surprise on her face, he added, “I was the one who found them.”
“Of course you were,” she said with a smile.
“I don’t suppose you need any—”
“I would love some assistance,” she said, before he could get the question out. She glanced dismissively at the young man now suited up beside her. “They’ve loaned me an intern from the medical examiner’s office, but I have no idea how that is going to work. I don’t know him.”
All of this in French, with the unfortunate intern looking on in baffled silence.
“Is there another suit?” she asked the young man, switching seamlessly to English. He looked at her blankly. “A suit,” she repeated, gesturing to the one she wore. “I would like my friend to accompany me.”
The man looked far from thrilled at this, but Sophie wasn’t the kind of woman who ever seemed open to negotiations. Within five minutes, Jack was in a snug-fitting Hazmat suit of his own, following Sophie as she picked her way through trash and ruin back toward the basement. He glanced up in time to see Sheriff Finnegan just coming around the corner, looking none too pleased at Jack’s presence. When the sheriff called after him, however, Jack chose to pretend he hadn’t heard.
#
Nancy’s basement hadn’t gotten any more pleasant in the hour since Jack had been in there last. The fact that he now wore a Hazmat suit made him feel slightly more protected, but was about thirty degrees warmer than the fetid air. He struggled for a full breath, and focused on the chaos around him.
“You came down here earlier without gear?” Sophie asked, her voice surreal and distant through her apparatus. Jack merely nodded. She shook her head.
“There was a cat,” he said lamely. She stared at him a moment, clearly not sure she’d heard right.
“A cat?”
“And kittens. They needed help.”
He thought he saw a faint contraction of facial muscles, though her mouth was obscured. Her eyes sparkled.
“Oh. Well, then…”
She moved on, taking her place ahead of him as they continued deeper in.
Jack waited as Sophie paused at the bottom basement step, taking in the scene. It was jarring, to put it mildly: layers of feces and trash, old mattresses and garbage bags of God-knew-what, soiled clothes and rusted and broken cages.
“Sacré bleu,” he heard Sophie say. She looked back over her shoulder at him inquiringly. “Where…?”
He tipped his head forward, indicating they needed to go further in. Sophie stepped from the stairs to the floor with great care and waded into the fray, her feet vanishing ankle-deep into the filth. Despite the warmth, Jack was grateful for the Hazmat suit.
The basement was unfinished. There was a dirt floor somewhere beneath the mess, Jack expected, and rough-hewn rock walls around them. Cobwebs draped the place, murky light just barely making it through the small, single window at the far wall.
Sophie stepped carefully over a rusty bike frame, bracing herself on a broken kitchen chair in order to follow the only navigable path in the place. “How much farther?” she asked, again glancing back over her shoulder. Her breathing was even, her focus absolute. If she was bothered by any of this, she gave no indication.
“There’s a room to your right, just up ahead,” Jack instructed. Her flashlight beam played along the wall until she found the opening he’d indicated. It was a narrow door, partially blocked off by more detritus. If Jack hadn’t heard the kittens mewing so pitifully before, he was sure he would have turned around at this point.
The next room was significantly smaller, no more than ten by ten, with another window at the far wall. This one provided more light, since Jack had removed the pane in order to get Cash and the kittens to safety.
With the sun shining in, it was clear why Sophie had been called: a fully articulated skeleton sat up against one wall, clothing long since disintegrated. Close by, a s
econd set of bones lay among the debris, barely identifiable as human thanks to the degree of decay and the fact that the bones had been scattered far and wide.
“Did you touch anything while you were down here?” Sophie asked.
“Just the cats,” he said. Sweat dripped down Jack’s forehead behind his mask, the hair clinging to the back of his neck. His back was slick, his skin itching now. He shoved the discomfort aside as Sophie made her way to the skeleton against the wall.
She cast the light along the bones. The head was turned toward the window, the mouth open as though the victim had died mid-wail, eyes cast to the light rather than the nightmare around them. Sophie knelt, all but disappearing in the wreckage, focused on the skeletal mid-section.
“Female,” she announced. “Twenties to thirties.” She refocused her light on the head, peering into the mouth without touching the skull.
“Teeth are in good shape, but it looks like there was some work done. In conditions like this, it’s hard to tell how long she might have been down here. I’ll need to get her to the lab to learn more.”
“Any idea of cause of death?” Jack asked.
She straightened and took a step back, studying the victim with keen eyes. “Looks like her head took a thrashing—could have been that,” she said, indicating a clearly delineated depression at the woman’s left temple, where the skull showed signs of spider webbing with the blow. Sophie cast her flashlight beam on the floor. “Looks like there’s a bit of blood here, too. She could have bled out.”
Her face tightened as she continued studying the woman. “Whoever it was, they didn’t go fast. Hard to say just how long, could have been hours or could have been days, but this woman suffered before death took her.”
Jack nodded wordlessly. He had come to much the same conclusion.
“And the other?” he asked.
Sophie shifted her flashlight beam to the bones on the floor. “Any sign of a skull?” she asked Jack.
“None that I could find.”
She looked around with a grimace. “Well, I suppose we’ll find it here somewhere.” She knelt beside the bones, without disturbing any of the debris around them.