Brown and de Luca Collection, Volume 1

by Maggie Shayne

  “Easy, girl. It was just a car.” Though it had sounded like it was on this side of my gate.

  She gave another low growl, still blocking me.

  I’d never seen her like this. The fur along her spine was standing up. I had cold chills up my own spine, but something made me keep going. I don’t know what. I made it to the bottom of the stairs with Myrt practically walking between my feet, but I did, and then I went into the kitchen to grab my cell phone off the counter where I’d dropped it when I’d come in last night. I gave the battery a quick check. Low, but on.

  Okay, I was being a big chicken, but Myrt was acting weird, and I was feeling something, too. Her senses were sharper than mine, and mine were sharper than most humans’. Something was wrong.

  I walked to the front door thinking about the peignoir-clad waifs in all the horror novels I’d listened to on audiobook over the years, walking toward the scary noise in the dead of night instead of running away from it. I usually call them every kind of idiot. I sure as hell never thought I’d ever be one of them. But I had to keep going toward my front door, even though it loomed ahead of me like maybe there was a hungry lion waiting on the other side. My hand was shaking as I reached out, turned the lock—yes, still locked, that’s good. Alarm light still green. Also good. No one has been inside. I punched in the code, gripped the knob and pulled the door open.

  There was a pile of rags at my feet just outside the door, blocking the threshold. Wait, no, what was at the end of that stained… Was it a shirtsleeve? Was that a hand?

  I hit the light switch beside the door. The outdoor light came on. The pile of rags was being worn by a person. A dead person, lying facedown. My eyes jerked from the pale, bloody hands to the jeans-clad legs to the head, all bashed to hamburger, with a few tufts of curly hair still sticking up here and there.

  “Mott, oh, Jesus, it’s Mott.” Everything in me wanted to back away, slam the door, scream my brains out, but there was one little piece of reason left, and it told me to check for a pulse, just in case he might still be alive.

  I crouched down and reached out. My hand touched his shoulder, and the entire lump of what had once been my friend flopped over in cinematic slow-mo. Myrtle started barking her brains out. Mott was staring up at me through wide-open eyes that had never seen, set in a face painted in his own blood.

  That was when I started screaming and leaped to my feet, spasmodically smacking every button on the security panel just inside the door until I hit the one that called the cops.

  CHAPTER 14

  “Drink this.” Mason shoved a glass under my nose. It looked like Coke, but I could smell the vodka. Hey, don’t tell me it has no odor. It totally does, and it’s an aroma I know well. I took the drink, chugged it and smacked the empty glass down onto the end table next to my chair.

  Cops were outside, flashing cameras just beyond the closed door, and their cars were all over the driveway flashing their bubblegum lights. My living room looked like a damn disco from the police flashers outside, and I realized I still hadn’t turned on the lights. I didn’t remember calling Mason. I remembered hitting the alarm system’s panic button for the first time since it was installed, and not much more. I don’t know how the hell I got from the front door to the overstuffed chair.

  I decided it was time to pull my head out of its hidey-hole and face reality.

  Never face a reality you don’t like. Create a better one instead.

  Had I really written that? God, I was an asshole.

  “Rachel?”

  I blinked a couple of times, and managed to lift my head, look him in the eye. “Yeah, I’m here. And yes, it’s Mott.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I nodded. “His face was intact. Bloody, but intact. It’s him. That bastard killed my friend.” My jaw went so tight my teeth hurt. I picked up the empty glass and handed it to him.

  He held it up and someone else took it from him. Rosie, his partner. I’d met him twice now, once when Mason hit me with his car about a hundred years ago, and again at Terry Skullbones’s house. I liked him. Rosie vanished from my line of sight, but I heard him pouring, heard the splash of ice going into the glass. “Turn on some freakin’ lights while you’re over there, will you, Rosie?” I called.

  “Sure, Ms. de Luca. You got it.”

  I narrowed my eyes against the sudden glare, but it was better than being in the dark with all those strobing cop lights.

  “Can you tell me what happened, Rache?”

  Mason was hunkered down in front of my chair, watching my face like he thought it was going to put on a show.

  “What the fuck do you think happened? Someone killed Mott and dumped his body on my doorstep.”

  He held my gaze and didn’t flinch. He didn’t deserve my anger. The bastard who’d killed Mott did, and I think that moment right there was when I decided I was going to have to find him and kill him myself, because this shit had to end.

  I didn’t know if I could really do it, though. I’d never even entertained the notion of killing anyone before. But this guy had taken my brother and how many more? Fifteen that we knew of. And Mott. Blind, arrogant, activism-prone Mott with his stupid guitar and his constant performances of half of a song. He never finished one. Always forgot the rest and petered off, then thought a minute before starting a new one and not finishing that one, either. Drove everyone fucking crazy.

  My breath hitched in my throat, and I lowered my head and choked on tears. Rosie’s big hand held the drink under my nose, and I took it and drank deep.

  Mason said, “Tell me what you heard, what you saw, what you did tonight, everything leading up to finding the body.”

  I nodded, and then I told him. I told him about the soccer game, and that no, I didn’t know the names of anyone else who’d been there besides my sister, Misty, Christy, a referee named Sanchez who was more blind than I’d ever been, if her calls were anything to go by, and Coach McElroy. I told him about going to McDonald’s, then coming home and trying to fall asleep early, and watching CNN to help with that. About starting to drift off, and then hearing the thud from downstairs, the slam of the car door and the squealing tires, and that I needed to get a fucking lock on my fucking gate.

  Rosie was standing close by, listening, making notes.

  “Where the hell was her surveillance?” Mason asked.

  He sounded as angry as I felt. That made me feel better somehow. That he was furious on my behalf.

  “Alarm went off at the bank. They were closest, and their relief was due in twenty, so dispatch sent them to check it out.”

  “And?”

  “Brick through the bank’s window,” Rosie said. “Probably a distraction to get them out of the way so he could dump the body here without being seen.”

  Mason nodded. Their killer was clever, he’d give him that. “Let me see your hands, Rachel.”

  She held them out. “I touched him. I was going to check for a pulse, but his body rolled, and I knew he was gone.”

  Mason looked her hands over. “Barely any blood on them.”

  “Do I need a lawyer, Mason?” I asked. “Does anyone really think I bashed my best friend’s brains in, then dumped him on my own doorstep and called the cops?”

  “No. No one thinks that. It’s standard procedure to check everyone at the scene of a murder. I want my ducks in a row on this. You do, too. Trust me on that. Should any evidence turn up later, you need your ass covered now.” He turned to Rosie. “Have Dennison get in here with the camera. Photograph her hands so we have it on record they were virtually blood-free and clearly hadn’t been washed.”

  He was trying to help me. I got it now.

  Someone came in and shot my hands. Someone else scraped under my nails and put the scrapings into a plastic evidence bag, sealed it with red tape and walked away wri
ting on it with a Sharpie. I didn’t argue, because I didn’t have a thing to hide.

  Rosie said, “The tire tracks in the driveway support everything you said, Ms. de Luca. Someone spun out of here, and there’s a blood trail from where the car stopped to your front door. Forensics wants permission to take a look at your car’s tires for a tread comparison.”

  I nodded. “It’s in the garage. Knock yourselves out.”

  “Absolutely not!” The voice came from the kitchen side of the house as my sister, who had her own set of keys to my place, came charging into the living room. “If you want my sister to answer any questions, she’s getting a lawyer first.”

  “Hell, her and her damn scanner,” I said to Mason. Then I met Sandra’s eyes, shook my head. “Don’t, sis. Just…don’t.”

  “I’m going to call Victor Kent, Rache. He’s the best criminal attorney I know of. Meanwhile, don’t you dare answer any further questions until you and he speak.” She pulled out her cell phone and walked away to make her call.

  “You know I have nothing to hide. She’s just overprotective.” I met and held Mason’s eyes.

  He stared back into mine for a long time, long enough that I knew he was looking for the truth there. So I let him look. He had to know I was telling the truth. And I knew that he was the one keeping secrets from me, not the other way around.

  Meanwhile, it was clear to both of us that I was into this mess up to my neck. The killer was fucking with me, with the people I loved. I might not be able to do anything about that, but I was damn well going to find out Mason Brown’s secrets.

  “Your home is a crime scene at the moment, Rachel. We’re going to need to check it thoroughly, and we’re legally allowed to keep you out until we do, even if your lawyer insists on us waiting for a warrant.”

  I reached for my vodka, then thought better of it. I needed to stay sharp. I didn’t even know who to trust right now. “So it’s safe to say you guys are going to be here awhile?”

  “Yeah. Like I said, it’s a crime scene.”

  “What about me? Am I allowed to leave?”

  “To go where?”

  I blinked and looked at Sandra.

  “To my house,” she said. “She just lost a friend, Detective Brown. That is who you are, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I thought so.” She nodded, softened just slightly. “I’m taking my sister home with me.” She pulled a business card from her purse and handed it to him. “My office is in my home, so that’s the address. Phone, too. Let us know if you need anything.”

  Mason looked at me, then at her, then at Rosie, who shrugged. Sighing he said, “All right. Go home with your sister.”

  “Can I get dressed first? Pack a bag?”

  “Nothing leaves the house until we’ve finished. Including your car, Rache. Sorry.”

  I got up from my chair. “I love that car. Don’t you dare let them rip her to shreds.”

  “There’s no reason to do that.”

  He lowered his voice a little. “I’m trying to protect you here, not convict you. The killer was here, on your property. We need to check everything he could have touched.”

  I nodded. “Car keys are on the hook in the kitchen.” I got up, felt the weight of my cell phone in my bathrobe pocket and decided it was coming with me whether the cops liked it or not. “Come on, Myrtle. Let’s go ride in Sandra’s car.”

  Sandra, Myrt and I went out through the garage. I certainly wasn’t going out the front, where Mott’s body was still lying. Even Myrtle was less excited by a ride in the car than usual. It was as if she knew our lives had been turned upside down.

  * * *

  Sandra only lived two miles away so it wasn’t a long drive. I was putting off telling her my plans because I dreaded the inevitable fight. I needed her help to execute them, and she would need her computer to give it to me, but she was going to do her damnedest to talk me out of them, and it wasn’t going to be pretty.

  I looked back at Myrtle, already snoozing on the backseat by the time Sandra pulled into the driveway, cut the engine and headlights. I realized it was now or never. Better to argue out here than in the house, where we would wake the twins and Jim.

  No such luck. The porch light came on, and I saw my sister’s perfect husband silhouetted behind the glass pane of the front door. Shit. This would be harder with him awake. Two against one wouldn’t be fair.

  I got out, resolved to take them both on and scooped my too-heavy bulldog out of the back. I carried her, because she was tired and this wasn’t her usual domain (and I tended to over-coddle her) as I walked to the house beside my sister. Jim opened the door before we got to it, came out in his pajamas, complete with striped robe and loafer-style slippers, and hugged me, dog and all. “Come on, kiddo. I made you some chamomile tea.” He patted Myrt’s head. “And I have a leftover piece of beef for you, chub.”

  I let them lead me into the haven of their home. The entrance was just a landing, with a short flight of stairs that went up to the main part of the house and another set that went down to their finished basement, game room, laundry room and guest room. I carried Myrtle up so she wouldn’t have to negotiate the stairs. Shoes off first, though, like any normal visit. It always smelled good here. A combination of fabric softener sheets and Lemon Pledge. My dog would probably take care of that in short order if we were here long enough. I resolved that we wouldn’t be.

  The living room had a railing around the stairway. We walked through into the combination kitchen/dining area. Everything else was down a hallway to the left, where I presumed the twins were asleep in their beds.

  No, I didn’t. They were eavesdropping for sure.

  I sat at the table and let Jim pour me a cup of tea, while Myrt accepted her treat and sank onto the floor near my feet to chow down. They left me alone for a few minutes, but the minute they returned I opened my mouth to launch into my case. Then I closed it again when Jim held up a hand and started to speak.

  “Sandy tells me she’s hired Victor Kent,” Jim said. “I’m sure you don’t think you need a lawyer because you’re innocent, but a lot of people who thought that are in prison right now.”

  Sandra turned to me, taking my hands in hers. “Look, you have to protect yourself. Just do what the lawyer says.”

  “And what does he say?” I asked. “Not to cooperate? To make myself look as guilty as possible? It’s obvious to anyone with a brain that I had nothing to do with these murders. I was blind through most of them, for God’s sake.”

  “The police are desperate to solve these crimes, Rachel,” Jim said calmly, reasonably. He was the calmest, most reasonable man I knew. “You’re walking through a minefield here. Victor has already been in touch with Police Chief Subrinsky. He’s told them they can’t search the inside of your home without a warrant, and that will take time.”

  “But what do I care if they search the house? I have nothing to hide.”

  Jim heaved a sigh. “If someone is trying to make you look guilty, how do you know they didn’t plant evidence earlier so the police could find it after they dumped the body?”

  “Okay, fine.” There was no point in asking for Sandra’s help, I realized. With her logical, clear-thinking husband around, she would never go along with my plan. I was on my own.

  “I’m going down to the guest room,” I said. “I’m exhausted, and I need to get some sleep and think more about this in the morning.” I took a long drink of the foul-tasting tea to soak up any residual alcohol, gave them each a perfunctory hug, then picked up my bulldog and went down to the basement—and straight into my sister’s home office, the place where she made real estate deals left and right, even in a down market. She was good at what she did. The office was beside the garage, with its own ground level entrance for clients.

  After setting Myrt on
the floor, I closed the office door softly and turned on Sandra’s computer. Its start-up chime made me want to punch it in the monitor, but since no one came running, I guessed they hadn’t heard it upstairs. Quickly, I went to her business page, entered her user name and password—which were the same everywhere on the internet. Her user name was SandralovesJim, and her password was Misty-Christy. Then I ran a search for recent sales in Castle Creek, New York.

  Mason Brown’s new home was the first one that popped up. Small town, and not exactly a booming real estate market. There were photos of the place, date of sale, name of the Realtor he’d used and the one who’d sold it, and, of course, the pièce de résistance, the address.

  Now all I needed was a set of wheels. I got up and looked down at my attire. And a set of clothes, I thought. Luckily the laundry room was also in the basement. A pair of mom-jeans and a T-shirt were just the ticket. The twins’ shared first vehicle was sitting at the end of the driveway, which had just enough of a slope that I would be able to coast away a little before starting the engine. The keys were on the rack in the garage, and Myrt and I were on our way to investigate the investigator.

  * * *

  Mason Brown sat in the driveway of Rachel de Luca’s impressive home, watching the place long after everyone else had gone.

  They needed a judge to sign a warrant before they could search the house, or the car, thanks to her high-end lawyer’s intervention, and the delay was frustrating.

  Rachel herself had been cooperative until her sister had come charging in like the cavalry. He supposed that could have been an act, but he didn’t think so.

  At least he was here, watching the place. No one was going to tamper with any evidence tonight. And by morning, noon at the latest, he’d have that warrant.

  In the meantime, he pulled out the book the shrink had written. The guy’s theory was ridiculous, of course.

  But he’d seen Rachel’s penchant for hot sauce firsthand. And she’d said that she’d never liked it before she got her eyesight back, and that she found it odd she loved it so much now.