On his way out, he’d made Raven promise that she would stay out of the Abby Collier and Claire Banks case, and let him handle it.
She promised, although every inch of her wanted to continue to help him with the investigation. He also made her promise to hold off on further investigating Eric Stevens, until he could confirm that Eric did—or didn’t—have anything to do with Claire Banks’s murder.
So she’d gone into the office early that morning and worked her ass off on the other mound of cases she and Dixie had on their plate.
And now, it was just past seven o’clock in the evening, and Raven was running on three hours of sleep and five cups of coffee. She was officially beat.
Her phone rang.
“Raven here.”
“Rave, it’s Max.”
She straightened, suddenly alert. “Hey, Max, what’s going on? Any news on the fabric?”
He blew out a breath. “Let’s just say, you owe me more than two macchiatos.”
“I’ll get as many as you want, Max.”
“Good. I estimate the fabric had been in that cave for close to two years. Impossible to pull anything from.”
Her shoulders slumped. “Dammit.”
“Well, I thought it was impossible, until I found a piece of hair smaller than the tip of a needle.”
“Really? Please tell me you were able to get something from it.”
“A tip of a needle, Raven.”
“Max…”
He laughed. “Yeah, I got you a name.”
Her eyes widened. “Marsha Welch?”
“Nope, that would be too lucky. No, Sal Jenkins. Owns Jenkins Body Shop. Close to your house, actually.”
She knew exactly where that was—she’d taken her car there for her last oil change.
“Definitely not Marsha Welch?” She couldn’t hide the disappointment in her voice.
“Unfortunately, no. That case is still cold as ice. Sorry, Rave. Sal was probably just trying to catch a ghost, or spelunking, or something.”
“Okay, thanks, Max. You’re awesome.”
“I know. And I’ll look forward to my coffees, and your impeccable organizational skills next week.”
She smiled. “You got it.”
“Talk soon.”
Click.
Raven tossed the phone in the passenger seat and frowned. She was beyond disappointed that the fabric didn’t belong to Marsha—which would have been a huge break in the case—but at least Max had gotten a name. Even though it was probably nothing.
Max estimated that the fabric had been in the cave for two years—right around the same time that Marsha Welch’s body was found. Coincidence? Maybe. It was a hell of a long shot, but maybe, just maybe, there was some sort of connection.
Maybe.
She peered ahead. As luck would have it, she was less than a quarter mile from the body shop. She got the faintest feeling that she was onto something. Maybe it was just hopefulness, but she felt it.
As she rounded the corner, the body shop came into view, and—yes!—the lights were still on.
She parked under a tree next to the garage. She turned off the engine, yanked up her hood and got out.
Classic rock blared from the back as she pushed through the side door. The smell of motor oil and stale coffee filled the air.
“Howdy ma’am, what can I do for ya?”
A short, muscular man with salt-and-pepper hair walked into the room, wiping his hands on a towel. He had oil smudged on his face and an armful of questionable looking tattoos. She guessed he was in his mid-forties, and someone who didn’t put up with a lot of crap.
“Hi, I’m Raven Cane. I’m looking for Sal Jenkins?”
“Lookin’ at him.”
She wasn’t sure why, but he was nothing like she’d expected. “Do you have a minute to chat?”
He flipped open his appointment book. “I’m booked through this evening, but can get your car in tomorrow afternoon, probably. What kind of problems are you having?”
“Actually this is about something else.”
He looked up, curious. “Okay…”
She shifted her weight, realizing she hadn’t planned out how to start the conversation.
“Mr. Jenkins—
“Sal.”
“Sal. Were you, by chance, hiking around Hatchet Hollow about two years ago? Give or take?”
Just barely, his body tensed. He glanced down, shifted his weight, and looked back up. “I’m not sure. That’s a long time ago. I’m sorry, what was your name again?”
“Raven Cane.”
“And you’re with?” He picked up a paper clip and began bending it in his hands.
“Black Rose Investigations.” She needed to ease him. “I’m just researching an old case, and asking anyone who might have been in the area if they remember seeing anything, or anyone, suspicious. That’s all.”
His eyes darkened. “You’re talking about Marsha Welch.”
“Yes, I am.”
He looked down again and his cheeks began to flush. Every instinct in her heightened—this guy knew something.
He cleared his throat, and she noticed tiny beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He looked up, and this time, she didn’t see nerves behind his eyes, she saw anger. Fire.
With his jaw set, he said, “I’m sorry ma’am, I can’t help you.”
A moment of silence weighed down the room as they stared at each other.
“Sal, is there anything you might have seen or—
He cut her off. “No ma’am.” He glanced out the window, nervously, exactly as Claire Banks had done. “I’ve got to close up now, so if you’ll…” He motioned to the door.
She slid her card on the counter, and after a moment, turned and walked to the door. “If you think of anything, please call me, Sal.”
As she pushed out the door—
“Miss Cane?”
Her heart skipped a beat. She turned as he walked around the counter, and handed her his card. “Please consider us for your next oil change.” He paused, narrowed his eyes. “The number’s on the back, Miss Cane.” And with that, he turned and left the room.
Raven chewed on her lower lip as she pulled out of the gravel parking lot. What the hell just happened in there? She replayed the short conversation over and over in her head until she got home. The rain was coming down in buckets as she turned off the engine. She plucked her cell phone from the console, and picked up the card Sal had given her. She flipped it over and in messy handwriting were the numbers 932.
932?
She frowned. Didn’t he say that he’d written his number on the back? No, he said the number is on the back.
What number?
She looked up at the rain-streaked windshield, in deep thought.
She looked at the card again.
The number.
What number?
She shook her head and blew out a breath of frustration as she grabbed her bag and pushed out of the car door.
Suddenly, her eyebrows shot up, and she looked at the number again.
Oh, my God.
She grabbed her cell phone and jogged up to the front porch.
“You’ve reached Lieutenant Zander Stone, please leave a message.”
“Zander, hey, it’s Raven. Hey, how many numbers does a police badge number have? Do the numbers nine, three, two meaning anything to—
The phone tumbled to the ground as the pain exploded through her jaw.
CHAPTER 17
ERIC STEVENS CROSSED his arms over his chest and leaned back in the metal chair, clearly not grasping the gravity of the situation. “Yeah, we met in the woods Sunday evening, well, late afternoon, I guess.”
“Why the clandestine location?” Although Zander already knew exactly what Eric and Claire had done in the woods—thanks to Raven—he still needed to hear Eric’s side of the story.
Eric paused, his gaze shifting to the stark white walls of the interview room. “I don’t know.”
Zander clenched his jaw. Eric was a cocky son of a bitch and being evasive—a combination that made him want to punch a hole in the wall. He glanced at the clock—seven-ten in the evening. His patience was wearing thin. He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. “I know you’re a busy guy, with the constant ups and downs in the stock market, and all. But Mr. Stevens, so am I, with two dead bodies, and all. So if we could just move this along…” he casually leaned back in his chair. “Because I’ve got plans with the Coleman brothers in about thirty minutes.” He glanced at his watch, then back at Eric. “You don’t happen to know them, do you?”
Eric’s eyes rounded, and Zander knew he had him. But he wasn’t here to arrest Eric for insider trading. He’d leave that investigation to Raven. He was here to figure out if the arrogant bastard had anything to do with the murder of Claire Banks.
Eric dropped his hands into his lap and looked down, his cocky demeanor instantly fading. He cleared his throat. “Alright, look, yeah, I met Claire in the woods, and we hooked up, alright? But I’m telling you, I had nothing to do with her murder, and I don’t know who the hell did. She… well, I’m sure you know her reputation. She got around, to say the least. Could’ve been any guy.”
“Were you two in a relationship?”
He snorted. “Hell, no. Just sex. I mean, I’d give her little gifts from time to time, flowers, whatever. But that’s it. We weren’t exclusive or anything.”
“How long had you been hooking up?”
“Ah hell, I don’t know. A few months maybe? But I definitely wasn’t her only dude, if you know what I mean.”
“When was the last time you two spoke?”
He leaned forward. “Yesterday—
“The day she was murdered.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“What time?”
“Um, around six o’clock or so, in the evening.”
“What was the call about?”
“I asked her to come over, hang out.”
“What did she say?”
“She said no, that she was having a bad day and was going to have a girls' night. I asked her what was wrong and she told me that she’d just gotten into an argument with someone earlier in the day. Said the whole world's screwed up or something like that.”
Zander picked up his pen. “Did she mention a name?”
“No.”
“And you didn’t ask?”
“No, man, I’m telling you, we don’t get personal into each other’s lives like that.” He frowned. “Oh, but she did say she wanted to get the hell out of town. Move somewhere else. That she didn’t trust anyone around here.”
“Did she seem frightened? Scared?”
He cocked his head and glanced up at the ceiling. “Actually, yeah, kinda. She seemed real wired.”
“And then what?”
“That was it. We hung up and next thing I know, I hear she was killed.”
Zander paused. “Lay out your Monday for me, Eric.”
Eric cocked an eyebrow. “I was at the office all day, went to the gym after, then straight home.”
The office and gym would be easy enough to verify. “What time did you get home?”
“Ah hell, a little before six. I called her on the way home.”
“Okay. After she denied you, what did you do?”
Eric’s cheeks began to flush. “I, uh, I called someone else.”
“Who?”
“Another girl I am kind of seeing.”
What a fucking sleaze-ball. “Name?”
Eric gave him the name of a girl Zander didn’t know, and then leaned back in his chair. “There’s your ironclad alibi, Lieutenant Stone. That’s where you were going with this right? She even stayed the night. Oh, and we purchased a few movies, too, which I’m sure you can verify with the cable company.”
Zander paused and took one last shot in the dark. “Eric, do you know if Claire was involved in witchcraft?”
Eric pressed his eyebrows together. “No way, man. No way.”
Zander nodded, paused. “Thanks for your time, Eric.” He slid his card across the table. “Call me if you think of anything else.”
Zander leaned back in his chair, squeezed his eyes shut, and ran his fingers through his hair. He was just beginning to feel the threat of a monster headache.
Immediately after the interview with Eric Stevens, he'd verified Eric’s alibi for the evening that Claire was murdered. And just for good measure, he also confirmed that Eric was out of town, on a business trip, the day Abby Collier was murdered.
Eric Stevens was not their killer.
Dammit.
The investigation was going nowhere. And everywhere he turned, he seemed to hit a brick wall.
He needed sleep. He needed food. He needed to clear his head.
He needed to find the son of a bitch that killed Abby Collier and Claire Banks.
It was creeping up on eight o’clock, and he was still at the office, feeling like he couldn’t leave until he got a damn break in the case.
Any damn break at all.
Who had Claire argued with the day she was murdered? They’d already received the phone dump from Claire’s cell phone, and her only communications that day were with Eric Stevens and her friend, Becca, which meant, she must’ve had her argument face-to-face.
With who?
Zander glanced outside in deep thought, and replayed Claire’s voicemail to Raven in his head.
“I can only assume that you came to visit me to discuss what I saw Sunday night. I want to meet… I’m not comfortable discussing this over the phone, considering who it is.”
He had absolutely no doubt Claire was talking about the killer—the same person she’d gotten into an argument with earlier in the day. He just had to prove it. What had Claire seen? What did she argue about? And who would make her too fearful to come forward? Someone of a high social status? Someone involved in something nefarious? Someone that had some sort of power—whether it good or bad—he was sure of it.
And whoever that person was, had their sights set on Raven, now.
The thought had his blood boiling.
When he’d awoken next to Raven, things had changed. Everything had changed. His mind was clouded, his brain felt like mush. He’d thought about her all day, a jumbled mix of thoughts that kept his head spinning. He felt surprised that he could feel so strongly about someone so quickly and be completely overcome by an insatiable thirst to be with her again, and again, and again. Also, he felt a surge of protectiveness, to keep her safe. But perhaps above all, he felt fear—fear that the killer would do more than break into her house next time. Fear that he could lose her, and whatever the hell was happening so quickly between them.
He’d texted her more times than he cared to admit throughout the day, confirming that she was safe in the office—and staying out of his investigation. As far as he knew, she was still working, under the protection of the Knight sisters.
He took a deep breath, and blinked the blurriness from his eyes.
Dammit, he was missing something.
Abby and Claire were killed by the same person. He knew it. But was it really possible that Marsha Welch was too?
He clicked on the file labeled M. Welch, and opened the autopsy report that the department had on record, and then the official autopsy report from the state crime lab, and put them side by side on his monitor.
Moonmilk.
There it was, as clear as day on the state file. Moonmilk had been found on the victim’s skin and in her hair, which meant that it was a definite possibility that she’d been killed in Hatchet Hollow.
He looked at the file that the department had on record—there was no mention of moonmilk whatsoever. It was as if it had been erased from the report.
Was it possible that someone had altered the file, to throw off the investigation?
But who?
He picked up the phone.
“Ace, Black Rose Investigations.”
“Ace, it’s
Zander.”
“Hey, man. Busy with dead bodies?”
“Swimming in them. Hey, I need some help.”
“Anything.”
“I have a PDF file that I think was altered, some information was erased. Can you use your creepy computer skills to find out by who?”
“Seriously? I could do that with my eyes closed.”
“Fantastic. Do it now.”
“Alrighty. What’s your IP address?”
Zander rattled off the numbers, and in under thirty seconds, Ace had dialed into his computer.
“Okay, give me a second.”
Zander leaned back as he watched Ace open multiple files, and run various codes. A minute ticked by.
And another minute.
“I thought you said you could do this with your eyes closed.”
A blank page pulled up on the screen, and the words Fuck You slowly typed across it. Zander laughed. “Okay, sorry.”
Just then, a login report popped up.
“There you go, princess.”
Zander leaned forward. “This is all the people that have edited, or altered, the file?”
“Yep.”
“Thanks, man.”
“No problem, let me know if you need anything else.”
Click.
Zander scrolled through the list of names, all of which were employees of the state crime lab, until…
He raised his eyebrows.
DMalone, 1:32 am, April 10.
Zander frowned. Deena wasn’t assigned to Marsha’s case. What the hell was she doing reading the file? Or, messing with it?
Nerves tickled his stomach, and he pushed out of his chair and walked down the hall. He stepped into Deena’s office and remembered that it was her day off.
He flicked the light.
It was a freaking mess.
Stacks of papers covered the desk, four empty coffee mugs lined the windowsill, and the trash can was overflowing.
He stepped over to Deena’s desk and glanced at the few small framed pictures that sat to the side—each of various exotic beach locations that she'd visited. He rolled his eyes at one where Deena was flexing in a leopard-print bikini. Was that really appropriate for the office? He stared at it for a moment, frowned and leaned forward noticing a gold necklace around Deena’s neck—with the letter E dangling from it.
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