The Forgotten Girls (Book #1 in The Suburban Murder Series)

by Alexa Steele

  Seagulls circled the overcast sky, squawking loudly, looking for breakfast. A burly forensics officer was bent over, studying something. When he saw Bella and Mack, he stood and introduced himself.

  “You Bronx?” he asked.

  They nodded. His name tag said McLeary.

  “Where is she?” asked Bella.

  “She’s over there,” the officer answered, pointing toward the gunwale.

  “After you,” Mack said to Bella.

  A clear, plastic tarp covered the body, but even so, Bella could see the face right through it, eyes wide open, terrified. The deck beneath was dark with bloodstains. While the rain had washed much away, a makeshift cover had been placed over the boards in an effort to preserve what evidence might be left.

  There wasn’t much room to maneuver. The narrow strip of gunwale barely accommodated her, let alone her and Mack. Mack walked around to the other side of the body, crouched down, and lifted the tarp, exposing her naked, bent, rigid form. He was eye to eye with her, as though he wanted to have a chat.

  “If only the dead could speak,” he said slowly.

  “No defensive wounds. Nails are perfect, no scratches or bruises,” Bella remarked as she viewed the woman. “Her elbow looks beat up,” she added, seeing the scraped skin, maybe from a fall.

  The light rain pelted the tarp and the boat rocked side to side. The victim’s long, blond hair was parted in the middle, partially covering one side of her face. Her skin was clear and fair, except for the skin around her eyes, which was markedly red and irritated. There were blue splotches of skin on her upper left arm and neck. Her body was contorted, twisted on its side with her arms crooked and her legs bent, as though she had suffered a seizure. There were no apparent signs of struggle.

  The insides of her thighs told a different story. She had been violently butchered with what looked to have been a sharp object, cut repeatedly in a haphazard, frenzied manner. It was from her thighs that this trail of blood originated, it seemed. The sexual attack must have taken place in the cabin, out of sight; but her killer had dragged her into the open. He wanted her found.

  Officer McLeary appeared behind Mack.

  “ME estimates death between midnight and two a.m.” he offered, unsolicited.

  “Who else has seen her?” asked Mack.

  “Me and Jankoff, my partner; the Chief,” he answered, counting on his fingers, “Officer Martin, our liaison with the coroner’s office; and the M.E., of course. We’ve been picking the boat apart. Rain’s made it tough.”

  “Anything so far?” Bella asked as she studied the body.

  “Not much. Scene’s pretty clean. Still looking for trace evidence but, like I said, rain hasn’t helped. No prints on the body. Some clothes found in the Dumpster, burnt.”

  “Anything left to work with?” asked Mack.

  “Forensics has what’s left,” said McLeary. “We found her purse over there,” he continued, pointing to a spot near the hull marked off with tape. A jeweled clutch sat in an evidence bag.

  “Nothing seems to have been taken. Credit card and cash still there. Owner of the boat is out of the country. Valet guys noticed the fire. Manager put it out.”

  “Was her purse moved or is that where you found it?” Bella inquired, noticing it was outside the cabin, nowhere near the body.

  “That’s where we found it,” he replied.

  “Nothing else in it? No lipstick? No phone?” asked Bella.

  “None of that,” McLeary responded.

  “Where are her shoes?” Bella asked, looking at the woman’s naked, pedicured feet.

  “Don’t know,” said McLeary.

  “Who found her?” Bella asked.

  “Security guard. Guy’s name is Fred McCourt. Watches the dock when the club hosts big parties. It’s part of the security package for the boat owners.”

  “So was he watching the dock?” Bella sounded aggravated.

  “He was on duty, but says he didn’t see or hear a thing,” McLeary answered.

  “I want to talk to him,” Bella said.

  “Do we know what was used to carve her up?” asked Mack.

  “No. If I had to guess I’d say a switchblade from the cut marks,” McLeary replied.

  “Where is Dennis?” Bella asked.

  “He’s inside with her husband. Guy came to identify the body earlier. Dennis asked him to come back once he knew you were coming.”

  “We need to keep a lid on this, you got that?” Mack sounded grave.

  “Three hundred and fifty people here last night at this big school event, so this is a dammed mess. It’s already all over the morning news,” McLeary pointed out.

  “I mean the details. No one says a word,” Mack clarified. “Who’s in charge of keeping this scene secure?”

  “I am,” McLeary said, nodding.

  “OK, we need barrier sheeting. Once we’re done, this boat is going to be destination 101 for oglers. Who has jurisdiction? Coast Guard gonna get it?”

  “No, it was docked so it’s under county control,” McLeary replied.

  “OK,” said Mack. “Keep an officer here twenty-four/seven. No one on or off this boat without your direct permission or without a damn good reason.”

  “Got it,” McLeary replied, willing to take direction. He shook Mack’s hand before he walked away—maybe it was Mack’s intimidating presence, Bella thought.

  When he was gone, they continued examining her body. Her legs were shaved, her toes were painted soft pink, her large diamond wedding ring sparkled on her finger, and diamond studs adorned her ears. She wore very little makeup and her skin was pure alabaster, except for the nasty rash near her eyes and the blue patches of skin on her arm.

  “Definitely not a robbery,” Bella remarked. “Her ring alone is worth a fortune.”

  “Here’s our trophy,” Mack commented, pointing to the royal blue ribbon hanging around her neck, a weathered crest on the end.

  “Not exactly the kind of necklace she would have worn herself,” remarked Bella, studying the crest. The boat was rocking more forcefully now; at least it seemed that way to Bella.

  “It looks like a medal they give out to kids in sports games,” said Mack, seemingly unbothered by the boat’s movement.

  Bella reached into her pocket and took out a tiny flashlight.

  “I want to know what this Latin means,” she said as she examined the crest.

  “You think our killer speaks Latin?” Mack looked surprised. “I guess with this crowd he just might.”

  “I don’t know if he speaks Latin, but he chose this souvenir for a reason. Need to know why,” Bella said.

  “It could be a ploy,” he answered.

  “Yeah, but even so it will tell us something about the way he thinks. He obviously wants us to know he killed the girls too. Antsy for attention,” Bella added. “And he’s escalating with the rape. Look at her legs. He was angry.”

  Mack nodded, shook his head, and stood up to stretch, looking up toward the drab morning sky.

  “Poor broad,” he exclaimed. “You get all dolled up for a nice evening out, a fancy club, a rich neighborhood. Gated in with security guards, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Gated in with a killer,” she corrected him. “This thing feels personal to me. She trusted him. He got her down here without her putting up a fight.”

  “Maybe he came on to her and she resisted. A sexual predator,” suggested Mack.

  “Yeah, but that doesn’t explain the girls. Or why he had the crest with him when he came down. He was prepared. Maybe he carries them with him for moments like these,” Isabella countered.

  The image was disturbing.

  “Moments like what?” Mack asked cautiously.

  “That’s the million-dollar question isn’t it?” she replied.

  “She was a married woman. If she wasn’t meeting her husband down here who the hell was she meeting?”

  “Someone she knew, I would bet,” Bella observed.

  Ma
ck nodded. “Guy’s a cool customer, that’s for sure. Before, during, and after. Might have lured her down here.” Mack looked at the victim as though he wanted her to answer.

  Bella’s hand lightly grazed the woman’s hair as she peered closer at the rash. Mack caught the tenderness in Bella’s eyes as she gazed at the woman’s face.

  “This has gotta be hard for you,” he was about to say when a man’s voice boomed:

  “Jesse Martin.”

  Bella and Mack stood as the man introduced himself. “I’m with the coroner’s office. You must be SVU. Dennis told me to expect you.”

  They exchanged introductions.

  “I’ve called a forensic pathologist in on this one. We’re gonna need an autopsy to figure out what happened to this woman. I’m not buying she bled out from the sexual attack. Body’s gonna be taken in after you’re done with it,” said Martin.

  “Looks like she was raped,” Mack said.

  “Looks that way. I’m more interested in how she died,” said Martin.

  “Any thoughts?” asked Mack.

  “Ruling things out at this point,” said Martin. “She wasn’t strangled, no blunt force trauma that I can see, no stab wounds, and she wasn’t shot, so we can put those babies to rest.” He sounded very calm and detached as he spoke.

  “Her body looks convulsed. Could the rape have brought on a seizure?” asked Mack.

  “Maybe,” answered Martin. “There’s no fluids or puke anywhere.”

  “We found some vomit near the dock entrance,” Bella told him. “Forensics got a sample.”

  “So she threw up beforehand then. Wasn’t brought on by seizing,” he replied.

  Bella nodded.

  “What’s your take on this?” she asked, pointing to the woman’s arm. Martin bent to take a closer look.

  Before he could answer she added:

  “And the rash around her eyes? Any thoughts?”

  “Looks like a reaction to something. Hard to say just yet,” was all he offered. “Some kind of systemic overload. Need her health history to be sure, gotta see about allergies, heart issues, nervous system disorders, etc.”

  “Well, let’s get a full tox screen and blood work up, ASAP. I want the blood results as soon as they come in,” said Bella.

  “Something specific you’re looking for?” asked Martin.

  “Cyanide,” Bella answered casually.

  Martin looked shocked.

  “Cyanide?”

  “Yeah,” she answered without enthusiasm. “And we better move fast because after an hour fifty percent leaves your blood, as you may be aware. Unfortunately, I know too much about it. Which means if I am right, half of our evidence is already gone. The blood needs to be taken this morning. First thing.”

  “It will take days to get tissue samples back,” Martin said.

  “I can wait days for the tissue,” Bella replied. “I need blood results like, yesterday. If you can get me three samples within the next ten hours you should be able to tell me what I want to know. Can you do it by tonight?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Martin looked disgruntled as he walked away.

  “I don’t know what he’s aggravated about,” Bella quipped. “He should be thanking me.”

  Mack smiled. “For what?”

  “For doing his job for him,” she answered sarcastically. “How do you work at the ME’s office and not guess instantly by looking at her skin that she may have ingested some kind of poison?”

  Mack just shrugged.

  Bella looked at the woman’s beautiful face and hair, but couldn’t ignore the look of terror in her eyes. It was daunting.

  “Poor broad probably didn’t even know what was happening,” said Mack.

  “Don’t be so sure,” Bella whispered. “Don’t be so sure.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Dennis was on his feet walking toward them the second they entered the club dining room. At 6 foot 4, with a stock of thick, wavy, white hair and ruddy red cheeks, he was hard to miss. He welcomed them warmly and gestured for a server to bring over food.

  The room had been cleared of tables for last night’s event and was now empty except for a few small tables by the windows in the back. Bella looked over to study the guy Dennis left sitting at one of those tables, alone. He looked to be in his mid-fifties, cropped salt and pepper hair, tan, fit, well dressed in an azure-blue cashmere V-neck sweater over a white tee, khakis, and chocolate brown suede loafers with no socks. A solid gold Rolex adorned his wrist and caught the light as his hands wove their way through his hair. He looked down at his lap, his face strained.

  Dennis led them to a table near the inside wall and, as they sat, Bella checked out the room: its fourteen-foot-high ceiling, emblazoned in gold leaf, its two huge crystal chandeliers that dangled in the middle of the room, a twenty-five-foot-long nautical-themed bar lining one wall, with a painted mural behind it of what looked to be three sailboats struggling against high waves on a rough sea, seemingly in danger. A large gold plaque was mounted next to the mural by the bar, which read:

  For those who love the peace and serenity of the Sound.

  The mural’s image was anything but peaceful and serene, Bella thought. A server brought over hot coffee, cream and sugar, and a plate of warm muffins, bagels, and scones with butter, cream cheese, and jam. Dennis began speaking with an air of gravity and seriousness impressive at first, but soon unbearable, as he articulated every syllable of every word, painfully slowly, all information she already knew. Bella found her eyes wandering over to the table where the man who she assumed was Mr. Freed sat. She caught him looking at her.

  “Excuse me, Dennis,” Bella interrupted when she couldn’t take his droning one second longer. “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover. Time is of the essence. Here, take this,” she said as she handed him a pad and pen. “For notes.”

  Mack buttered a bagel as Bella recited a laundry list of what she needed done. She went over protocol, witness lists, the crime scene, PR, how to handle the media, arranging sit-downs with witnesses. Dennis took notes and stole occasional glances at Mack, who sat way back in his chair, eating.

  Bella spoke fast:

  “I want a sit-down with the deceased girls’ parents ASAP—can you arrange that? I need the contact info for Mrs. Freed’s friends. Do you have that yet?”

  When Dennis shook his head, she nodded and continued.

  “We need someone to begin calling everyone on last night’s guest list. Someone had to have seen something. May not even realize it. I want to hear about anything suspicious, out of the ordinary, noteworthy—you get the picture. But I don’t want anyone to hear we have reopened the girls’ cases.”

  “We have what?” Dennis looked incredulous.

  “It’s unavoidable, Dennis,” Bella said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “The crests are no coincidence. You know that yourself. The coroner’s finding of suicide is now called into question.”

  “What is this going to entail?” Dennis looked crestfallen.

  Bella grudgingly answered:

  “Pulling the files, reexamining evidence, re-interviewing witnesses, friends, family members. Looking for that needle in the haystack that might cast what happened to them in an entirely different light. Something was clearly overlooked first time around.”

  She didn’t mean to sound harsh, but she knew she did.

  “My men did a thorough job,” Dennis said quietly.

  Bella ignored him and continued. “Put a unit in front of the Freeds’ home and tell your guys to report anything suspicious or unusual—Mr. Freed will be told they are there for his own protection. And maybe they will be. Media will be all over. Who owns Lucky Lady? I mean... No, I am sorry, Paradise Found,” she uttered not bothering to hide her sarcasm.

  “Jacques Amsellem,” Dennis replied. “He is out of the country. In Capri, I have been informed.”

  “I want him on the phone, ASAP. We need to know whether our vic ha
d any kind of personal connection to the boat. If not, maybe the killer did. Hard to believe it was random when one of them had keys to the cabin.”

  Dennis nodded. She went on with her list of tasks for him:

  “Pull her cell phone records and see when the phone was last used, whether it has a signal anymore. I want that phone. Now, about these crests.” She shook her head. “What do you know about them?”

  “Not much,” he replied, sheepishly.

  “We need to change that. We need to find out where they are sold, manufactured, used, their symbolic meaning, their history, etc.—you get the idea. Be ready to educate me and Mack on every aspect of them as soon as possible.”

  Dennis looked overwhelmed and Bella noticed. She gently put her hand on his forearm.

  “Dennis, who else knows another crest has appeared?” Bella asked quietly.

  Dennis thought for a moment before he answered. “Me and Nick, I mean Lt. Glades, my number two. And the investigators who were down on that boat this morning investigating,” Dennis answered.

  “And before last night, did the crests ever become public knowledge?” Bella asked.

  He answered this question right away:

  “It was known inside my investigatory team, but it never showed up in the press. The girls’ parents knew about them, of course.”

  “OK, who else besides you and Glades worked on the girls’ case? It is imperative we keep this connection under wraps,” she replied.

  “Three others,” Dennis said, scratching his head. “But they haven’t seen Mrs. Freed yet. Only me, Nick, and officers from Forensics and the medical examiner’s office.” He exhaled.

  “OK. Keep it that way. We will talk to Glades. Our killer is hoping it gets in the news, I am sure of it. We don’t want to feed into that,” Bella pointed out.

  She took a breath and poured herself a cup of coffee as Dennis scribbled feverishly. He finally looked up, realizing now who was in charge.

  Her voice broke his thoughts:

  “Two more things. I noticed a video camera at the front gate. Was it on last night? If so, we want footage. Also, does this club have security, other than those two pimply-faced valet kids and the half drunk sitting at the booth in front? How does a marina and a club of this stature not employ security, especially with three hundred fifty guests at an event?”