Body of Evidence

by Joan Elliott Pickart

  “You’re dying to know all about my life during the past ten years, so don’t get phony on me now, sweetheart.”

  “All right, fine. Go ahead and bare your soul.”

  “Well, my soul is hardly overburdened with deep, dark secrets, so my little story isn’t apt to leave me naked and bleeding.”

  “Aw, heck. And there I thought I’d finally see the real Josh Benton.”

  “You’ve always seen the real me, Maggie. You just didn’t know what went on behind the scenes ten years ago. And why would you have? Adult men don’t tell kids about the women they’re dating.”

  “Oh, you were dating…someone,” she said, speaking almost wistfully.

  “Your mother knew I was getting pretty serious about…would you like to know her name?”

  “Do you still see her?”

  “Nope. Haven’t seen her in years. The last I heard of her was that she had gotten married and moved to Savannah, Georgia.”

  “Then, no, I don’t want to know her name. But you told Mom about her. How come?”

  “Probably because your mother sort of became my mother for a while. Guess I missed my own mom, and Lottie was always willing to talk to me. Anyhow, I was on the verge of popping the question when the woman of my dreams started sleeping around. My friends all knew it before I did. Tim was the only one with the guts to finally tell me about it. I was wounded, I can’t say I wasn’t, and it took a long time before I healed enough to even take a woman to a movie.”

  “I knew there was more to your negative attitude about relationships than bad statistics, darling,” Maggie said softly. “I’m sorry you were hurt but I’m glad it happened.”

  He chuckled. “Want to know something? So am I.” He kissed her until they were both breathless, then whispered, “I’ve been thinking of a honeymoon in a nice warm place, maybe Hawaii or the Bahamas. What do you think?”

  “A honeymoon?” Maggie leaped up from her spot on the sofa and straddled his lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Yes…yes…yes!”

  “Looks like we’re going to get married,” Josh said with a big grin.

  All Maggie could manage was another “Yes!”

  BEHIND THE BADGE

  JUSTINE DAVIS

  Dear Reader,

  When I was first asked to participate in this project, a book covering a single crime from the perspectives of forensics, detectives and lawyers, each by different authors, I thought it was a great idea. It sounded like something I’d really like to read, which is the best sign for something you’re going to write!

  My second thought was “Gee, I wonder which part they want me to do?” I’m joking, of course. With my background, I knew I’d be doing the cops. But I was excited about this new twist; my story would not only have to mesh carefully with the others, but when it was done, I’d get a chance in fiction to do what I rarely got to do in real life. I’d be able to follow a case closely even after it left my little section of the law-enforcement world and was investigated, documented and handed to the prosecutors, a chance to be there every step of the way to the verdict.

  It turned out, however, to be much like reality; I knew my part of the process in great detail, but the rest only in a general way. I’ll have to wait until the book is in my hands to find out exactly how the rest happens. So I’ll be reading just as you will. After getting to know Joan and Jackie and our tireless editor on this, Ann Leslie Tuttle, I think we’re all in for a treat!

  I enjoyed writing “Behind the Badge,” and I hope you’ll enjoy reading it and the rest of Body of Evidence.

  Chapter 1

  “Franklin Gardner? Of the Gardners? As in Gardner Corporation?”

  Colin Waters hated days that started like this.

  “Yep, those Gardners. That’s why the commander put out the call to Detective Benton personally at one this morning.”

  “Are they sure the body’s Gardner himself?”

  “Benton says so. And he asked for you specifically. You’re to meet with him at the station before you go to the scene.”

  At the dispatcher’s answer Colin sighed into his cell phone. He’d already been on his way, hoping to get in early to try and catch up on some things, but if this was true, he could kiss that opportunity goodbye. And if forensic detective Josh Benton said it was Gardner, it was true; the man didn’t make mistakes.

  “Great,” Colin muttered. Just what he needed, a dead mover and shaker.

  He ended the call and began to maneuver his worse-for-wear city vehicle back into traffic. No sooner had he gotten to the number one lane than his cell rang again. This time it was the district commander, Eliot Portman.

  “You’re on the way?” he asked without preamble.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’m counting on you to keep the lid on as long as you can. I don’t want the press getting wind of this before we’re ready.”

  Assuming the vultures aren’t already circling, Colin said to himself. The media seemed able to scent society murder like sharks scented blood in the water.

  “Wilson’s going to meet you there.”

  Colin frowned. “Wilson?”

  “The new hire. And your new partner.”

  Well, that’s the capper on my day, Colin thought. Not only did he have a case involving one of the most socially prominent families in the state, let alone Chicago, but now he had the new pet dumped in his lap.

  He hadn’t joined in the general grumbling about Wilson sliding into a coveted detective slot, even though there were cops on the street who’d been trying for years to get the assignment, while she had only a couple of years on a department a small fraction of the size of Chicago PD. The fact that Wilson had computer skills sadly lacking in the division had kept him from jumping on that bandwagon, but that didn’t mean he thought it was a good idea.

  So now he had not only a rookie detective but practically a rookie cop on his hands, on a high-profile murder case. A very high-profile murder case.

  “Problem, Waters?” Portman asked, making Colin realize he’d been silent a little too long.

  “Just dodging some traffic,” he improvised. “I’ll keep you posted.”

  “This is a big one, so you do that.”

  As if I don’t know that, Colin muttered to himself. “Yes, sir,” he said aloud.

  It was going to be a very long day.

  “You look,” Colin said frankly, “like hell, buddy.”

  “I feel worse,” Josh Benton said, his voice sounding grim as he ran a hand over his black hair.

  Benton was only six years older than Colin, but there was an eon of weary experience in his eyes. Wondering if someday the eyes he saw in the mirror would look like that, he handed Benton his own cup of black coffee.

  “You need it more than I do.”

  “Can’t argue that,” Benton agreed and took it. “It’s been a long night.”

  “Want to sit down and bring me up to speed?”

  “No.” At Colin’s startled blink, Benton grimaced. “If I sit down, I may never get up.” He eyed Colin. “But you might as well sit. It may be the last rest you get for a while.”

  “Yeah, I get that feeling. Where are we at?”

  “The maid, Miriam Hobart, found him at about one this morning. She’s pretty upset, she’s worked for the Gardners for more than ten years.”

  “Signs of a struggle?”

  “Yes. He fought, all right. There’s some oddly shaped bruising to the face, severe blow to the back of the head that we’re guessing is from a fall against a table. That one could have been fatal, if you ask me. Stab wounds, small but deep, any of which could also have been fatal.”

  “Knife?”

  “More like an ice pick. And there was a collection of picks at the scene.”

  Odd thing to collect, Colin thought, but said only, “Forced entry?”

  “No. Some valuable stuff missing, but a lot, including a chunk of cash, weren’t taken.”

  Colin frowned, but said nothing. He kne
w Benton would have the same questions he did. They both had enough experience to know what those facts could signify.

  “Where do you want us to start?”

  “Us?”

  Colin stifled a sigh. “Yeah. The boss informed me I have a new partner. We’re supposed to meet up at the scene.”

  Benson studied him for a moment. “The propeller head?”

  Colin rolled his eyes at the slang for computer geeks. “How’d you guess?”

  “She’s the only one unassigned, and you’re the only one partner-free,” Benton said with a shrug.

  “And I was kind of liking it that way.”

  “At least she’s not hard to look at.”

  Not a great recommendation for a cop, Colin thought, but he left it at that. And Benton apparently agreed because he went right back to business.

  “We’ll have photos as soon as they’re dry, and the preliminary crime scene reports. There’s a son, Stephen, age twenty-three. Lives at the Gardner estate. Mother is Cecelia, widowed. If you even glance at the society pages of the paper, you’ll know her on sight.”

  “If you watch five minutes of the evening news, you’ll know her on sight,” Colin said wryly. “Who else?”

  “Family, only an older brother, Lyle.”

  “Who’s been notified?”

  Benton grimaced. “The mother. In person, by two captains, sent by the commander himself.”

  Colin grimaced in turn; as a reminder of the horsepower of the victim, it was potent, but it was also a loss to the investigation. On a murder case, a detective always tried to be the one to deliver the grim news, not out of any ghoulish enjoyment, but to see the reactions of the family, who frequently weren’t all that sorry to see the dearly departed depart.

  “If she was surprised, they said it didn’t show. Shock, maybe.”

  Since Benton didn’t elaborate, Colin assumed no one had reported any other reaction that triggered more suspicion than usually fell upon the family of a murder victim; Benton was among the best at his job, despite that world-weary look in his eyes, and he wouldn’t leave out anything crucial.

  “Canvas of the building?” Colin asked.

  “We had patrol start it, but you’ll need to follow up.”

  Colin nodded. “Anything else?”

  Benton nodded. “There are security cameras in the lobby and in the hallways. The super, a guy named Carter, said the recording equipment is in the basement. We put in a call to the security company, they should be getting there about now. They’re sending a Mr. Bergen.”

  “We’ll get on that right away,” Colin said; a videotape of the elevators and hallways could wind this case up in a hurry. But he knew better than to hope for such a tidy package; this was murder, and murder was almost always messy. Very messy.

  Darien had to park so far from the address she’d been given on the Gold Coast that she should have changed to her running shoes. But she hadn’t wanted to delay, not when the district commander himself had given her this assignment.

  After a dash to the right address, she paused for a few seconds to gather herself before she went inside. She knew she should be feeling appropriately solemn—someone’s loved one was dead in the worst imaginable way—but some small part of her couldn’t help being excited at working on her first murder case. She’d have to be careful that it didn’t show; she knew that much, that inappropriate rookie enthusiasm could brand her forever.

  She also couldn’t dwell on the fact that the sexiest guy in the division would be her partner.

  The March sun didn’t provide much warmth, but it turned the stone of the upper stories of the building a golden cream that nicely set off the amber tint of the windows. Thirty stories or better, she thought, and she was headed for the top. Of course. If the victim was the kind of high-roller the commander had said, it would only figure he’d live in the penthouse.

  Telling herself that she hadn’t gotten this far to give in to doubts and qualms now, she straightened her spine and stepped inside. Still, the lobby caught her off guard with its expanse of gleaming marble. Springfield might be the state capital, but it had a population of about one twenty-fifth of Chicago and for a moment she again felt like the small-town girl lost in the big city.

  No, she thought. That man lying dead upstairs is lost. And it’s my job to help find out who did this to him.

  Steady now, she strode across the marble floor to the bank of elevators, trying to thaw her fingers as she went. A uniformed officer stood outside one of them, and she quickly found out it was the private elevator to the penthouse. She showed her ID and after the officer examined it as if he doubted it was real, she stepped inside the car. It, too, was elegantly appointed with gilt and marble, and she told herself to expect more of the same when she reached the penthouse. Considering the size of the building, she could guess how big the place must be.

  The elevator doors opened directly into the foyer of the penthouse. She ran into a uniform the moment she stepped out, and had to produce her badge once more to get him to allow her in. Even then the man looked at her skeptically, and she wondered if that would ever stop.

  “Look, I’m supposed to meet with Detective Waters. We’re partners. On this case,” she added as an afterthought, since she had no idea if the assignment would last beyond this case.

  Something flickered in the man’s eyes, and she thought the corners of his mouth twitched. But all he said was “He’s in the kitchen.”

  She tried not to speculate about the officer’s thoughts as she stepped past him. Now all she had to do was figure out where the kitchen was in this place. As she walked, she forced herself not to gape at the opulence evident in every square foot of the place, from huge Oriental carpets to a pair of matched sofas that had to be big enough to seat twelve people each, from sculptures on lighted pedestals to paintings on the walls that looked as if they should be in museums.

  She walked until she heard voices. Stopping, she realized they were coming from two different directions, straight ahead and off to her left. She listened for a moment, then heard the low, rich baritone of Detective Colin Waters. Even after her short time assigned to this job she couldn’t mistake it. She turned left.

  “—need the videotapes for the elevators for that time period.”

  “I’ll get them right to you, Detective.” This promise was followed by the sound of footsteps, and she decided it was all right for her to go in.

  “You do that,” Waters was saying. “I appreciate it.”

  She was sure she imagined the slight break in his words as she stepped into a kitchen that looked more suited to a five-star restaurant than a home, because he didn’t even glance in her direction. The other man, a shorter, stockier man with a goatee, didn’t just glance, he stopped in his tracks and stared at her.

  “About time, Detective Wilson,” Waters drawled pointedly, and Darien fought not to let color stain her cheeks. He knew how long it took to get here from probably anywhere in the city, so why was he—

  “Detective?”

  The other man almost squeaked it, and Darien stifled a sigh. And then stopped as the thought occurred to her that the statement might have been aimed at the other man as much as at her, letting him know who she was before he said anything embarrassing. She studied the tall, powerfully built man assessingly, wondering if there was indeed such tact and consideration hidden behind an exterior that had seemed, to her at least, decidedly gruff until now.

  By the time she decided she had no way of knowing and that it wouldn’t make any difference anyway, the other man had escaped out another doorway. She also decided against making any comment about his unfair dig about her arrival time. If she was right, she’d look silly, and if he really was criticizing, he didn’t deserve a response.

  Start as you mean to go on, her father had always said, and she meant to start this partnership on the right foot.

  “What have we got?” she asked briskly.

  There was the slightest of pauses before he
answered, and she was very aware of his steady gaze. With those unusual golden-brown eyes, it was hard not to be. There was the slightest bit of emphasis on the first word when he finally spoke.

  “We have a homicide case that could turn into the nightmare to end all nightmares.”

  “Victim’s a big shot, I gather,” she said, as neutrally as she could.

  “And then some. They’re more recognizable in this town than the mayor. And they’ve got friends in higher places than that.”

  “I thought I heard eggshells crunching,” she said.

  To her surprise, Waters grinned. “And very expensive eggs we’re walking on at that.”

  She felt absurdly pleased. And decided to make it clear right away that she understood her position. “What do you want me to do?”

  He gave her a look she couldn’t quite interpret. “You’re waiting for me to tell you what needs to be done, Wilson?”

  She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to say to that, so she went with the truth. “I know what needs to be done. I know what my area of expertise is, so I would assume I’m supposed to tackle his computer. But I also know I’m the rookie here, so I was asking what part of it you want me to do.”

  After a brief moment, he nodded as if she’d gotten the answer to some difficult test question correct. “Benton and Sutter have the evidence situation under control, and we should have their preliminary written reports by the end of the day. We’ll take the computer with us as evidence; it’s a laptop—at least it’s the only one I could find—so we don’t need to wait for transport, as long as one of us has it in our possession from the time we leave here until it’s booked in, for chain of evidence.”

  “Did Benton or Sutter draw any early conclusions?”

  “Limited. This is the highest-profile kind of case, so those eggshells are pretty thin. So far all we know for sure is Franklin Gardner’s dead, he didn’t do it himself, and there’s no sign of forced entry.”