Veil of Night: A Novel

by Linda Howard

  “Sure,” he’d replied. “But I wasn’t standing in the soup aisle.”

  That remark had earned him a growled comment from Sergeant Garvey, something along the lines that one day his mouth was going to overload his ass and he’d end up in a lot of trouble. So what else was new?

  Garvey moved to intercept him, his expression grave. “The manager has identified the victim as Carrie Edwards, the fiancée of Sean Dennison, the son of State Senator Douglas Dennison.”

  “Shit,” Eric said. He hated high-profile cases, because as often as not the family caused problems and actually hindered the investigation with their demands, not to mention that the increased media attention also ate into their time. As luck would have it, Franklin, the older, more experienced detective who would likely have drawn the case because it was high-profile and he was more diplomatic—a huge understatement—than Eric, was on vacation at Disney World with his family. Like it or not, this case was his.

  “The victim’s family is being notified, so her name hasn’t been released to the media yet,” Sergeant Garvey continued as they walked into the reception hall. The crime scene guys were already at work, taking pictures, combing the area for trace evidence. Eric put his hands in his pockets and approached close enough that he had a better view of the body, but not so close that he got in the way. Garvey stayed at his side.

  The victim lay sprawled on her back in a pool of blood, one shoe on and one lying several feet away. A veil was draped across her face. Protruding from her body were several long, thin—

  He blinked, to make sure he was seeing what he thought he was seeing.

  “She’s kabobed.”

  Behind him, stifled laughter escaped from a couple of the patrolmen who heard the remark. Garvey put on his long-suffering expression, but not before he had to control the grin that threatened to crack his face. “For God’s sake, Wilder.”

  Eric squatted so he had a better view of the body, looking it over from head to toe, his sharp gaze noting every detail. “What else would you call it?”

  “Stabbed. The term is stabbed. Remember that, especially when you’re talking to her family or the media.”

  He grunted, continuing his visual. As far as he was concerned, “kabobed” was on the money. Metal skewers protruded from the corpse at different angles, and even from a distance he could tell that a couple of them had gone very deep, while others had barely punctured the skin. There were more puncture wounds than there were skewers; the killer had stabbed her repeatedly, maybe even using both hands, because of the difference in angles. The one that had apparently punctured her heart was buried damn near to the hilt, where a piece of blood-drenched meat dangled, along with what looked to be a pearl onion.

  Too bad Franklin was on vacation. He thought he’d seen everything, but Eric would bet the farm this would be a new one on him.

  Eric was very aware of the emotional wreckage this would cause. The dead weren’t the only victims of a murder; the families suffered, long and deep. Carrie Edwards was—had been—a beautiful young woman, murdered as she was planning her wedding. She’d likely have parents, siblings, friends; she definitely had a fiancé who had yet to be notified. Someone, somewhere, loved her. But he’d learned long ago that if he took every case to heart he wouldn’t be able to function, so he couldn’t afford to be too empathetic, to let himself get sucked into the emotional pain and grief that surrounded a murder. All cops handled it with dark humor, the darker the better. For the family’s sake, though, he’d remember to deep-six the kabob comments.

  It was someone else’s job to soothe the pain this woman’s death would cause: a minister, a psychiatrist, a friend. His job was to find the killers and bring them to justice.

  Food, ribbons, pictures of flowers and veils, and different brochures littered the area around the body. She’d struggled; the table she lay behind had been knocked askew, and her arms bore defense wounds. A briefcase lay on the floor. After the crime scene techs finished, he’d see what information the briefcase yielded, but he couldn’t be so lucky that the killer had left such a huge identifying item at the scene. The victim’s cell phone, which lay beside her, was more likely to point them in the right direction. It was an iPhone, so God only knew what they’d find on it.

  Now that he knew the identity of the victim, he was aware of a small knot of tension easing from his stomach. He hadn’t let himself consciously think of her, but when he’d heard “reception hall” he’d instinctively prepared himself for the possibility that Jaclyn could be the victim. She was in the business, and she’d told him herself how crazy people got when they were planning weddings.

  Maybe that was what had happened here. Someone had definitely gone crazy.

  He rose to his feet; he’d seen all he could see for now. “Where’s the manager?”

  “One of the officers is taking her statement. She discovered the body, made the 911 call.”

  From the time the first patrol car arrived, an officer would have stayed with the woman, both to control the scene and to prevent her from making any calls. They didn’t want her contacting the media, friends, or anyone else, because controlling the information that got out was as important as the physical scene.

  “She was almost hysterical,” Garvey said sourly. “She’d locked herself in the office, convinced a Freddy Krueger–like serial killer was hiding in a closet somewhere, ready to slice and dice her if she poked her nose out. An officer searched every room before she’d calm down, and she’s still wound as tight as a yo-yo.”

  She could rest easy; this wasn’t the work of a serial killer. The veil placed over the face—after the victim’s death, by the looks of it—suggested that the murder had been personal. The murderer had known the victim, probably very well. The multiple wounds were also the mark of someone in a rage, which wasn’t the hallmark of murder by a stranger.

  He got a quick briefing from the first-on-scene officer. The manager’s name was Melissa DeWitt. She was much calmer now, though through the open door he could see that she was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

  She might not be so calm if she knew that right now suspicion was resting most heavily on her. It was amazing how often the killer would “discover” the body, either figuring the police would assume he or she couldn’t possibly have done it because otherwise why risk drawing so much attention, or thinking that would give a logical reason for any trace evidence left behind. Innocent or guilty, she was the starting point of the investigation.

  When the briefing was finished, he went into the office, pad and pen in hand, ready to write down everything she said. “Mrs. DeWitt, I’m Detective Wilder. Do you think you could answer some questions for me?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said. She closed her eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, then turned her head to look out of the window behind her. “That’s Carrie’s car,” she said, pointing to a silver Toyota. “I was watching, waiting for her to leave so I could lock up. Everyone else had already gone, at least … I thought they had.” She shuddered a little, but didn’t appear to be losing control again.

  “Everyone else? Can you give me their names? I need to know who all was here this afternoon.”

  The woman nodded. “Of course. Just give me a moment to clear my head. I swear, I can hardly think straight.” She took another deep breath, and while she was occupied with calming herself, he visually inspected her. The attack would have left plenty of blood on the perp; she could easily have washed any blood from her skin before placing the 911 call, but he didn’t see a speck of blood on her clothing—and she was wearing a white blouse. He’d have to see if she kept a change of clothing here at work.

  “Carrie met with so many vendors,” she finally said.

  “Vendors?”

  “You know—people who do work for the wedding. The caterer, the florist, they’re all vendors. Some of them I know very well, others I know by first name and trade. Today they were all, well … unhappy. Carrie wasn’t satisfied with anything an
yone did. Time was getting short and they all needed decisions made, but she gave everyone the runaround. Anyway, Premier was handling the event, so Jaclyn Wilde will have everyone’s contact information. You should talk to her.”

  Oh, shit. Everything inside Eric stilled, for a moment. There couldn’t be two wedding planners with that name. “Jaclyn Wilde.”

  “Jaclyn Wilde, the wedding planner.” Mrs. DeWitt frowned. “Well, she was the wedding planner, but Carrie fired her this afternoon. There was a horrible scene. Carrie actually slapped Jaclyn in the face, in front of several of the vendors. For a minute I thought there was going to be a brawl.”

  “Jaclyn … Ms. Wilde was fired this afternoon?” Double shit. And the victim had slapped her, too. Was she the kind of woman who might snap under those circumstances? He didn’t know her nearly well enough to say. A memory came back to him: She has the ability to turn the gentlest of people into raving lunatics. Those were Jaclyn’s own words, from just last night. And since Mrs. DeWitt had already told him that Carrie had been giving all the vendors a hard time, he’d bet his pension the “she” Jaclyn had been talking about was now lying dead, literally skewered, down the hall. Well, fuck.

  “Excuse me for a minute.”

  “Sure,” she said, reaching for her office phone. “I’ll call my husband—”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d hold off on that,” he said, giving the officer standing outside the door a glance that told him to continue controlling the outflow of information. “Even the smallest detail you might let slip while you’re so upset could hinder the investigation. Ms. Edwards’s family hasn’t been notified yet, and it would be bad if they heard about this on television.”

  “Oh!” She snatched her hand away from the phone. “I understand.”

  Eric rose, closed his notebook, and went in search of Sergeant Garvey, whom he found standing next to Lieutenant Neille. “Problem,” he said briefly.

  Both men gave him their full attention.

  “Evidently there was a confrontation with the wedding planner this afternoon, and the victim not only struck the wedding planner, Jaclyn Wilde, in the face, but she fired her, too.”

  “And?” Garvey prompted.

  “I know Jaclyn Wilde.”

  Lieutenant Neille frowned. “How well?”

  “We’re not involved, and I can’t say I know her all that well, but …” Screw it, the truth wasn’t pretty, but it was the truth. “One-night stand.”

  “When?”

  “Last night.”

  Garvey’s muttered curse was fouler than usual, but he followed the curse with a quiet, “Can you handle it?”

  “Yes,” Eric answered without hesitation. And he could. He wouldn’t like it, he didn’t like it, but he could do his job. Jaclyn Wilde was a … possibility, not a commitment.

  Garvey glanced at Lieutenant Neille, who sighed as he scrubbed his hand across his jaw. “For now, proceed,” said Neille. “If she starts to look good for it, we’ll put someone else on the case if you have any problem. And do it right, Wilder. If there’s any question, you’ll have to look at her harder and longer than you would otherwise, so know that up front.”

  “I know.” And he did. It wasn’t as if Hopewell was lousy with detectives. There were six of them, two per shift. Franklin, who worked the same shift as Eric, wouldn’t be back from Disney World until Sunday night. No way would they call him back from the happiest place on earth when Eric said he could handle it. It was a measure of his superiors’ trust in him that they let him do this. If he said there wasn’t a conflict of interest, they believed him.

  Now, if he could just convince himself.

  Chapter Nine

  JACLYN HEAVED A SIGH OF RELIEF WHEN SHE ENTERED the cool, quiet sanctuary of her town house. Now that she didn’t have to put on a brave face for Madelyn, even more stress melted away and she actually felt kind of mellow—not completely calm, because there was still an inner core of anger that Carrie had slapped her and she’d had to take it instead of coldcocking the bitch, but calm enough that she could accept that what was done was done and she’d handled things the best way possible, even if the best way wasn’t the most satisfying way.

  The stress had worn her out, though; she felt exhausted down to her bones, and the idea of a night at home doing nothing other than a few chores was just short of paradise. She stripped off the capri pants and sleeveless blouse she’d worn that day, gathered her dirty laundry, and dumped everything in the washer. Then she remade the bed with fresh sheets, and took the dirty ones to the laundry to wash later. After that she had nothing to do other than taking a shower and putting on her pajamas.

  While she was in the shower she heard the phone ringing, but she didn’t jump out and race to answer it; after the day she’d had, whoever it was could wait. She even took the time to wash her hair. After she’d blown her hair dry, dusted herself with fragrant powder, and put on her pajamas, she checked the phone for a message, but there wasn’t one so she looked at Caller ID.

  It was her father. She frowned. Jacky usually left a message when he called, even if it was nothing more than a “Hi, honey, haven’t talked to you lately.” Knowing her father, the fact that he hadn’t left a message meant he wanted to talk to her about something, which probably meant he had a favor to ask.

  There was no telling what he wanted. With Jacky, anything was possible. She dialed his number and he answered before the first ring completed. “Hi, baby,” he said cheerfully. “How’s my girl?”

  “Tired. It was a rough day at work. I was in the shower when you called. What’s up?”

  “Why does anything have to be up? Can’t I call just to talk to you?”

  The slightly guilty-sounding indignation in his voice made her grin. Her father was good-natured, the life of any party, he truly loved her, charming as all hell, and completely irresponsible. She didn’t doubt that he loved her, but neither did she doubt that, if he had to choose between saving her from drowning or saving himself, he’d weep huge tears at her funeral.

  “You could,” she said, “but you didn’t. So what’s up?”

  “Well … there is a little favor I need.”

  The little favor was usually money, because Jacky perpetually ran short. To him, buying an expensive bottle of champagne to celebrate anything was more important than paying his utility bills. Most of the time she refused, but sometimes she’d come through for him, if the amount wasn’t too much and if the reason he wanted it made her smile. Once he’d wanted a hundred bucks to buy some little plastic ducks for a charity duck race, and she’d liked the idea so much she’d gone in with him to buy two hundred dollars’ worth of little plastic duckies, and they’d attended the race together. None of their ducks had won, but they’d had a great time.

  “How much, and for what?” she asked.

  “It’s not money,” he quickly replied. “I’m doing okay. But I’ve met someone, and—”

  “Good Lord, am I about to get stepmother number eleven?”

  There was a short pause, then he said, “Eleven?” in a shocked tone. “Have I been married that many times? There was your mother, of course, then Brigitta, then Kristen, then …” His voice trailed off.

  “Ariel,” Jaclyn prompted. She wasn’t surprised that he’d forgotten. Ariel had lasted two weeks—almost.

  “Oh, yeah. I must have blocked her out. She was hell to live with. After her was … that was Tallie, wasn’t it? That’s just five. I don’t remember anyone else.”

  “I was just teasing,” she said. “Your total is five.” He’d stayed married to Tallie longer than anyone had expected; in longevity, she’d placed second to Madelyn. The fact that “Tallie” was a nickname—short for “tallywhacker,” which kind of gave an indication of her talents—explained the length of that particular marriage. Jaclyn knew the tale about the nickname was true, because Tallie herself had told her the meaning behind her name.

  “I should know that,” he mused. “I guess I was afraid I’d
blanked out on a few.”

  “You might have picked up some Las Vegas barnacles I don’t know about, but if you don’t remember them either that would make you a bigamist. So far as I know, there have been five.”

  “I’m in the clear, then, because you know all of them.”

  He wasn’t the least embarrassed by his marital misadventures. Jacky felt no need to excuse his behavior; to him, if he was having fun, then that was reason enough to do whatever he wanted.

  “If you aren’t about to get married, and you don’t need money, then what’s the favor?”

  Another short pause. “I have met someone. I’m taking her out to dinner tomorrow night, and I want to really impress her, so I thought maybe you’d let me borrow your Jag—”

  “You thought wrong,” Jaclyn said wryly, not even letting him finish the sentence. “No way.”

  “I promise I’d be careful—”

  “No. Your idea of careful is actually closing the door when you get out of the car. You’d either leave the keys in the ignition and it would be stolen, or you’d wreck it, or you’d have sex in it. No.”

  “I wouldn’t leave the keys in it,” he protested. At least he was honest enough not to deny the other two were possibilities.

  “The answer is still no. If you want to go on a date in a Jag, you’ll have to rent one.”

  “In that case, I’ll need a loan after all.”

  “No.”

  “Jaclyn, baby—”

  He was stubborn. He kept her on the phone for another twenty minutes, trying different angles of approach to the argument, but she held firm. No, she didn’t care that his hot new date might turn out to be “the one,” if only he could sufficiently impress her. No, she didn’t think he might die heartbroken from losing a great love. No, she wouldn’t do it even if he offered to have her Jag completely cleaned and detailed before he brought it back. She didn’t doubt the offer, just that he would follow through on his promise. By the time she finally got off the phone with him, she was so exasperated she was almost yelling as she shot down every new proposal he threw at her.