Expose (Dr. Schwartzman Series Book 3)

by Danielle Girard

  ALSO BY DANIELLE GIRARD

  DR. SCHWARTZMAN SERIES

  Exhume

  Excise

  OTHER WORKS

  Savage Art

  Ruthless Game

  Chasing Darkness

  Cold Silence

  ROOKIE CLUB SERIES

  Dead Center

  One Clean Shot

  Dark Passage

  Interference

  Everything to Lose

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2018 by Danielle Girard

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503901667

  ISBN-10: 1503901661

  Cover design by PEPE nymi

  For Nicole,

  sister, friend, confidant, cohort, wit, artist, writer, family comanager . . . sister

  CONTENTS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  1

  Schwartzman wound her way along the empty, deserted roads of Golden Gate Park toward the pin dropped on her phone screen. The wet pavement slurred beneath the car, her headlights illuminating curls of fog as they slipped between trees and rolled across the green hills like long, gauzy ribbons. The pin marked the location of the corpse that awaited her. As she drove, the rain let up. For the first time in days, a crescent of night sky appeared where the clouds broke apart.

  Buster rode in the passenger seat beside her, his tongue hanging down across pink gums. Named for the local Giants’ player, Buster had graced the car with a permanent smear from his nose on the windshield and the perpetual scent of wet dog. She’d given up trying to clean the glass. Even the silly harness she’d bought to attach to the seat belt didn’t prevent him from getting right up to the window like a nearsighted old lady behind the wheel.

  Grateful to get off the busy streets, she drove deeper into the park. San Francisco had been in a drought for so many years that drivers had forgotten how to drive in the rain. Making her way to and from work and scenes over the past three weeks had been an exercise in patience. This was her second fall in San Francisco, and last winter had been no different.

  She didn’t mind the rain herself. It was a gentle reminder of how far she’d come. She’d been in her house a full year. She and Buster.

  Buster barked into the dark night, and a little chill ran down her arms. Normally, she wouldn’t come to this park at night. The naive might call it safe, but any place that offered endless shadows and few witnesses was not safe. Not for a woman. Not for anyone.

  Her call tonight was related to a motorcyclist who had driven into a pond and never surfaced. The police had received reports from three different people, each one describing a man on a Harley driving out of control through the park. The last witness had seen him drive into the water. The paramedics were already on the scene to retrieve the body and the bike. As the biker was presumed dead, she had been called in as well.

  It would be her job to determine the factors at play in his death—drugs or alcohol or some sort of cardiac arrest or embolism. In a witnessed incident like this one, her presence wasn’t necessary at the scene, but she’d been walking Buster when the call had come in and, as eerie as it was, the park had a draw for her. The canopy of trees—tall pines—and a glimpse of the California Academy of Sciences made her feel as though she were in some magical place.

  Buster barked again as she came around a corner, drawing her attention to an older-model Jeep Cherokee parked at a stop sign. She eased on the brake and glanced over. Shadows obscured the driver, but a young boy sat sideways in the passenger seat. Schwartzman guessed his age at seven or eight. A wide grin covered his face, his hands waving as he talked animatedly. Buster barked again, and the boy noticed the dog. He pointed, and when the driver turned, Schwartzman realized that the driver wasn’t in shadow after all. The woman wore a burqa.

  The boy waved excitedly to Buster, and Schwartzman waved back. The woman, too, raised her hand, and Schwartzman saw the smile in her eyes, though her mouth was covered. As Schwartzman pulled through the stop sign, she observed that the boy wore a white top that crossed over in front, like a uniform for karate and taekwondo.

  She rubbed Buster’s head as she drove on. As an only child, she had no nieces or nephews. And until this last year, she had always lived in a building that catered to people without children. Now she enjoyed having kids in her neighborhood. They adored Buster, and watching them rub his back or wrap their arms around his neck was a joy to see. When she’d first moved in, their small, happy faces served as a fresh reminder of what she’d lost almost eight years ago, when Spencer had thrown her across their bedroom and her pregnancy had ended. But now the children were refreshing, a reminder of life’s simple joys.

  Through the dense greenery, the red and blue lights of a patrol car came into view. Around the bend sat a fire truck, an ambulance, and a second patrol car, its lights off. She parked behind the second patrol car and rolled the window down a few inches for Buster.

  A tow truck had arrived and slowly backed up to the edge of the pond, emitting the familiar warning beep as it reversed. The rain started again as she left the car. She layered a thin raincoat over her down jacket and brought the hood over her head. Leaving her kit in the trunk, she walked across the wet grass toward the pond.

  The truck’s wheels hit a patch of mud and started to spin. The driver climbed down from the truck to look, and two patrol officers approached, the three making animated hand gestures. Sensing it would be a while, Schwartzman went back to her car for her umbrella.

  The crime scene van arrived next. Naomi Muir emerged, one of the crime scene techs Schwartzman worked with often, along with a second tech, Chase Hammar, whom she’d worked with less often. The two were bantering in the rain when Schwartzman returned with her umbrella.

  From beside the crime scene van, the three watched the scene.

  “They’re going to need a tow truck for the tow truck,” Chase said. “Guess I’d better suit up.”

  Schwartzman watched him w
alk away. “Suit up?”

  “That pond is almost thirty feet deep,” Naomi explained. “He’s going to put on a dry suit to go in for the body. He’ll take a net down, then we’ll use chains to haul out the bike.”

  The body was almost certainly at the bottom of the pond. A body sank as soon as water replaced the air in the lungs—either by a victim inhaling it in the process of drowning or by the air naturally making its way out of the lungs via the trachea. Cadavers then tended to remain underwater until bacteria in the stomach and chest cavity produced sufficient gases—methane, carbon dioxide, and hydrogen sulfide—to create a sort of human balloon. At that point, bodies floated to the surface. This process took days or sometimes weeks, depending on a variety of factors, including temperature and water salinity. Hot temperatures meant the bacteria got to work faster. Salinity caused the opposite to happen—the more salt in the water, the longer it took the bacteria to get a foothold.

  The rain paused as Naomi set up a series of mammoth spotlights with the help of the patrol officers. They angled all five lights toward the pond, giving the appearance of midday to the water and illuminating its green tint. At the same time, the brilliant floodlights turned the dark beyond their reach into utter blackness.

  Chase waded into the water. Moments later, the heavy black rubber of his hood vanished beneath the surface.

  Once Chase located the motorcycle and the driver in the pond, the fire department would assist in the process of retrieval. To pass the time, Schwartzman walked the perimeter of the lights until she found the single track of the motorcycle’s tires. The grass was torn and muddy in its path. She didn’t know what she expected. This was Roger’s area of expertise, not hers.

  He would be able to tell her the cycle’s speed, whether the driver tried to brake, whether he’d lost control. She lost herself in thought, watching the quiet surface of the water for Chase to reappear.

  “Evening, Anna.”

  Schwartzman jumped at the voice. Her eyes adjusted to find Ken Macy at his patrol car, parked just beyond the light.

  “Hi, Ken.” Her heart beat a steady hammer in her chest. “I didn’t see you.”

  “I’m hiding in the dark,” Ken said without looking at her, his gaze aimed at the scene.

  She tried to laugh, but it was forced, more like a choke. The two stood in silence, watching the activity below. Chase surfaced in the water, giving the group a thumbs-up. Meanwhile, two firefighters had attached chains from their truck to the tow to provide some additional power.

  Naomi directed the fire truck to give them the best angle, and Schwartzman wished she had an excuse to join her. Too bad people who broke up couldn’t talk to each other. She and Ken had always had such a good rapport before they’d tried to be more than friends.

  A high-pitched whine filled the air as the tow truck’s tires spun in the mud. The fire truck beeped steadily as it backed up. The tow truck lurched, swerved slightly, and then pulled forward.

  The group cheered as the big truck cleared the banks. Behind it, a heavy chain slowly emerged from the water. The wheel of a motorcycle followed, then the front handlebars, covered in long strands of green pond grass that shone in the spotlights as though the chlorophyll were illuminated from inside. She was starting to wonder where the body was when a pant leg appeared. The victim was still attached to the bike.

  She glanced toward the scene. “I’d better—”

  Ken nodded. “Take care.”

  “You too, Ken.”

  Schwartzman made her way to the edge of the water to watch the victim emerge. Above the jeans, he wore a Jimi Hendrix T-shirt. His helmeted head surfaced last. The presence of the helmet, and specifically that the face shield remained down over his eyes, made her suspect he was dead when he went in the water. An initial gut reaction, and one she would never utter aloud. Human instinct was to clear the area around the face when struggling to breathe. In this case, that would have meant removing the helmet, or at least pushing open the face shield.

  One of the paramedics waded into the water to check for a pulse, and Naomi joined him, getting wet up to her waist to take pictures. The paramedic stepped away. Naomi spent a few minutes documenting the body before the firefighters loaded the corpse onto a gurney. The two men carried the body to the back of the ambulance and released the metal base so the gurney stood at bed height.

  Since Schwartzman had no plans to do more than take a cursory look, she remained in her street clothes, stretching on a pair of gloves as the paramedics cut the thin T-shirt from the victim’s body. The wounds on his hands, arms, and neck—mostly abrasions, contact burns and scrapes—could have occurred whether he’d drowned or died of natural causes. They were likely pre- and perimortem, although it was always difficult to say what injuries occurred in the process of retrieving a body from the water. Once she had him in the morgue, she would use alternative light sources to attempt to age the injuries.

  The rain started up again as Schwartzman worked the helmet free and examined his pupils for dilation, a sign of drug use. They appeared normal. She checked his arms and between his fingers for tracks and then also his neck, since it was in view. She occasionally found track marks on the necks of victims, though it was arguably the riskiest injection site for drug users. Abscesses and collapsed veins occurred with IV drug use, and an abscess in the veins of the neck might result in nerve damage that blocked air passage. Not to mention the direct track to the brain might result in stroke or neurological damage. But those dangers didn’t always stay in the forefront of an addict’s mind.

  In this case, the neck was clean. He didn’t smell of alcohol, although the stink of swamp water might have masked the scent. Nothing in the preliminary examination suggested abuse of alcohol or drugs. But that was all it was. A suggestion. There was no way to be certain until she had him in the morgue.

  Schwartzman directed the paramedics to transport the body. She signed the paperwork and hurried to her car as the rain began to fall in sheets.

  The storm made her all but blind on the dark roads. Rounding the bend, she slowed to a crawl when her headlights caught a glint on the side of the road. At first, it looked like a reflector on a bike. Who on earth would be out riding in this weather?

  But as she got closer, she saw it was a parked car.

  The same older-model maroon Jeep that she’d passed earlier. Pulled forward on the road maybe twenty or thirty feet, the car looked empty.

  She stopped and peered into the darkened windows. No sign of the woman in the burqa or the boy. Schwartzman scanned the darkened hillside, the patches of bushes in the distance. Where would they have gone?

  Had they been having car trouble?

  She considered getting out of the car, but what would she do? Look for them? She lifted her phone. Four bars of coverage. If they had been in trouble, they would have called someone.

  Surely, they weren’t out here in this weather.

  The air in the car grew warm, and Schwartzman felt her own drenched legs—her pants soaked through from the rain that had pelted her below the hem of her coat as she’d examined the body. Water had dripped down into her boots, and her wool socks were damp. Water puddled between her toes.

  Home.

  The boy and his mother had certainly gone home as well—ten p.m. on a Tuesday night. Past a child’s bedtime.

  Past her own bedtime, for that matter.

  Buster barked once as though urging her on, and Schwartzman wound her way out of the park and headed home.

  2

  Bitty checked the rearview mirror, studying the lights of the car behind her. Was it the same car? She made a turn at the next light, slowed down. Kept driving. She continued along the street, thinking, trying to plan.

  Every time she blinked, Aleena’s body flashed in her vision. Her beautiful skin, the blood smeared across her. So much blood. She still looked gorgeous. That was what she’d been thinking, looking at her dead roommate. She was still the prettier one, the better one.


  Aleena with her exotic ruby earrings and ornate gold bangle bracelet, the clasp like two entwined snakes. She usually wore beautiful patterned silks, paired with expensive shoes and handbags, all a complement to her exquisite face, her thick glossy hair, and rich, brown skin.

  They were as different as night and day, only Aleena had all the good of both, and Bitty was full of the parts no one would remember. She was like the dull, wasted hours between three a.m. and five a.m., when it was too late to sleep and too early to wake.

  Her parents had given her the name Tabitha, but she’d been Bitty from birth.

  Invisible Bitty.

  And she was invisible. She had been her whole life.

  Ironically, the one night she would have benefited from being invisible, she hadn’t been. That one time. Being invisible had always made her ashamed, angry. Her whole life, she had wanted to make people see her. Make them feel her power.

  She hadn’t realized the power of invisible.

  They were going to work together. Fight together. That had been their agreement fourteen years ago, too, when Aleena had begged her to come back to California so that they could report their assault to the police. They had kept the attack secret for years, too terrified to speak up. For so long, they thought if they didn’t talk about it, maybe the memories would vanish, and the scars would evaporate. But it didn’t work like that. Aleena hadn’t been sleeping, couldn’t eat. She still lived too close to where it had happened. She dreamed of him nightly. He might be anywhere, she’d said. He might come after her. Unlike Bitty, who was tucked safely in Oklahoma, Aleena couldn’t escape.

  Aleena had begged Bitty to return to Berkeley, to go to the police with her. Or they’d never get over it, Aleena had said. She would never get over it. So Bitty had agreed. She’d scraped together every last dime—from babysitting and collecting cans—and she’d returned to Berkeley all those years ago.

  This time, it was Bitty who’d insisted. Fought to make Aleena see that they had to get their justice.

  She should have let it go. Stayed away. And now what?

  Now she was driving Aleena’s Jeep, with Aleena’s child. Thankfully, he was sleeping now. The medicine had knocked him out almost immediately, giving her a chance to return to Aleena’s body. She’d gone back for the weapon. It was his weapon, she knew from the moment she saw it. She wrapped it in the niqab, cradling it like a hurt child, like she was carrying Aleena herself.