Expose (Dr. Schwartzman Series Book 3)

by Danielle Girard

  Halfway to the car, headlights shone through the trees. She held her breath, crouched behind a tree, straining to hear the sounds of the engine slowing or Kaelen crying. But the car had gone past. She was alone.

  Alone.

  Hurrying to Aleena’s car, she knew she had to come up with a plan on her own.

  Her brain might have been her best asset. She was definitely smart, but book smart. She lacked the kind of common sense that girls in Perry, Oklahoma, were supposed to be born with. In her town, common sense and a set of child-rearing hips made for a perfect bride.

  She had neither.

  But now . . . She glanced in the rearview mirror. The roads were dark and slick. The windshield wipers stuttered across the glass. Above, the large warehouse buildings looked abandoned. The streetlamps trembled in the strange light like ghosts.

  What did she do? How did she do this alone? She took another turn. She’d lost track of where she was. Was he behind her? Had he been following her at all?

  How had it all gone wrong? She had forced that terror down in that dark, cold place, pulled herself together, and handled the situation. She was grateful that she had help from the candies. Grateful that she’d brought them. Wished she had more. She wouldn’t think about how she might sleep tonight. Only with the help from the candies did she sleep at all. Black, dreamless sleep. The sleep of the dead.

  She pictured her bed at home. Tucker sleeping soundly, silently, as unobtrusive in sleep as he was awake. Tears burned her eyes. How she missed Tucker. How she wished she were home in her bed now.

  Would she see him again?

  She’d never considered the possibility that she wouldn’t go home. She’d known it might take longer than she’d planned. It would certainly take longer than the few days she’d promised. But without a partner . . .

  She had no choice.

  There was no going home until it was done.

  If not before, then certainly now.

  She was in too deep. And she owed it to herself—to both of them. Aleena. A sob caught in her throat, and another turn brought her onto a quiet street. Alone.

  Invisible again.

  Pressing her head onto the steering wheel, she forced herself to breathe. She needed to find somewhere to stay the night.

  There was no returning to the little room she’d rented. Not after what had happened tonight. She touched the form on the seat beside her. Not with him.

  Then she saw it—the theater door. It was almost two a.m. The car and the boy’s light snore rattled beneath and beside her. She needed a place for the night.

  She imagined the movie theater. A warm spot to hide. Big chairs. Empty at night, secure. She would be safe there.

  Like magic, the side door opened, and a man stepped out.

  For a moment, he was Bengal. She shuddered and searched the area around the car. How could he be here? She reached down to take hold of the weapon on the floor.

  It couldn’t be him. He was . . . Oh, God. He could be anywhere.

  The man at the theater took a step forward, and the streetlamp bathed his face in light. It was not Bengal.

  Of course it wasn’t.

  His eyes narrowed, and she shook off a chill. She had to get inside that theater.

  The man propped open the door and lit a cigarette. Leaning up against the side of the building, he blew out huge billows of almost translucent smoke.

  She set the weapon down again and made a U-turn. Shut the car off and saw the cloth on the floor of the passenger’s side. Lifted it as an idea came to her. The metal fell with a clank, and the child stirred on the seat beside her.

  “Ssh,” she whispered, to both of them.

  She hesitated in the silence, formulated a plan. She took out the last two gummies from the bag she’d bought in the Oklahoma City airport and held them tightly in her hand. If she could warm the plastic-like gelatin into a wad, she could shove it in the lock on the theater door to prevent the latch from engaging.

  But she couldn’t let him see her face. She pulled the black fabric into her lap. The thick wetness slid across her fingers. She smelled iron, tasting the sensation of biting into her tongue. She closed her eyes and yanked the cloth over her head.

  The Jeep’s door let out a low creak as she eased it open and hurried around to the curb. She adjusted the eyeholes to see. The man still leaned up against the side of the building. She smoothed the black cloth, no longer herself. She tried to capture Aleena’s strength. She could do this.

  She started across the four lanes of quiet road. Out of nowhere, an engine revved, and a set of headlights bore down on her. She jumped out of the way, tripping on the niqab.

  She struggled to get up, to reach the curb, before the car came at her again. Sounds of laughter erupted from the car. A blaring horn. “Go home, terrorist!” someone shouted, then more laughing.

  From inside her roommate’s Jeep, a cry sounded.

  The car screeched around the corner as the crying grew louder.

  The man at the theater watched without moving to help. Bitty untangled the fabric from her legs and jogged the slow, awkward run of someone who never exercised. This she knew from being invisible. If you slid into people’s stereotypes, they saw only what they expected.

  The man pushed off the side of the building and headed back to the door. The smoke smelled of sage and reminded her of the clove cigarettes she had smelled in Berkeley when she’d lived there.

  “Excuse me,” she called, raising a hand. In the dull light, a dark trail was visible on her skin. “I left my phone in the theater.”

  “Sorry, ma’am. I’m afraid we’re closed.”

  “It’s just inside this theater. I left not two hours ago.”

  “I cleaned the theater myself,” he said. “Didn’t find any phone.”

  “If you’ll please let me look. Two minutes,” she pleaded, hiding her face in the fabric as she tried to inch closer to the door.

  “I said we’re closed.” He moved from her, and she caught the scent of beer on his breath.

  She glanced at the car across the street. She grabbed hold of his sleeve, edging closer again. “Please. I need the phone. I’ll only be a minute.”

  “It’s not there,” he said. “I already cleaned the whole theater.”

  She stumbled back, slipping again on the niqab and almost losing her balance. The crying rose in pitch. His face filled the window. “You don’t understand. There’s a little boy. And his mother is—” She couldn’t utter the words. Aleena was dead. Killed. There had been so much blood. “I need my phone.”

  The man slipped inside the open door and knocked away the brick propping it open. “You’ve got to leave.”

  She wrapped her fingers around the edge of the door and tried to shove her foot in the opening. He pushed from the inside, pinching her toes.

  “Please. Please.”

  Her foot slid until the door was held open only by the tip of her shoe.

  Desperate, she drew out the weapon, shoved the blade through the narrow gap to wedge the door open. The blade stopped, and she leaned in with all her weight until it punched through the slit.

  From inside came a strange, guttural sound, then a crack. The pressure against the door softened, and something drew the blade from her hand. The door opened another inch. “Please,” she said.

  She held her ground, waiting.

  He said nothing.

  She shoved. The door opened several inches and stopped. She let it fall back and drove hard against it. It hit something with a thwack and stuck. He’d put something up against it.

  Both palms on the cool metal, she leaned in, driving her feet forward inch by inch. Her breath heaved. Sweat dripped between her breasts, and the door edged open.

  She heaved again, putting her shoulder into it. Finally, she made enough space to slip inside.

  She slid into the dark, and the door closed behind her. Moving into the blackness, she tripped. The fabric covered her eyes, blinding her further. She le
t out a cry. Thrashing, she jerked the garment off and threw it to the ground.

  The room was too quiet. He was gone—to get security, to call the police.

  Her pulse pounded. She listened. Heard nothing.

  The exit sign gave off a red glow. But she needed more light. She needed to get the boy. She stepped back toward the door.

  Her shoe slid, and she fell hard, landing in something slick. Her hands were wet. She expected something sticky—like soda—but it felt thicker, warm.

  Squinting in the red light, she stared down at her palms. Stained dark.

  A shape lay against the floor nearby, and she reached out. A leg. She jerked her hand back. Cried out. Got onto her knees and crawled forward. The dagger’s handle caught the scarlet light, and she followed it down the length of the dagger.

  Until it disappeared.

  Into the belly of the man.

  3

  Buster’s bark startled Schwartzman from sleep. These days, she slept soundly. Being cancer free for thirteen months meant her appetite, her strength, and her focus were firing on all pistons again.

  When she’d moved in, Hal had spent a few nights on her couch and then helped her set up additional security measures. The house had a full alarm, which she set at night. The window locks were in good working order. And with Buster by her bed, no one was going to get in without her knowing it.

  She slept through most nights.

  For thirteen months, she had received a daily text from Colton Price, the private investigator she’d hired in Greenville, South Carolina. Every night at approximately eight p.m. in San Francisco came the two-word message All clear or AC. That was the code that meant Price or one of his colleagues in Greenville had sighted Spencer, her ex-husband, that day.

  As she surfaced from sleep, she fumbled for the ringing phone on the bedside table. “Schwartzman,” she answered without checking the screen.

  “We’ve got a call.” Hal’s voice.

  She fought to draw her eyelids open. “What time is it?”

  “Almost six.”

  “Where?”

  “The park.”

  Her eyes popped open, adrenaline pumping. “The park. Again?”

  “Morning jogger found her. About a hundred yards from where the biker went into the pond last night.”

  Her. A woman. Dread replaced drowsiness as Schwartzman sat upright in bed. A hundred yards. The Jeep had been approximately a hundred yards from the pond. She pictured the woman in the burqa, her son. Why had that Jeep been parked there at ten o’clock at night? Why had it been empty? Why would a woman in a burqa and her son get out of their car in the middle of the park? “How old is she?”

  Hal sighed. A young victim. She knew it before he spoke.

  “Thirties,” he said.

  The mother in the Jeep.

  “Or maybe younger. I’m not good—”

  “In a burqa?” she interrupted.

  “What?”

  Schwartzman was out of bed, moving to the closet and hurrying to change her clothes. Her pajama bottoms pooled onto the hardwood floor. “Was she wearing a burqa?”

  Hal hesitated. “She was found naked. No sign of her clothes.”

  Schwartzman yanked open a drawer and tucked the phone to her ear to pull on underwear. Grabbed a pair of slacks off a hanger. “Does she look Muslim?”

  “What? Schwartzman, are you awake?”

  “There was—” She looked down at her pajama top and weighed how long it would take to explain it to him. There was no reason to believe the victim was that same woman. Her mind was playing tricks. What did she expect? She was half-asleep. She rubbed her face. “Nothing. Send me your location. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  That early, the drive to the park took little time, but every car that slowed and every pedestrian who crossed the street felt like a personal affront. What was wrong with her? Two deaths in the park in twelve hours. That wasn’t a record—not by a long shot. The rain had increased the number of traffic crashes across the city, so her biker could be an accidental death.

  But a naked woman?

  That was no accident.

  A hint of pink dawn glowed over the hills to the east, casting the cool morning in a reddish light. Schwartzman came upon two patrol cars and pulled to the curb. A crime scene van sat parked in front. The Jeep had been parked here. A coincidence. Almost certainly.

  There was no sign of the Jeep.

  Kit in hand, Schwartzman walked toward the grassy knoll where yellow crime scene tape ringed a cluster of pine trees. Her damp socks clung to her feet inside boots still wet from the night before.

  Roger crouched just inside the crime scene tape, examining something indiscernible in the early morning light. Naomi stood nearby, photographing the scene. Both looked up when she approached and greeted her wordlessly. Too early to talk. She wished she’d made a cup of coffee. She’d splurged on a Nespresso machine when she’d bought the house, and when she was on her game, she’d start the machine as she was dressing. With the touch of a button, she had a hot cup of coffee without having to pause more than a second to grab it and go.

  She was not on her game this morning.

  The body lay facedown in a small dip between two pine trees in a thick bed of amber pine needles. Loose needles had been piled over her dark, wavy hair, the part of her that contrasted most sharply with the hues of the ground covering. Schwartzman didn’t recall much of a breeze when she’d been in the park the night before. The wind could have moved the pine needles, but the pile that obscured her head was too exact. Someone had done that.

  Naomi continued to take pictures while Roger instructed the patrol officers to cordon off a larger area to search.

  Leaving her kit off to the side, Schwartzman watched until Naomi had finished documenting the body in its current position.

  “Done,” Naomi announced a minute later.

  Using the penlight from her kit, Schwartzman swept the light around the area surrounding the body, scanning for evidence. The soft earth sank beneath her feet, but the roots beneath the surface made the area around the body firmer and drier than elsewhere, like the pond where she’d been the night before. There was no mud to record the tread of the killer’s shoes.

  She moved with care until she was confident that she wasn’t trampling on anything that might help Hal and his team find her killer. The area clear, she moved in and shifted her attention to the victim.

  The trees overhead had sheltered the victim from the heavy rains, so she had the appearance of being doused rather than drenched. The body was positioned with arms bent slightly at the elbow and off to the sides her head, which faced right. Her legs were closed, and her left foot crossed over the right ankle as though she were sleeping or sunbathing. It was not a natural death pose. Her killer had certainly crossed her legs that way, and there was something strangely loving about the placement of the feet—about the arrangement of the body in general.

  She appeared at peace.

  Only her hair implied chaos. A few strands lay loose among the pine needles around her head, perhaps blown by the wind. The rest of the long, dark mass covered her eyes and nose. The staging might have been some sort of statement, though she couldn’t guess what. The bulk of her hair seemed black until the penlight illuminated its subtle chestnut tones. It was natural in color other than the very tips—maybe two inches—which were a bright, white blonde.

  Her nose, visible through the parted waves of hair, was rounded at the tip and on each side. Her full lips were closed and stained a bright, deep red. The lipstick looked freshly applied—no signs of smudges, the line along the perimeter perfectly clean, as though drawn by a pencil. And perhaps it had been.

  This was not the woman from the night before.

  She experienced an odd sense of relief that she hadn’t somehow been at the scene of a death before it happened. She had grown accustomed to homicide scenes and victims. She wasn’t distressed by the dead.

  But the about-to-b
e dead, the killing in progress—that was disturbing.

  4

  The pine needles rustling beneath her, Schwartzman knelt to study the victim. The appearance of the victim’s fingernails was at odds with her hair and lips. At first, the red, inflamed cuticles suggested that the victim had false nails that had been ripped off. But as Schwartzman studied the victim’s hands more closely, she saw that the nails were short and uneven. Onychophagy. The victim bit her nails.

  Despite the damage, the beds of her nails were pink and healthy, and the fingertips themselves lacked the pickled appearance she’d seen in other victims with a similar condition. Perhaps the nail biting had begun recently.

  Moving away from the victim’s head, Schwartzman scanned the visible skin for signs of injury—her arms and back, her thighs—and found no lacerations or bruises. The single mole on her left shoulder was hardly noteworthy.

  She went back to her kit, ready to suit up and turn the body when Hal walked down the grassy incline toward her, turning up the collar of his coat against the morning chill. His easy gait, those broad shoulders and long legs, the subtle dip of his head when he stepped—she could recognize him from two city blocks away. She worked with a dozen homicide inspectors. Most were good people—all were professionals—but working with Hal made her feel safe in a way that was impossible to put to words. She should not be the kind of woman who needed a man, but being around Hal had that effect.

  “We know who she is?” Schwartzman asked when Hal ducked under the crime scene tape and stopped beside her.

  “No idea,” he said. “Call came in at four forty. Investment banker on his morning run.” His lips formed a thin line. “He left the house at four ten, four fifteen. He runs every day, seven days a week—usually leaves at four on the dot. Today, a call from Hong Kong put him behind. He ran for twenty-five minutes and cut it short. Came from the path there”—Hal pointed beyond the patrol cars toward where Schwartzman had been the night before—“and was running up this hill when he saw her. Called dispatch. Units arrived within fifteen minutes.”