Secret Alibi

by Lori L. Harris

  She should never have answered the first text message, she realized. As soon as she had, she’d given him what he really wanted from her. Not to be ignored.

  Which was exactly what she needed to do. She reached for her briefcase and then paused, staring down at the phone she still held in her left hand.

  But what if he wasn’t screwing with her? What if this time was different? What if he had signed the amended property settlement? She’d heard talk about his seeing a woman. Maybe he had finally started to move on.

  She glanced through the rain-pocked window toward the front door of Riverhouse, wanting a hot shower and a soft bed. Wanting to forget about her ex-husband and legal documents. She wanted the mindless oblivion of sleep.

  Lexie rubbed her forehead. No. As much as she would like to believe this time might be different, it would be like all the others. She’d lost count of the times he’d agreed to sign the papers, only to refuse when they were face-to-face.

  She flipped the phone back open and, after briefly debating what her response should be, settled for being brutally frank. F off

  She’d wanted to say that for months now, but hadn’t. Partially because she wanted to keep things as civilized as possible between them, figuring as long as she played nice, Dan would also. Boy had she been wrong.

  She was reaching for her briefcase again when the phone vibrated in her hand. Startled, she dropped it on the floorboard. As she picked it up and straightened, she read the screen.

  Pick up tnight Or brn them n house.

  “You wouldn’t dare!” Lexie took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Calm down. Just a head game. That’s all the threat was. He might burn the papers, but he wouldn’t burn the house. He wasn’t quite that crazy.

  As she sat there in the dark, though, she realized that she was wrong. Drunk and mad, Dan might be capable of almost anything.

  “Okay, Dan. We’ll play it your way one last time.”

  She tossed the phone on the seat and turned the key in the ignition. If the papers weren’t signed, that was it. She’d kept her mouth shut for way too long. But no more.

  Ten minutes later, Lexie paused at the end of the driveway leading down to the Victorian that she’d once shared with Dan. This house and Riverhouse had passed into her hands nearly four years ago with the death of her grandparents. Just the thought of losing it frightened her. As Dan had known it would.

  Unlike most in the neighborhood, the large home with its deep, wraparound porch sat well off the boulevard. Several ancient live oaks blocked the view of the house from the road, their dark limbs so low-slung they appeared to rest on the lawn before rising skyward. As a child, she had spent summers crawling on those sturdy branches, climbing upward to where a thick bounty of leaves had made her invisible. At least once, when her mother had come to collect Lexie at summer’s end, she’d sought refuge there.

  And there had been unpleasant consequences for that action.

  Lexie took her foot off the brake and let the car creep down the brick drive. Some lessons stayed with you for a lifetime. Avoidance was an option, but it was rarely a solution.

  The front light wasn’t on, and large, dense hedges blocked any light from neighboring homes, making the yard extremely dark. A lamp in the foyer and the one in Dan’s office were on, though.

  With the rain having increased to a steady drum on the car roof, Lexie removed her coat before getting out. She held it over her head as she made a run for the door. Her eyes darted toward the wide set of stairs that climbed from the brick walkway to the porch, but just as quickly she looked away. She couldn’t go up them. She would never use those stairs again.

  As she started for the back of the house, she saw movement, a shadow, just inside the front door. He must have seen her headlights. He’d know to meet her at the back door.

  Lexie sprinted across the thick St. Augustine grass, now slick with rain, and ducked under the back porch covering. She shook the dampness off her jacket. Shoving her arms back into the sleeves, she peered through the glass, waiting for Dan to come into view.

  They’d remodeled the kitchen two years ago, replacing the ceramic tile countertops of the 1920s with granite and the original cabinets with new ones that had been made to look old. The under-cabinet lighting they’d added gave the room a peaceful glow.

  As she stood there, though, the knot in her stomach tightened. The last time he’d gotten her over here with a promise of signed papers, there had been candles, wine and a diamond bracelet waiting instead of the papers.

  One look and she’d been out of there.

  When she didn’t see Dan after half a minute, she knocked. Pulling her damp suit jacket closed, she crossed her arms to hold it that way. “Come on. It’s too damn cold for this.”

  Several seconds later, when there was still no Dan, she tried the door and, finding it unlocked, debated going on in. Was that what he wanted? For her to come in? Was he waiting for her naked on the couch again?

  She stood there weighing her options. She didn’t relish the idea of dealing with a drunk, naked man, but it wouldn’t be the first time. There was also the possibility that he had simply passed out. If he had, and if by some miracle the papers were signed, she could just grab them and leave. No confrontations.

  Lexie pushed the door open. The first thing that struck her when she stepped inside was the silence.

  Dan liked noise. He always had the television going, or left a CD on. He couldn’t handle being alone. It was the same reason he drank. The same reason he occasionally abused Valium.

  “Dan?”

  When he didn’t respond, the knot in her chest tightened. Something didn’t feel quite right….

  “Dan? Where are you?”

  As she crossed the kitchen, heading for the door leading into the dining room, she opened her jacket. The house was unusually warm, which wasn’t like him, either. He always kept the place cold enough for a polar bear.

  She shoved open the swinging door. When she let it go, it closed behind her, the only light now coming from the lamp on the old English chest in the foyer.

  “Dan?”

  Her footsteps echoed on the oak flooring, and then were muffled by the foyer’s Persian carpet. A thin swath of light spilled out from where the door to his office stood ajar. She called out one last time when she was still several feet away.

  Two scents registered simultaneously. Blood. Fresh blood. She remembered it from the few times she’d entered an operating room. And the underlying scent, the much more subtle one—cordite.

  “No!” Her heart crashed inside her rib cage as her gut twisted in fear. Her palms slammed into the door, her forward momentum carrying her halfway across the room before the scene registered: Dan slumped at his desk, his head resting in a large pool of blood. Lexie kept going, something inside her refusing to believe—until she touched his hand.

  Releasing cold fingers, she jerked backward, almost as if something had struck her a physical blow. Her hand came up to cover her mouth. Too late, she realized there was blood on it.

  She stared at it, then at Dan. She tried to take a deep breath, but couldn’t. It was as if her brain, her body, had forgotten how, had been short-circuited by what was in front of her.

  The first wave of nausea hit her, forcing her to stumble backward, toward the door. She clamped a hand over her mouth as if that could stop the vomit. She made it as far as the small bathroom beneath the stairs.

  When the retching passed, she leaned against the sink, afraid her legs would give out. Dear God, this couldn’t be happening! Not to Dan. What would make him commit—?

  When she lifted her gaze to the mirror, her thoughts suddenly derailed.

  She hadn’t closed the door behind her. She was sure of it. But it was shut tight. And everything inside her told her there was someone on the other side.

  Waiting for her.

  Chapter Two

  Rain came down hard and steady as Deep Water’s chief of police, Jack Blade, was waved thro
ugh the barricade by a slicker-clad patrolman.

  Wadding up the wrapper from a greasy cheeseburger, Jack tossed it back in the sack, then rolled down the window to speak with the officer.

  “Who’s all here, Hank?”

  “Ellis, Martinez, Shepherd, Fitz. The D.A. did a quick walk-through about forty-five minutes ago.”

  “What about our illustrious medical examiner? He make it by yet?”

  “Been called.” Hank nodded toward the food bag. “Thought you were swearing off fast food, Chief.”

  “Yeah.” Hitting the gas, Jack nosed the car forward before casting a jaundiced glare down at the bag.

  Hank was right. He really had to start eating better. He also needed to begin carving out some kind of life for himself. He’d thought making the move to Deep Water would be enough, that with the change of scenery, he would also change. But he hadn’t. It was pretty much business as usual, his life revolving around police work, and not much else.

  Except, of course, for that one night nearly two months ago when he’d met a woman. A very intelligent and beautiful woman.

  He’d thought they’d made a real connection. He’d called several times after that, hoping to pursue something with her, but she had been pretty blunt the last time he’d contacted her.

  Just his luck, the only woman he’d met who interested him wasn’t interested in return. And to make matters worse, he couldn’t seem to get her out of his head.

  Reaching down, he switched on the defroster to clear the windshield. Though he’d relocated from Atlanta nearly two years ago, he still couldn’t get used to the damp cold of a Florida winter, where thirty-nine degrees cut through you like thirteen. And where three days of gray skies felt like an eternity.

  There was no sign of any media yet, but he suspected it would be only a matter of time before they made an appearance. Reporters and bluebottle flies. Both fed on the dead, but it was the reporters who usually showed up first.

  Like any midsize, modern city, Deep Water had its share of murders, but up until tonight, none of them had taken place in Thornton Park, an affluent area of large, historic homes with sweeping, deep-green lawns and brick streets.

  Jack looked up as the house came into view. Most of the homes in the area were dark now, but light flooded from this one, and vehicles crowded the driveway as if some swank gala was under way. And in some ways, it was a party—a morbid one—attended by crime scene techs and police officers, and with the host already dead.

  Jack swung in behind the department’s white crime-scene van—a recently purchased, fully equipped vehicle. It had taken him nearly a year to convince the city council that the vehicle wasn’t a luxury, but a necessity.

  Jack grabbed gloves and shoe covers, dug a roll of mints out of the center console and flicked off two. He could still taste the cheeseburger. In another hour or so the sour taste in his mouth would be even worse.

  A patrol officer, Billy Ellis, stood just outside the front door, hunched in a jacket that was too lightweight for the weather, stamping his feet against the cold. As Jack approached, Ellis scribbled down his name in the security log.

  “You first officer on the scene?” Jack asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Still outside, Jack slipped on vinyl gloves—he was allergic to the more common latex variety. Glancing up as he was tugging on the second shoe cover, he noticed the kid’s lack of color and shell-shocked expression. “First homicide?”

  Ellis nodded nervously. “Yes, sir.”

  Jack suspected that no matter how many other homicides Billy Ellis worked in his career, tonight’s would always be the most vivid. At some point during the next week or so, the kid would probably tell himself that the next one would be easier. It wouldn’t be. In Jack’s experience, they never got easier—a man just got better at coping.

  Another new recruit looked up as Jack stepped into the foyer. The officer, who stood in front of the chest against the opposite wall, was sifting through what appeared to be mail, and used his head to motion toward a set of double doors. “Body’s in there.”

  “Who called it in?”

  “The ex-wife. Fitz is in the kitchen with her now.”

  After the week he’d had, Jack would have liked to bypass the room with the body—to spend time with the living instead of the dead. But no matter how much he wanted to, he wouldn’t. Because when it came right down to it, homicide investigations weren’t about the living. They were about the dead—about attaining justice for those who were beyond needing it.

  Jack stepped inside what appeared to be a home office. Every lamp had been turned on and additional lights had been brought in to flood the space.

  It wasn’t the type of room you expected to see in one of these older homes. The wood floor had been left bare and the walls were a stark white, as was just about everything else in the room. Even the large brushed-metal-and-glass desk seemed too cold and sterile for the space.

  The body was slumped over the slick surface and belonged to a white male with his head—at least what was left of it—resting on the desktop.

  It was always the odor that hit Jack the hardest. With a new body, there was the raw, metallic scent of fresh blood, sometimes so strong that when you opened your mouth to speak, it seemed to collect on your tongue. If the victim had gone undiscovered for a longer period of time, the odors were even stronger, but no more unpleasant. Death was simply death.

  Two men worked the room. Detective Frank Shepherd was a 30-year veteran of Deep Water PD. A tall, rail-thin man with sharp features. Even though the department had relaxed its dress code for detectives, Shepherd continued to wear starched shirts and neckties. And freshly polished shoes. Jack liked him for his intellect and his thoroughness—both important qualities in a detective. At the moment, Shepherd was shining a flashlight at an oblique angle, looking for prints around the front window.

  “Window’s unlocked. And I have what appears to be a decent thumbprint,” Shepherd called over his shoulder. Neither man had yet seen Jack.

  The other man was 26-year-old Andy Martinez, the only crime scene tech currently employed by Deep Water PD. Where Frank wore a starched shirt and a necktie, Andy wore a white T-shirt, with CRIME SCENE printed on front and back, and jeans. A black ball cap turned backward and athletic shoes encased in paper covers completed his uniform. At the moment, Andy was digging through the large, black case that he liked to call his toy chest. The box contained everything he needed, from pencils and pliers to dusting powder and a strong flashlight.

  “Been expecting you, Chief,” Andy commented without looking up.

  Everyone in the department knew that Jack showed up at every homicide. Mostly to make sure his detectives were getting what they needed to do their jobs. Sometimes, especially if there was DNA evidence involved, that meant contacting the Florida Department of Law Enforcement lab in Daytona Beach, and other times it just meant handling the media and running interference with several town councillors.

  “I didn’t get the call until the plane hit the ground,” Jack said.

  Shepherd had turned as soon as Andy had spoken, and nodded a greeting in Jack’s direction before going back to studying the area near the window.

  “That explains the suit,” Andy said as he walked across the room to hand Shepherd dusting powder and lift tape.

  “How’d it go in Philly?” Andy asked as he passed Jack the second time.

  Jack had flown up to Philadelphia to be at his brother’s side. Not because Alec wanted company, but because Alec’s eight-months-pregnant wife, Katie, had wanted Jack there.

  “Jury deliberated for six hours before coming back with a guilty verdict,” Jack said. “Penalty phase starts next week.”

  “Let’s hope the bastard gets what he deserves,” Andy said.

  The man on trial was responsible for the brutal slaying of Alec’s first wife nearly two years ago. At the time of her murder, Alec had been a criminal profiler with the FBI. He’d retired only months after hi
s wife’s death so that he could, with his usual tenacity, devote every moment of his time to bringing down her killer.

  Alec didn’t know how to fail at anything. It was one of the things Jack admired about his brother. It was also one of the characteristics that at times could get under Jack’s skin.

  He moved farther into the room, careful to stick with a straight path that he could later backtrack. “What do you have so far?”

  Andy had closed in on the body’s right side and seemed to be examining its position. “The victim is a 36-year-old male. Cause of death appears to be gunshot to the head at very close range. By the look of it, he didn’t go right away. Too much blood.”

  “I assume we have a name?”

  “Dan Dawson. Local doc.”

  At the name, Jack looked up from the body, everything inside him tightening. If this was Dr. Daniel Dawson, then that made the woman in the other room… Not a stranger.

  Andy, who had been examining the floor beneath the victim, stuck his head above the desk edge, but didn’t seem to record Jack’s reaction to the name.

  “I completed the video and sketches, as well as the pre liminary 35 mms and a few digital shots. There was a nickel-plated .357 revolver on the floor on the victim’s right, and I found powder residue on the victim’s right hand, right cheek and shirt collar.”

  “So you think it was self-inflicted?” Jack asked, and waited tense seconds for Andy’s answer.

  “You’ll have to ask the medical examiner that one.”

  “I’m asking for your opinion, Andy.”

  The crime scene tech looked up from what he was doing. Jack wasn’t surprised to encounter speculation in his eyes. Andy was probably wondering what was different about this murder, why his boss had just asked him to comment on an aspect of the scene that was clearly the M.E.’s territory.

  After nearly a half minute, Andy looked down at the corpse. “I obviously haven’t moved the body, so the most I can tell you is that the bullet appears to have entered just behind the right condyle and then exited low on the left side of the skull.”