Dark and Twisted Reads: All the Pretty GirlsA Perfect EvilBone Cold (A Taylor Jackson Novel)

by J. T. Ellison

  Nick saw George Tillie making his way through the crowd, and he was relieved to see the familiar face. George looked as if he had come straight out of bed. His sport jacket was crumpled and misbuttoned over a pink nightshirt. His gray hair stuck up everywhere. His face sagged with deep lines and gray fuzz. He carried his little black bag, hugging it to his chest as he stepped carefully through the thick mud in fuzzy slippers. If Nick wasn’t mistaken, the slippers had little ears and dog snouts. He smiled and wondered how George had ever made it past the FBI sentries.

  “George,” Nick called and almost laughed when George raised his eyebrows at Nick’s shoddy appearance. “The boy’s over here.” He took George’s elbow and let the old coroner lean on him as they plodded through the mud and the crowd.

  An officer with a Polaroid camera flashed one last picture of the scene, then made room for them. One look at the boy, and George froze. His slumped shoulders straightened, and his face went white.

  “Oh, dear God. Not again.”

  CHAPTER 5

  From a mile away, the pasture was lit up like a football stadium on game night. Christine stomped on the accelerator, weaving her car through the gravel.

  Something big was definitely happening. The excitement fluttered in her stomach. Her heart pounded rapidly. Even her palms were sweaty. This was better than sex, or what she could remember of sex.

  The police dispatch gave little information. “Officer requests immediate assistance and backup.”

  It could mean anything. As she skidded into the pasture road, her excitement only grew. Rescue vehicles, two TV vans, five sheriff cruisers and a slew of other unmarked vehicles were scattered at haphazard angles in the mud. Three sheriff deputies guarded the scene, which was cordoned off with yellow crime-scene tape. Crime-scene tape—this was serious. Definitely not some drunk teenagers.

  Then she remembered the kidnapping—the paperboy whose face had been plastered over every newscast and newspaper since the beginning of the week. Had a ransom drop been made? There were rescue units. Perhaps a rescue was in progress.

  She jumped from the car, noticed it still sliding in the mud and hopped back in behind the wheel.

  “Don’t be stupid, Christine,” she whispered and slammed the car into Park, shoving the emergency brake into place. “Be calm. Be cool,” she lectured herself, grabbing her notepad.

  Immediately the mud swallowed her leather pumps, refusing to surrender them. She kicked out of her shoes, threw them into the back of the car and padded her way in stockinged feet to the crowd of news media.

  The deputies stood straight and unflinching despite the questions being hurled at them. Beyond the trees, searchlights illuminated an area close to the river. Tall grass and a mass of uniformed bodies blocked any view of what was going on.

  Channel Five had sent one of their evening anchors. Darcy McManus looked impeccable and ready for the camera, her red suit well pressed, her silky black hair and makeup all in place. Yes, she even had on her shoes. It was, however, too late at night for a live report, and the camera remained off.

  Christine recognized Deputy Eddie Gillick in the line. She approached slowly, making certain he saw her, knowing one wrong move could get her throttled.

  “Deputy Gillick? Hi, it’s Christine Hamilton. Remember me?”

  He stared at her like a toy soldier unwilling to give in to any distraction. Then his eyes softened, and there was a hint of a smile before he controlled the impulse.

  “Mrs. Hamilton. Sure, I remember. You’re Tony’s daughter. What brings you out here?”

  “I work for the Omaha Journal now.”

  “Oh.” The soldier face returned.

  She needed to think fast or she’d lose him. She noticed Gillick’s slicked-back hair, not a strand out of place, the overpowering smell of aftershave lotion. Even the pencil-thin mustache was meticulously trimmed. His uniform looked wrinkle-free. His tie was cinched tightly at his neck and tacked down with a gold tie tack. A quick glance showed no wedding band. She’d take a chance that he considered himself a bit of a lady’s man.

  “I can’t believe how muddy it is out here. Silly me. I even lost my shoes.” She pointed to her mud-caked feet and the red-painted toenails peeking through her stockings. Gillick checked out the feet, and she was pleased when his eyes ran the length of her long legs. The uncomfortably short skirt would finally pay for its discomfort.

  “Yes, ma’am, it sure is a mess.” He crossed his arms over his chest and shifted his weight, visibly uncomfortable. “You should be careful you don’t catch cold.” One more look, this time his eyes took in more than just her legs. She felt them stop at her breasts and found herself arching her back to split the blazer open just a little more to accommodate him.

  “This whole situation is a mess, isn’t it, Eddie? It is Eddie, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He looked pleased that she remembered. “Although I’m not allowed to discuss the situation at hand.”

  “Oh, sure. I understand.” She leaned in close to him, despite the smell of Brylcream. Even without shoes she was almost his height. “I know you’re not allowed to discuss anything about the Alverez boy,” she whispered, her lips close to his ear.

  His glance registered surprise. An eyebrow raised, and his eyes softened again. “How did you know?” He turned to see if anyone was listening.

  Bingo. She’d hit the jackpot. Careful now. Cool and calm. Don’t blow it.

  “Oh, you know I can’t say who my sources are, Eddie.” Would he recognize the low hushed voice as seductive or as a line of bull? She had never been very good at seduction, or at least that was what Bruce had told her.

  “Sure, of course.” He nodded, taking the hook.

  “You probably didn’t even get a chance to look at the scene. You know, being stuck out here doing the real dirty work.”

  “Oh, no. I got more than an eyeful.” He puffed out his chest as if he dealt with this sort of thing on a daily basis.

  “The boy’s in pretty bad shape, huh?”

  “Yeah, looks like the son of a bitch gutted him,” he whispered without a hint of emotion.

  She felt the blood rush from her head. Her knees went weak. The boy was dead.

  “Hey!” Gillick yelled, and she thought for a second he had discovered the deception. “Shut that camera off! Excuse me, Mrs. Hamilton.”

  As Gillick snatched at Channel Nine’s camera, Christine retreated to her car. She sat with the door open, fanning herself with the empty notepad and taking in long breaths of the cool night air. Despite the chill, her blouse stuck to her.

  Danny Alverez was dead, murdered. To quote Deputy Gillick, “gutted.”

  She had her first big story, yet in the pit of her stomach the butterflies had turned into cockroaches.

  CHAPTER 6

  Saturday, October 25

  Nick gritted his teeth, then swallowed the mouthful of thick, cold coffee. Why was he surprised to find it tasted just as bitter cold as it did hot? It reminded him how much he hated the stuff, but he poured another cup, anyway.

  Maybe it wasn’t the taste he hated as much as the memories. Coffee reminded him of all-nighters studying for the LSAT. It reminded him of that excruciating road trip to watch his grandfather die. A trip made after his grandmother had pleaded, and necessary because Nick’s father, Antonio, had refused to be at the old man’s bedside. Even back then, Nick saw the trip as some kind of omen of his own relationship with his father. And he wondered if his father would see the irony if and when the great Antonio Morrelli’s time came due, and his own son would refuse to be at his bedside?

  Once in a while the association still disarmed Nick—how he could smell the stout aroma of coffee and automatically think of his grandfather’s wrinkled gray flesh and those urine-stained sheets. But now, the scent of coffee would forever remind him of the sad, painful screams of a mother identifying her only son’s mangled body. It certainly was not much of a replacement.

  Nick remembered the f
irst time he had met Laura Alverez last Sunday night—Jesus, less than a week ago. Danny had been missing for almost twelve hours when Nick cut short a weekend fishing trip to question her himself. At first he, too, had been convinced it was one of those custody fights. Another woman using her son to either punish or retrieve her husband. Then he met Laura Alverez.

  She was a tall woman, a bit overweight but with a voluptuous figure. The long, dark hair and smoky eyes made her look younger than her forty-five years. There was something statuesque about her that brought to mind the term “tower of strength.”

  Graceful despite her size, Laura Alverez had glided that evening from her kitchen sink to the cupboard and back to the sink, over and over. She had answered his questions calmly and quietly. Much too calmly. In fact, it had taken him ten, maybe even fifteen minutes before he had realized that, for every cup or plate she had washed and stacked in the cupboard, she removed a clean one, taking it back to the sink with her. Then he noticed the tag sticking out of the collar of her inside-out sweater and the two mismatched shoes. She had been in a state of shock, disguised by a calm Nick found more spooky than reassuring.

  Her calm remained throughout the week. She had portrayed an unflinching rock of strength, pouring coffee and baking rolls for the men who had filled her small house each day. Had she displayed some form of emotion, perhaps it wouldn’t have been so difficult, moments ago, when he had watched this same stately woman bend in two and crumple to the cold, hard floor of the hospital morgue. Her cries had sliced through the sterilized halls. Nick recognized that sound. It was the low-pitched scream of a wounded animal. No woman should have to face what Laura Alverez faced alone. Now he wished they had located her ex-husband, just so he could beat the crap out of him.

  “Morrelli.” Bob Weston came into Nick’s office without knocking or waiting for an invitation. He plopped down in the chair across from Nick. “You should go home. Shower, change clothes. You stink.”

  He watched Weston dig the exhaustion out of his eyes and decided he was only stating facts, instead of hurling more insults.

  “What about the ex-husband?”

  Weston looked up at him and shook his head. “I’m a father, Nick. I don’t care how pissed off he might be with his wife—I just don’t think a father could do that to his kid.”

  “So where do we begin?” He must be tired, Nick realized. He was actually asking for Weston’s advice.

  “I’d start with a list of known sex offenders, pedophiles and child pornographers.”

  “That could be a long list.”

  “Excuse me, Nick,” Lucy Burton interrupted from the doorway. “Just wanted to let you know that all four Omaha TV stations and both Lincoln stations are downstairs with camera crews. There’s also a hallful of newspaper and radio people. They’re asking about a statement or press conference.”

  “Shit,” Nick muttered. “Thanks, Lucy.” He watched Weston twist in his chair to follow Lucy’s long legs down the hall. Maybe he should talk to her about the short skirts and stiletto heels now that they would be making the news. What a shame. She had lovely legs and a walk trained to show them off.

  “We’ve avoided the press all week,” Nick said, returning his gaze to Weston. “We’re gonna have to talk to them.”

  “I agree. You need to talk to them.”

  “Me? Why me? I thought you were the hotshot expert.”

  “That was when it was a kidnapping. Now it’s a homicide, Morrelli. Sorry, this is your ball game.”

  Nick slumped back in his chair, leaning his head into the leather and swiveling from side to side. This couldn’t be happening. Soon he’d wake up in bed with Angie Clark beside him. God, last night seemed like a lifetime ago.

  “Look, Morrelli.” Weston’s voice was soft, sympathetic, and Nick eyed him suspiciously without lifting his head. “I’ve been thinking. This being a kid and all, maybe I could request someone to help you put together a profile.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It may be too early for people to start noticing the similarities to Jeffreys, but when they do, you’re going to have a frenzy on your hands.”

  “A frenzy?” Frenzies weren’t part of his training. Nick swallowed the sour taste in his mouth. Suddenly, he was nauseated again. He could still smell Danny Alverez’s blood soaked into his jeans.

  “We have experts who can put together a psychological profile of this guy. Narrow things down for you. Give you a fuckin’ idea of who this asshole is.”

  “Yeah, that would help. That would be good.” Nick kept the desperation out of his voice. Now was not the time to reveal his weakness, despite Weston’s sudden compassion.

  “I’ve been reading about this Special Agent O’Dell, an expert in profiling murderers practically right down to their shoe size. I could call Quantico.”

  “How soon do you think they could get someone here?”

  “Don’t let Tillie cut up the boy yet. I’ll call right now and see if we can get someone here Monday morning. Maybe even O’Dell.” Weston stood up suddenly with new energy.

  Nick untangled his legs and stood, too, surprised that his knees were strong enough to hold him.

  Deputy Hal Langston met Weston at the door. “Thought you guys might be interested in this morning’s edition of the Omaha Journal.” Hal unfolded the paper and held it up. The headline screamed in tall, bold letters, Boy’s Murder Echoes Jeffreys’ Style.

  “What the fuck?” Weston ripped the paper from Hal and began reading out loud. “Last night, a boy’s body was found along the Platte River, off Old Church Road. Early reports suggest the still-unidentified boy was stabbed to death. A deputy at the scene, who will remain anonymous, said, ‘It looked like the bastard gutted him.’ Gaping chest wounds were a trademark of serial killer Ronald Jeffreys, who was executed in July of this year. Police have yet to make a statement concerning the boy’s identity and the cause of death.”

  “Jesus,” Nick spat as the nausea infected his insides.

  “Goddamn it, Morrelli. You’re gonna need to put a gag order on your men.”

  “It gets worse,” Hal said, looking at Nick. “The byline is Christine Hamilton.”

  “Who the fuck is Christine Hamilton?” Weston looked from Hal to Nick. “Oh, please don’t tell me she’s one of the little harem you’re bopping?”

  Nick slid back into his chair. How could she do this to him? Had she even tried to warn him, to contact him? Both men stared at him, Weston waiting for an explanation.

  “No,” Nick said slowly. “Christine Hamilton is my sister.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Maggie O’Dell kicked off her muddy running shoes in the foyer before her husband, Greg, reminded her to do so. She missed their tiny, cluttered apartment in Richmond, despite surrendering to the much-needed convenience of living between Quantico and Washington. But ever since they had bought the pricey condo in the expensive Crest Ridge area, Greg had developed an absurd obsession with image. He liked their condo spotless, an easy task since both their jobs kept them away. Yet, she resented coming home to a place that swallowed her monthly paycheck but felt like one of the hotels to which she had grown accustomed.

  She peeled off the damp sweatshirt and immediately felt a pleasant chill. Though it was a crisp fall day, she had managed to work up a sweat after another night of tossing and turning. She balled up the sweatshirt and shot it into the laundry room as she passed on her way to the kitchen. How careless of her to miss the laundry basket.

  She stood in front of the open refrigerator. A look inside revealed a pathetic view of their lack of domestic talents—a box of leftover Chinese food, half a bagel twisted in plastic wrap, a foam take-out container with unidentified gooey stuff. She grabbed a bottle of water and slammed the door, now shivering in only running shorts, a sweat-drenched T-shirt and sports bra that stuck to her like an extra layer of skin.

  The phone rang. She searched the spotless counters and grabbed it off the unused microwave before the fourth r
ing.

  “Hello.”

  “O’Dell, it’s Cunningham.”

  She ran her fingers through her wet mass of short, dark hair and stood up straight, his voice setting her at attention.

  “Hi. What’s up?”

  “I just received a phone call from the Omaha field office. They have a murder victim, a little boy. Some of the wounds are characteristic of a serial killer in the same area about six years ago.”

  “He’s on the prowl again?” She began pacing.

  “No, the serial killer was Ronald Jeffreys. I don’t know if you remember the case. He murdered three boys—”

  “Yes, I remember,” she interrupted him, knowing he hated long explanations. “Wasn’t he executed in June or July?”

  “Yes…yes, in July, I believe.” His voice sounded tired.

  Though it was Saturday afternoon, Maggie imagined him in his office behind the stacks on his desk. She could hear him rustling through papers. Knowing Director Kyle Cunningham, he already had Jeffreys’ entire file spread out in front of him. Long before Maggie started working under him in the Behavioral Science Unit, he had been affectionately nicknamed the Hawk because nothing got past him. Lately, however, it looked as though the sharp vision came at the expense of puffy eyes, swollen from too little sleep.

  “So this might be a copycat.” She stopped and opened several drawers looking for a pen and paper to jot down notes, only to find carefully folded kitchen towels, sterile utensils lined up in annoyingly neat rows. Even the odd utensils, a corkscrew and can opener, lay flat in their respective corners, not touching or overlapping. She picked up a shiny serving spoon and turned it in the wrong direction, making sure it crossed over several others. Satisfied, she closed the drawer and began pacing again.