Killer Score (The Irish Garda Files Book 2)

by Melinda Colt

  Once again, Chelsea was surprised to sense so much emotion from him. In order to do his job, a cop had to be more detached, not too involved in the cases. It occurred to her Evan could have transferred to the Garda because he was burned out and needed a break from the more demanding cases no doubt the FBI dealt with. She felt sorry for him, but didn’t have time to dwell on it.

  Evan rang the bell, then after a couple of minutes of silence, he rang again.

  “Mr. Brody, this is Detective Evan Gallagher and Doctor Chelsea Campbell from An Garda Síochána.” He didn’t shout, but spoke loudly enough to be heard inside through the door. “Can you please open the door? We need to talk to you.”

  There was the noise of a door slamming, then a light came on inside the house. Moments later, a tall, slim, elderly man opened the door an inch. Through the crack, Chelsea saw his wife standing behind him, petite and plump around the middle. Their eyes were wide and worried.

  “Did ye say you were guards? What’s this about then?” the man asked.

  In her career, Chelsea often saw people falling apart. She made a living by helping them keep it together—and she truly did her best. Although she tried to remain objective, it was impossible not to feel anything at some level. However, this was the first time she witnessed someone’s immediate reaction to the news that a loved one had been murdered. And it was heart-wrenching.

  Even as she listened to Evan answer tearful questions, even as she stepped forward to offer comfort words that seemed empty and shallow, she could see the couple crumple, their spirits shatter, their hearts bleed. In the end, she and Evan had to guide the couple into the house and help them sit on an old-fashioned sofa. Chelsea offered to bring them some water, and Mr. Brody nodded robotically, while his eyes shed tears and he held his wife. She cried, her body shaken by sobs.

  Chelsea’s own heart tightened as she made her way through the modest house to the kitchen. She spotted several framed photos of Shannon, proudly displayed in the living room and hallway. It took her several minutes to calm Mrs. Brody enough for the woman to be able to sip some water. Her hands, wrinkled with age, trembled under Chelsea’s.

  “Was it an accident?” Mrs. Brody asked between sobs, breathing heavily. “Did someone hit her with a car?”

  Evan glanced down, then back at the old woman. “No, Mrs. Brody. I’m afraid it was deliberate murder.”

  The woman’s flooded eyes widened in horror. “Murder? But… Who could have murdered our lass? Why?”

  “That’s what we need to find out, and you can help us,” Evan said. “Do you know if Shannon had any enemies, if she’d had a fight with anyone lately?”

  Mr. Brody shook his head, looking dazed. “No. Shannon was a good girl, she kept to herself. She worked a lot, so she didn’t have many friends.”

  “Where did she work?” Chelsea asked.

  “At a beauty salon. She was a nail artist and had many clients who loved her work. She was always in demand, but everyone liked her.”

  “Was she married or involved with anyone?” Evan asked.

  “She has a boyfriend, Patrick,” Mr. Brody replied, wiping his eyes. “We teased her about her biological clock, but she always said she had plenty of time to get married and have children.” He buried his face in his wife’s gray hair, thin shoulders trembling.

  “Can you give me Patrick’s full name? Do you know him?” Evan asked, taking out his pad.

  Both Mr. and Mrs. Brody lifted their faces simultaneously toward Evan.

  “Ye don’t think he hurt her?”

  “At this point, we have no suspects, Mr. Brody. We need to question everyone close to Shannon. Tell me about Patrick. Had he and Shannon been dating long?”

  The old man watched him through eyes glazed by grief. The same blue eyes his daughter had inherited.

  “Well, his name is Patrick O’Leary. I don’t know his address, but Shannon invited him here to dinner a few times. They had been dating for several months.”

  Evan noted down the information, while Chelsea continued to hold Mrs. Brody’s hand.

  “Did they have an argument lately?”

  “I don’t know. Shannon is a grown woman, we didn’t meddle in her business.” Mr. Brody shrugged. “Maggie, me wife, never liked him, but he never struck me as a violent lad.”

  “He’s a dosser, up to no good,” Mrs. Brody said, her face suddenly getting red. “I warned Shannon not to trust a man she’d met on the internet.”

  Evan’s gaze sharpened as he met Chelsea’s.

  “What do you mean, Mrs. Brody?”

  In the back of his mind, Evan became alert. Online dating sites were the perfect hunting playground for any predators, sexual or otherwise. This was an important bit of information.

  Mrs. Brody nodded. “They chatted for months, but only met face to face three or four months ago. Shannon told me he wasn’t nearly as good-looking as he seemed in his photos. I said, what a surprise! With this bloody technology, anyone can pretend they are Cary Grant.”

  Evan asked them more questions, but other than his name, they didn’t seem to know much about the mysterious Patrick O’Leary. As minutes passed, the couple fell apart little by little, realizing gradually that their daughter was no longer part of their present life.

  “Where is Shannon?” Mr. Brody asked. “When can we see her?”

  Evan shoved his fingers through his hair. “I need you to come with us now to identify her officially. Then I will let you know when you can arrange the funeral.” He looked at them in turn. “We need to keep her a little longer, so we can find out who did this to her, and make sure he pays.”

  Mr. Brody’s eyes shone, his jaw set, despite the slackness brought on by age and tragedy. “Make sure he does, Detective. For my daughter’s sake, find him.”

  Evan’s own jaw was steel hard as he looked into the old man’s eyes, into his broken soul.

  “I will. I promise you.”

  Chapter Three

  She didn’t know what had awakened her; probably the morning light. Sunrays peeked through the blinds, making her eyes hurt. She rubbed them, then climbed out of bed and headed toward the window. A smile curved her lips as she remembered today was her birthday. She was twelve years old!

  She was dying to see what presents Mum and Da had bought her. Da was away on a business trip—he was away a lot lately. But Chelsea didn’t miss him much. He wasn’t warm and affectionate like Mum on her good days, and when he was home, she and her mum had to be quiet all the time, not talk loudly, not keep the TV on loudly. She liked it better when he was away. She thought Mum liked it better too, although sometimes she got a sad look in her eyes as she stared into nothingness, seeing things Chelsea couldn’t see, hearing things no one else heard.

  Chelsea was usually scared to look out the window. Heights made her dizzy, and living on the tenth floor scared her, but today she wanted to give it another try. The sun put her in a good mood. She started to walk toward the window, which her mum had left open a few inches, as she always did in the summer. The white blinds were half-open, filtering the light in slices. Suddenly, a shadow clouded the window, just for a second, accompanied by a fluttering sound. Chelsea took a step back, puzzled. What was that? A bird? No, it had been too large to be a bird. And it had headed straight down, right in front of the window.

  Cautiously, she moved forward. A strange sensation made her tummy feel funny, but she didn’t know why. It was like that feeling she had when she sneaked into the living room at night to watch scary movies with the sound muted, and most of the times she regretted it afterward. Sometimes she had nightmares for weeks.

  The same anguish gripped her now, as she opened the window wider and gathered her courage to look down all those floors. She was safe; she was inside. She couldn’t fall. She clutched the edge of the window and inched closer, staring first at the blue sky, then at the city skyline. It was pretty, gilded in the colors of dawn. She didn’t know why she’d been so afraid. Moving even closer, she tight
ened her hands on the windowsill and looked all the way down. Then she froze. Horror she’d never imagined existed chilled her hands as she stared at what lay in the center of the green patch that adorned the front of the building. Her mother, dressed only in a robe, her eyes wide, her body crumpled. A rivulet of blood slid from the corner of her mouth as she stared up at a sky the same color as her lifeless eyes.

  Chelsea surfaced like a diver out of the dream, taking huge gulps of air to push back the scream trapped in her chest. It had been a long time since she’d remembered—relived—her mother’s suicide. She knew what triggered the dream, knew its mechanisms, knew this was her brain’s reaction to last night’s events. This knowledge helped her get through the panic, tame her breathing, and will her heart to slow down. She’d taught herself these techniques over the years she’d been a patient instead of a therapist. Often, when she thought she was in control, her mind played tricks on her again.

  Still panting, she supported her back against the headrest and reached for the glass of water she always kept on the nightstand. Her fingers trembled as she grabbed it with both hands. Her breath made the glass steam as she drank slowly, taking alternate gulps of air and water. Finally, she put the empty glass back on the nightstand, then rubbed her hands briskly over her face, wishing she could wipe away the memory, which had haunted her for twenty-three years.

  “God, why did you leave me?” she whispered, not sure if she addressed the Almighty entity or the ghost of her mother. “For you it was over in seconds. For me, it will never be over.”

  She allowed herself one sob, only one. Then she pulled herself together and tossed the sheets aside. She couldn’t fall apart. She wouldn’t. She had work to do, she had a life, she had strength. She wished she’d been able to help her mother before it was too late, but fate had other plans. She knew why her mother had killed herself, and although she’d been helpless to do anything about that, now she could prevent others from doing the same. She’d dedicated her life to that. And now she had a new goal—to help Evan elucidate another death.

  Grateful for the work that kept her focused and gave her purpose, she padded to the kitchen and set the coffee pot to brew. She shivered a little in her cotton pajamas, then returned to the bedroom to shove her feet into thick, fluffy slippers. As she opened the window, she winced at the cold mist that hovered above the naked trees, announcing another chilly day. At least she had the hedge of evergreens that separated her small back yard from the street and the neighbors’ houses. It gave the impression there was always a corner of spring out there, just waiting for the calendar to catch up.

  The homey smell of coffee warmed her even before she poured herself a large mug, added a teaspoon of sugar and generously dolloped cream over it. Reaching in the cupboard, she added the final touch to what she thought was the perfect coffee—a sprinkle of cinnamon. She opened the fridge and scanned its contents, but decided she wasn’t hungry.

  She took her coffee and went into the living room, where she settled on the red leather sofa, sinking her feet into the matching thick carpet, and turning on the TV. She liked bold colors, and when she’d bought the house, she’d decorated it herself. A red brick wall sheltered a genuine fireplace, which she wasn’t shy to use. The opposite wall was entirely made of glass, framed by earthy green drapes. In the summer, they revealed a lovely view of her little garden, adorned by dwarves and flowers, but now she kept them closed to banish the gloomy gray light, in favor of the warm spotlights embedded into the ceiling.

  She watched a rerun of a comedy sitcom while drinking her coffee and making plans for the day. Her first patient had an appointment at 4:30 in the afternoon, which gave her plenty of time to spend at the Garda. Since it was barely 7:15, she doubted Evan was there already. Last night—actually, around three a.m.—after leaving Shannon’s parents, she’d given him a ride home. It was quite a distance, but she’d enjoyed it. Besides, they’d both needed some company, some conversation other than murder. They’d talked about small things, like the music on the radio, or Ireland’s tourist attractions, which she was shocked to discover were mostly a mystery to the Yank. The fact that he’d been there only a couple of months was no excuse. If she remembered correctly, she’d even offered to take him to see Glendalough and the Rock of Cashel, after learning he was as fascinated by history and archaeological sites as she was. She loved each rock, each ruin, each handful of land that was their Irish heritage. If she could have lived anywhere on this Earth, she would have chosen her birthland.

  Yawning, she reached for her laptop and opened the folder where she kept her diary. After her mother’s death, the therapist her father had taken her to had suggested she write down her feelings as part of the healing process. She’d thought it was stupid at the time, but over the years she’d discovered it was therapeutic—at least for her. She was a lonely person by nature, and sometimes the need to talk, to voice her emotions was overwhelming. So she wrote, sometimes short notes, other times more elaborate explorations of her thoughts, or simply brief accounts of her days’ activities.

  Balancing her laptop on her knees, she typed the date and added a new entry.

  I had the dream again this morning. It’s been over a year since I’ve had it, but it was just as horrifying. Maybe more so because it’s a doubly traumatic reaction of my brain. Last night I faced my first crime scene, a lovely young woman named Shannon Brody. We don’t know who murdered her yet, or why, but my gut tells me it was something very personal. When I saw her there, lying dead, blue eyes staring at the sky, it was like seeing my mother again. For a second, it was like seeing myself, in those dark moments when I feared I would inherit my mother’s fate, her illness. I know schizophrenia can develop at any age, can sneak up on a person without him or her ever realizing it. If only my mother had been diagnosed in time, she might still be alive. But if I have this gene, will I know it in time? My biggest fear is losing control of my mind. I couldn’t survive that.

  Shaken to the core, she felt a tear slide down her cheek. All the way through high school she’d monitored her mental health with regularity, almost obsessively. Until one day when she’d realized that if she continued to live in fear, she would drive herself crazy. It was then she’d decided to study psychology, to help others in order to help herself. And when that proved to be insufficient, she’d begun to study criminal psychology and started volunteering for the Garda. The work was rewarding, but until last night she hadn’t realized how demanding it could be.

  Downing the last of her coffee, she put the mug and the laptop aside and walked into the bathroom. After taking a scalding shower, she did her makeup, carefully masking the dark shadows under her eyes. Back in the bedroom, she glanced at the tangled turquoise sheets, then shrugged. There were plenty of advantages to being single and not having many friends. No one cared about her unmade bed, and there was no risk of an uninvited guest popping over and seeing it.

  Chewing her bottom lip, she stared into the closet. She was as trendy as any girl and liked feminine things, but the weather called for something more practical. She chose a pair of jeans, a blue cashmere sweater, and rummaged about until she found her thick dark-blue jacket that reached mid-thigh. Sexy be damned; it was too cold for fashion.

  She was out the door when she remembered she’d never retrieved her groceries from the car last night. Cursing, she unlocked the trunk and started to unload the bags. Fortunately, she hadn’t bought anything that might have spoiled or defrosted during the night. She carried the bags into the kitchen, shoved the perishables in the fridge, then grabbed her bag and took off.

  It was almost nine when she reached the Garda headquarters. Evan wasn’t at his desk, so she asked around until someone told her he was in the lab with Nóirín. Although it was probably too soon to have any news about the case, she went to the lab anyway to check on their progress.

  She found them bent over what she recognized as Shannon Brody’s cell phone, which Nóirín had bagged and tagged last night. Now
it was resting on a table. Evan and Nóirín, both wearing latex gloves and magnifying goggles, hovered over it, heads bent close in conversation.

  “…matched the fingerprints and didn’t find any other than the victim’s,” Nóirín was saying.

  “So can I have a crack at it now?” Evan asked.

  Chelsea noticed he looked more tired than she felt. The dark circles under his eyes and the dark-blond stubble that shadowed the lower half of his face gave him a menacing air. It jolted her to realize she found him attractive in a primal sort of way, the same way one admires a fine male lion.

  “Sure, it’s all yours. I’m going to work on the murder weapon.” Nóirín got to her feet, massaging one hip. Her rheumatism must be killing her on a day like this.

  “You mean the rock?” Evan asked.

  “Yep.” Nóirín spotted Chelsea and smiled. “Oh, good morning to ye. Haven’t seen you here too often. I thought your job was the psychology of murder, not the science of it,” she teased good-humoredly.

  Chelsea smiled back. “It’s all tied together, as you well know. I thought I’d check to see if you guys had anything new.”

  Her inquisitive gaze met Evan’s as he slipped off the goggles. She suppressed a smile at the marks they’d left around his eyes, making him resemble a raccoon. He shook his head without taking his eyes off her. It was as though he was seeing her for the first time, or in a new light. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he were one of many that thought she was just a babe whose place was anywhere else but among tough cops. Raising her chin a fraction, she walked toward the table and looked at the phone.

  “Does it still work? Has the rain or the fall damaged it?”

  Evan shook his head and lifted the phone, pressing a button to turn it on. “It’s working. It was just out of juice, but my charger fit, so the battery will hold. The display is cracked.” He turned it toward her and traced the line with one finger. “But other than that it’s in good shape. First things first, let’s crack the password.”