by Alex Gates
“It’s an interesting story…” And the academy was waiting in the wings to give them an award. “But that’s not what happened here.”
Riley straightened, but his words were a little too gentle to not be patronizing. “London, honey, I think it’s too late for you to start your investigation.”
I let the honey slide. Everyone got one, and I wasn’t picking fights before my second cup of coffee. But their theory was wrong, and the wedding ring on the man’s finger proved it.
“They’re not married,” I said. “At least, not to each other. Cora Abbott is single.”
This revelation intrigued them. Riley circled the bodies, even bending closer to get a look at what remained of the man.
“Sneaky bastard,” he chuckled. “Know who he is?”
I didn’t examine the body, but I also made sure they didn’t catch me not looking at him.
I’d worked my share of dead bodies before. And most of the homicide unit would admit that working the live cases—the rapes and child abuses—were oftentimes harder than dealing with death.
But this scene was bad. Ugly. Suicide always was. For as badly as the victim wished to leave the world, the mess they left behind wasn’t any way for a family to remember their loved one.
If they wanted to remember a murderer at all.
But theirs was a good question, one I had wrestled with since nearly slipping in a puddle of evidence. “I don’t know who he is. Cora wasn’t currently dating. Her mother only spoke of one ex-boyfriend, and he was dumped a year ago.”
Falconi’s eyebrows quirked. “She’s not gonna tell her cancer-ridden momma about banging a married man.”
And, unfortunately, she hadn’t told anyone else.
Riley harassed the lead forensic tech. “Anything on him?”
The tech was no rookie. The grizzled boomer, Eddie Mayview, was one cigarette short of a good morning on his best days. He barked for the detective to give him space, and Riley heeded the warning. Carefully, Eddie scanned the body, patting pockets and the dead man’s coat.
“Got something.” Eddie grunted. “Looks like a book.”
The leather-bound book was nestled in the man’s pocket, and it took a bit of wiggling to wedge it free. He handed the worn, tenderly read bundle to Riley. The edges curled, and the buff leather had faded in spots over the face. The grooves matched a hand, carried and held so often the dead man was lucky his fingers hadn’t eroded through the cover.
We all shared Falconi’s question. “Is that a Bible?”
If nothing else, Riley and I had one thing in common—we practiced our Catholicism religiously…every Christmas and Easter Sunday. He crossed himself.
“Doubt the Lord blessed this scene,” Riley said. “Anything else on him?”
“Not ready to roll him yet,” Eddie said. “Busy yourself with the good book. Might save your ass one day, Riley.”
“Hasn’t yet.” He tossed the book to Falconi. “You hold it. I don’t want to burst into flames.”
Falconi flipped through the pages, his jaw tightening. “There’s a couple verses highlighted.”
“Doubt it was Thou Shalt Not Kill,” I said.
“Children are a heritage from the Lord, offspring a reward from him. Like arrows in the hands of a warrior are children born in one’s youth. Blessed is the man whose quiver is full of them. They will not be put to shame when they contend with their opponents in court.” Falconi closed the book. “Psalms 127: 3-5.”
A good reminder for me to take my pill as soon as I returned to the station. “Are you serious?”
“What?” Riley asked. “What’s it mean?”
“It’s the quiver-full passage,” I said. “My college roommate wanted to join the movement until she got her first stretch mark.”
“Those religious jagoffs?” Falconi groaned. “The ones who have babies by the bucketload and get a TV show for it? Hell. I knock my wife up with twins twice, and I’m still waiting for a producer or Jesus to hand me a contract.”
“Yeah,” Riley laughed. “That busted condom sure is doing the Lord’s work.”
I stared at the mess. Blood? Suicides? Clandestine affairs?
How the hell did a guy like this get involved with Cora Abbott?
Riley surveyed the cottage with new inspiration. “Okay. Maybe our preacher friend had plans for Miss Abbott. A little soft music. Some champagne. Maybe he propositioned her.”
“Hey baby, your uterus is looking mighty empty.” Falconi laughed.
“Is this his house?”
“No,” I said. “I tracked Cora’s credit card. She rented this place—it’s an Air B&B. Scheduled to stay for a couple days…but they didn’t make it through the first night.”
“Where’s the owner?”
“He lives in the house next door. Just rents this space to anyone who wants it, like an extended-stay hotel.”
“I’ll want to talk to him. See if he heard anything.”
“Me too.”
Riley frowned. “You too?”
“This murder-suicide doesn’t make sense.” I took the bible from Falconi. Nothing else inside except for more highlighted passages. “This man is obviously religious. Why is he having an affair?”
Riley edged his elbow into my ribs. “You’re young, London, but you aren’t that naïve.”
No, I wasn’t. Not anymore. “He’s religious. She didn’t tell anyone she was dating him. They obviously have some history. This isn’t a first date. They’re celebrating something. Why would he suddenly…snap? What triggered it?”
Falconi wasn’t as intrigued. “A bad hair day. She mouthed off. The tin-foil hat fell off. God told him to do it. Take your pick.”
“And some people are evil.” Riley didn’t look at me. “You’d know that best of all.”
They quieted. Damn. I’d finally clawed my way into the department, worked my ass off on patrol to get my shield, and earned the title Detective instead of the girl who got away. My only goal should have been solving crimes. Instead, I spent too many hours trying to make people forget the ones that happened to me.
I hadn’t broken yet. Wasn’t planning on it anytime soon.
I spoke out loud, walking myself through my own scenario. “So a young woman in her twenties with a limited romantic history gets involved with a highly religious man. Can you tell how old he is?”
“Shame you can’t just count the rings,” Falconi said.
“I can count one—that wedding ring.” And it still didn’t make sense. “They’ve come here for an affair. Cora rented the house, made a fancy dinner. Hell, she even drew a bubble bath. And then…”
Eddie groaned as he stood, his knees popping as loud as a gun. “He shot her, then turned the gun on himself. Self-inflicted.” He pointed to the crimson splatter on the wall, abstract but revealing one harrowing story. “Both bodies dropped around the same time, a couple minutes apart.”
“Not exactly Romeo and Juliet,” Falconi said.
“Still a tragedy.” I took too deep of a breath. Twelve hours was enough time for the crime scene to stick to my clothes, hair. I didn’t want it in my lungs too. “Why didn’t she tell anyone about this affair?”
Riley shrugged. “Everyone has secrets, London.”
Secrets, yes. Murder-suicides? No.
In Missing Persons, not all stories had happy endings, and most never made it past my desk. People didn’t just vanish, and the ones who had reason to leave didn’t slip quietly into the night. They left trails. More secrets. Lies. A clear path, like a wounded animal. Some didn’t drip blood, but they’d still be messy when I found them.
But this?
I never blindly trusted my gut—it had let me down once before, and those scars didn’t heal easily. But some instincts were worth a listen. The nagging grumble twisting my stomach told me to look closer at the scene.
“Cora’s iPhone is charging on the table beside the sofa.” I tip-toed my way around a splatter, handing my bloody shoes to a confuse
d tech. I moved a ruffled throw pillow off the couch. “Her laptop is here too, set up in the kitchen. Her bags are in the bedroom.”
Riley nodded. “And?”
“Where’s his stuff?” I tightened my gloves and turned on her phone. The recent calls blurred as I scrolled.
Mom. Mom. Office. Cindy. Mom.
Her texts were the same, only she had a new entry. Clark—also known as Dad. Estranged, but supposedly reconciling enough that she took a job working in the family furniture store once again.
“No calls to any likely boyfriend.”
Falconi whistled. “He’s so slick he even has his mistress covering for him.”
“Anything else in his pockets?” I asked Eddie. He gave the body a gentle frisk and shook his head. “What about a phone?”
“Nope,” he said. “Not on him.”
Riley gave a sharp whistle, startling the four techs combing the cottage. “We’re missing Casanova’s cell. Someone find it.”
“You won’t to find it,” I said. “He doesn’t have one.”
“Doesn’t have a cell phone?” Falconi seemed more horrified by the lack of technology than the overabundance of bullet holes.
“No credit cards either.” Eddie fished a blood-soaked money clip from the man’s pocket and handed it to Riley. “No ID. Just cash.”
“He’s paranoid,” I said.
“No, he’s careful.” Riley turned the money over in his hand before bagging it with the rest of the evidence. “He probably left his cell at home so his wife couldn’t find him via GPS. Also carries cash, so she doesn’t check the bank account to see where he went while he was away. Cora’s been sleeping with a regular Jason Bourne.”
“How can you be so sure?” I asked.
Riley darkened. “Takes a bastard to know one. Sounds like he read through my divorce transcript.”
Falconi agreed. “And he had it all planned out…until he killed his mistress. Good thing the wife doesn’t know where he is. I’d rather my wife find me in bed with the babysitter than collapsed in a pool of my own blood.”
It made sense—and ensured the sales of hundreds of gallons of chocolate ice cream every day to broken hearted women—but something didn’t fit. “What if he doesn’t have a cell phone? Or a driver’s license or credit cards?”
Riley shook his head. “Don’t over think it. Ockham’s razor. Simplest solution is usually the right one. He didn’t want to get caught sleeping around.”
“Or…he’s a highly religious man, marking Quiverfull passages in his Bible, who doesn’t believe in technology and stays off the grid.” I knelt, teasing the end of his pantleg with a pen. The wool soaked through with blood, stained and ruined, but the mystery remained. “These are hand-sewn pants.”
“What?”
“Hand-stitched. Like…with a needle and thread. Someone made these clothes.”
“Detective or fashionista?” Riley laughed.
“He’s got homemade clothes. No cell phone. No ID. And he’s hauling around a Bible?” I waved over his body. “This guy probably lives off the grid with his church somewhere. So why is he in this cottage with Cora? And why kill her?”
“So? He’s a prepper loon.” Falconi shrugged. “He’s still a cheating husband who doesn’t want to get caught. Doesn’t matter if you think the Wifi is gonna fry your brain or Big Brother is in your iPhone. This is an affair gone bad.”
Riley agreed. “Who knows? Maybe she planned to tell his wife. Pissed him off?”
“Then why the ceremony?” I lamented the good bottle of champagne gone to waste. “This wasn’t a confrontation. This was a seduction.”
“And the romance ended at the door.” Riley frowned. “London, you better get in contact with her family and friends. See if anyone knows who this guy is or why this happened.”
And I’d get nowhere with them. I’d already spoken with her closest contacts. A frightened mother searching for her dutiful daughter. A panicked father who feared he’d upset the daughter he’d finally reconnected with. The best friend who’d laughed hysterically at the possibility of her being with a man. Even her Facebook page was devoid of updates. No new posts. No pictures. No secret lover in her private chats. No romantic ties.
And yet Cora Abbott had snuck away to a rented home for a week to spend her last moments with a man who presumably wined, dined, and danced with her before pulling the gun.
This didn’t feel right. Worse than finding a missing person dead. Those were never good, but they happened. None had ever left such a knot in my stomach before.
We were missing something. Something big.
An answer to a question we had yet to ask.
Problem was, the only one who might have helped was a John Doe who spoke his last words with a gun barrel in his mouth.
I headed outside. Two officers searched the interior of Cora’s SUV. Every door and the trunk were open. I peeled off my gloves and approached a patrolman. The curious neighbors poked their heads out their doors. Enough dog walkers and early morning joggers passed the house that the patrol set up a quick barricade by the walkway to the porch.
“Did you find a cell phone?” I asked the officer.
He shook his head, his breath a puff of fog. “No. But there’s something else. The SUV is clean. Really clean.”
“How so?”
“There’s not even a crumb on the inside.”
Fantastic. “What about prints?”
“Only on the steering wheel. But the rest of the interior was recently cleaned. Found Clorox wipes in the glove box.”
Champagne. Roses. Bubble bath.
And a meticulously scrubbed car.
Not exactly my perfect romantic night.
“Shout at me if you find anything of his,” I said.
A man yelled, jerking his dog’s leash hard, hauling the black lab out of the road. He swore at a fire-engine red pickup as it peeled out a little too quick for a residential street. Clumps of frozen mud fell from the wheel well. The truck turned a hard right and sped off through the neighborhood.
Strange. People in the city had pickups. A lot of them. But not many had mud caked over the frame. The potholes were bad, but times weren’t that tough yet.
“McKenna!” Riley called from the doorway. “Need a statement. Get in here.”
I hesitated, still searching the street. The truck had peeled out in a hurry. I checked my watch. Eight-thirty. Probably just trying to make it to work on time, but a night of running after a case and a morning soaked in blood didn’t make me the most trusting soul.
I wished I’d grabbed his plate.
I wished I’d made it to Cora in time.
I wished I had a reason, an explanation, to why this had happened.
But I couldn’t invent more trouble to answer why.
Mysteries like that often resulted in more than trouble.
They’d put me in danger.
2
Go ahead. Struggle.
I’d never deny a woman a chance to squirm.
-Him
Blood and coffee fueled the homicide department.
Detective Riley hollered for me just as I sat at my desk. “London! Meeting in five about the Abbott case. Bring coffee!”
Coffee politics were the only thing more dangerous than the criminals we hauled into the station. Most of the guys in homicide had ten or fifteen years on me. It was hard enough earning their respect as a second-year detective without amending the demand with cream or sugar?
I checked the time, but I’d stopped seeing numbers halfway through the night. The intervals now marked in fading opportunities in which I could become human once again. A block for writing my report to avoid the inevitable call from my sergeant. A chunk for a shower so I could at least pretend to be awake. A few minutes to readjust my hair and lip gloss.
Vanity thy name was job security, even if I had to play games to fit in with the others at the station—women and men.
A ponytail outed me as too informal—play
ful and young. But a bun looked severe—intentionally stoic, like I dared people to question my past. I could have had it styled and highlighted the dirty blonde, but would it look professional, or like I tried too hard to hide who I was?
Appearances weren’t everything, but I needed every edge in my career. Not only for the families I helped and criminals I chased, but so I could instill some trust in my colleagues. Just to get on the force required more psych evals and probational periods than my union rep liked, but it had worked.
My past was off-limits except for the usual water-cooler gossip, and I’d swapped the patrol uniform for a pair of pantyhose and shield.
It was worth the struggle.
The folder for the investigation held only a couple pages of notes. Enough to get us started, but not enough to make sense of the murder. And while Mom said I could crack a conspiracy in a game of Boggle, John Doe had more secrets than blood to spill. I could feel it.
“Bingo!” Falconi’s excited declaration echoed as I entered Homicide.
A chorus of groans heralded his victory lap around the unit, and a few detectives tossed wads of paper in his general direction.
Homicide’s offices often juggled morbid sincerity with callous amusement. While the computers and desks, sprawling layers of paperwork and constant squeal of opening and closing doors shared similarities with the Missing Persons Unit, we had yet to invent our own clandestine BINGO game. Sample boards passed through the station with players winning based on weapons, locations, and types of murders.
“That’ll be an Andrew Jackson, lads.” Falconi showed his board to a grumbling detective. “You know who he is—the one from the musical.”
“That’s Alexander Hamilton,” I said.
“Hamilton. Jackson. Doesn’t matter which white boy is on the back of the money as long as it adds up.” He demonstrated his win. “Diagonally. Vehicular homicide, South Side, a drug-related incident, plea deal, and a liberal use of the free space.”
Riley forked over a twenty from his wallet, but waved me towards his cubicle. I handed him the folder. He expected the coffee.
“Caffeine, London. Come on.”
“Your prayers are answered. Linda made a new batch an hour ago.” I pointed to the pot in the corner. “Bet it tastes even better when you serve it yourself.”