Tar Heart (A New Hampshire Mystery Book 3)

by Mira Gibson

  He had traced the number before deleting it from the call-log, but learned it was a prepaid cell, bought with cash, no known information.

  If he had a viable suspect, it was the woman on the other end of that call, but he couldn’t bring himself to loop Cody in. Call it the habit of working alone or a penchant for secrecy, he had no intention of being a team player, not with Holly’s innocence on the line, not until he knew for sure who he had spoken with and interviewed her.

  Casually, his partner thumbed through his cell phone, as the bartender returned behind the counter. “I’m Detective McAlister and this is York.”

  “What can I do you for?” asked the man, drying his hands on the rag and throwing it over his shoulder.

  Cody glanced quickly at his cell, the photo of Holly—a muggy driver’s license shot—before stating his question. “Were you working on the 12th?”

  “Probably,” he grumbled. “I’m here almost every night.”

  “Was it busy?” asked Cody, nearly setting his cell on the sticky bar then thinking better of it.

  “Not too bad. You boys want a drink?”

  Declining, Cody waved his hand and let out a breathy laugh then held up his cell for the man. “Did you see this woman?”

  The bartender leaned in, studying the photo—Holly’s head tipped down, a glint of amusement in her eyes like a confident fugitive, lips parted slightly, her long hair mussed over her cheekbones and spilling down her shoulders, You got nothing on me.

  As Cody waited for some sign of recognition, Lucas let out an unsteady breath and said discretely, “You think this guy doesn’t booze it up during his shifts?”

  Before he could respond, the bartender frowned, saying, “She wasn’t here.”

  Lucas pulled Cody away from the bar. “Holly’s single. She lives alone. Her nerves probably got the best of her at the thought of admitting she was all by herself.”

  His partner didn’t look convinced as he thanked the bartender and retrieved his cell. Tucking it in his jacket, he neared Lucas. “Lying wasn’t smart.”

  “You would’ve done differently?”

  “I think you’re seeing what you want to see,” he stated, delivering a hard look with his point. Lucas felt himself shrinking so he straightened his back. “Don’t tell me you have a thing for her?”

  Laughing it off landed badly so Lucas swallowed. “No,” he said, not liking the edge in his tone. “I don’t want to get caught up chasing a red herring.”

  Cody started for the door, giving the bartender a wave. When they stepped onto the snow-lain sidewalk, he explained, “The Wythes had a Will. Holly’s the primary beneficiary, but that wasn’t always the case.”

  Lucas cut in with, “When did you find this out?”

  “Earlier today,” he relented, his eyes softening apologetically. “I put in a call to their attorney and when I went through the evidence bags that our guys collected at the house, there wasn't a hard copy. I don’t know that Holly took the Will that night, but it’s possible. Look, I know you have all these ideas about the psychology of who’s behind this, and you don’t want to believe it boils down to money, but it might.” Before Lucas could object, he added. “Bottom line, Holly told us she was at some place she wasn’t. Which means we have to find out if she was at the resort that night.”

  “I already spoke with the Wythes. Warren and Sarah didn’t mention her-”

  “Warren and Sarah aren’t exactly night owls. They probably turn in at eight o’clock. Did you talk to the desk staff? The maids? Anyone who may have floated through that hallway?”

  “I can double-back,” he offered, but again Cody had his own ideas.

  “I’ve got it covered,” he said easily, as he cleared a nasty puddle of slush, rounding the hood of his truck.

  Lucas waited for the bleat to indicate the vehicle was unlocked then climbed into the passenger’s seat. The second Cody got situated behind the steering wheel, Lucas offered, “Want me to swing by Shackles?”

  “Christ,” he said with a laugh, turning the engine before putting the truck in gear. “Hell of a name for a store. No, I’ll talk to her.”

  “Don’t put me on the bench, coach,” he warned without a shred of humor.

  If Cody was one to lighten the mood, especially in the face of rising tension, and he was, this time he made no attempt, but eased the truck into the street with perfect form—blinker clicking, checking his mirrors—merging into slow flowing traffic.

  When they reached the precinct, Cody rolled to a stop right in front of the door and told him, “The resort has a number of security cameras-”

  “You think I fucked up?” he blurted out, staring at his partner.

  Cody’s smile was a wince and he paired it with an affable shrug. “You didn’t ask the Wythes about it. You’re not thinking on your feet and I get that you’re still adjusting to the department.”

  “I’m adjusted,” he objected.

  “You’ve been struggling with your admin. You’re forgetting to do things and forgetting things that you’ve done. It’s stress.” Cody let that hang, as he studied Lucas’s reaction. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day to get caught up on your paperwork, maybe go home early, relax, clear your head?”

  Feeling Cody’s eyes on him, he stepped out of the truck and didn’t glance back as he slammed the door and trekked over the icy sidewalk towards the entrance.

  Fuming, he barreled through the bullpen, avoiding Tammy’s singsong greeting, which set his teeth on edge. By the same measure, he averted his Sergeant’s furtive glance, though it caused him to clip shoulders with Gibbs—Rough day?

  As he rounded straight through to the locker room, he wasn’t aware the rookie cop was trailing after him until he turned for his locker.

  “Heading out early?” Gibbs asked, his eyes brightening with interest, but Lucas barely heard him. “We could grab a beer.”

  “What?” Peeling his coat off, he realized a beer sounded good, but the idea of keeping Bobby Gibbs’s company was enough to sour the deal. “I can’t, sorry.”

  Edging towards him, his shoulder scraping over the thin slits of the lockers, Gibbs said, “Cody’s not easy. He’s a perfectionist and doesn’t love having a partner.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s not the only one.” He could feel Gibbs’s penetrating stare, which wasn’t what he needed right now. “If you’ll excuse me?”

  “Yeah,” he said, backing off and nearing the door. “You ever feel like blowing off some steam...” He pointed two thumbs at his chest.

  Lucas smirked just to get him out of the locker room.

  He almost didn’t know what to do with himself, he felt so riled up. It wasn’t the fact that Cody had called him out on his absentmindedness. It was that he knew his partner was right.

  Why was he slipping?

  It wasn’t as simple as blanking out when boredom set in. More and more he had been functioning in an autopilot haze of deep thought, zones he couldn’t lift himself out of, not easily. Often he wasn’t even aware he was bogged in such a state. It was crippling and yet so familiar that it didn’t concern him, not as much as it unnerved him that people had begun to notice.

  Lucas balled his coat and flung it angrily into his locker, which caused an avalanche of items to tumble out. Grumbling, he kneeled and began collecting the mess—a bent tube of toothpaste and toothbrush, its bristles frayed, an old sweatshirt, several deodorant sticks.

  He was about to shove the heap into the locker when he noticed a business card resting on the metal floorboard. Scraping it off the locker floor, a strange mix of confusion and familiarity washed over him.

  Diamonds.

  The black card featured the silhouette of a voluptuous woman arching her back, breasts swelling, hair flowing freely, the feminine point of her knee aligning perfectly with the white, cursive stroke of the D.

  He wanted to laugh. The guys must have slipped the business card through the locker slats, their not-so-subtle way of suggesting he shou
ld take a load off. If he weren't the only cop in the locker room, he would’ve complimented the officers on their collective practical joke.

  But Lucas couldn’t shake the feeling that funny wasn’t what this was.

  Chapter Ten

  Holly couldn’t focus. She had two necklaces and one anklet to repair. Her customers had been waiting, but when she sat at the kitchen table with her jewelry case, Tucker beside her, pulling his grilled cheese apart and experimenting with how far he could stretch the cheddar, her thoughts kept darting from one ugly scenario to the next. All she had to do was fit pliers through a gapped ring and pinch, secure the pendant, move on to the next piece of jewelry, but the envelope she had found consumed her.

  You’re dead to me.

  It was exactly $6,500 in cash.

  Don’t come back.

  Rose had been paid off, warned to stay away. But from where and why?

  Tucker wasn’t making progress with his lunch so she wrapped cellophane around the broken bits of his sandwich, tucked the leftovers into the refrigerator, and rinsed his plate.

  A drive or maybe a walk might help clear her head, but both options seemed complicated considering she couldn’t leave her nephew alone. She decided on a bath, as she wiped ketchup off Tucker’s face and planted him on her hip.

  When she reached the upstairs bathroom, it occurred to her that Tucker’s big boy room was directly across the hallway. Getting him situated on the carpet with a Thomas the Tank Engine train and a few children’s books, she noticed a music box on top of the dresser. After winding the brass key, it began playing, tinny chimes to the tune of You Are My Sunshine, as the carousel of wooden animals turned slowly.

  She left his door wide open, likewise the bathroom, and began drawing a bath, adjusting the temperature dials until steam billowed up from the rising water.

  Shielding herself from her nephew’s view with the bathroom door, she began undressing, folding each garment and setting it on the toilet lid. When she wriggled out of her jeans, the card stock note in her back pocket inched out.

  She read it over, standing nude and listening to the music box play faintly across the hallway. The upper edge of the card was embossed with the silhouette of a temptress, as alluring as she was inviting, in the throes of widening her legs. Holly ran her fingertip over the bubbling image then set the card on the edge of the sink, wrapped a towel around her in case her nephew was watching the bathroom, and turned the tub faucet off.

  As she eased into the hot water, dropping her towel on the tiles at the last possible second, she considered who might have written the note and how Rose could’ve possibly known them. There was no name on the card, no contact information. She couldn’t be sure whether the stationary belonged to a business or individual, but knowing Rose, she could’ve gotten into hot water with either.

  The image was highly suggestive.

  Bathing didn’t so much clear her head as amplify her bone-quaking anxiety.

  How deep had her sister’s addiction gone? Had Rose tangled with the wrong man or woman? Had she disobeyed the order, gone back? What could she have possibly done to earn thousands of dollars in exchange for never setting foot in... Where? A home? A business? Someone’s life?

  Don’t come back.

  Had Benjamin known or found out? Or had he been completely in the dark like Holly?

  What if the note had nothing to do with cocaine? Could Rose have been harboring another addiction?

  Holly rubbed her eyes, her hot wet knuckles smearing her mascara, and when she lowered her hands into the pool, palms flush to porcelain, she challenged herself to center, still her racing mind, really see the bathroom around her and not the image of Rose trapped beneath ice. An image so like Holly’s own face that it felt like a premonition.

  Trills of steam wafting from the water, the white tiles lining the wall, her nephew smashing a plastic truck against one of the books she had picked out for him, she barely saw any of it.

  Slinking out of the bath, water cascading off her every curve, she drew the towel around her and stepped out. She was careful to dry her hands before taking the card from the sink.

  After checking in on Tucker, crouching and smoothing down the fine wisps of his strawberry-blonde hair and giving him a kiss, she made her way into the master bedroom.

  The air was chilly and as soon as she let her towel drop, her skin prickled with gooseflesh. Standing over her duffel bag, which she had set on the carpet at the foot of the bed, she rummaged for a fresh pair of underwear, but her belongings were a nest of knotted garments.

  Aggravated, she stood, grabbing her towel to cover herself, and doubled-back down the hallway to Rose’s walk-in closet where the clothes were organized by garment—dresses with dresses, jeans with jeans, every section color coded like a boutique. She put the unsettling card on Rose’s vanity, having never parted with it, and decided on a pair of black, stretch jeans and a purple, cashmere sweater, both of which she draped over the back of the vanity chair.

  When she pulled open the first dresser drawer, she found a wealth of bras and panties, but the styles didn’t at all capture her sister. Exotic prints, flashy colors, and cheap materials seemed to be the theme. She began hunting through the options for something sensible, but the deeper she riffled, the racier the lingerie became.

  It was bizarre. Rose would never have worn spandex, gaudy push-up bras, leopard print panties accented with rhinestones, or any of the other pieces in this drawer. Across the board, she had dressed in designer wear and only the latest fashions. If it wasn’t featured in Vogue, it hadn’t touched her skin.

  The card came to mind, its silhouette, the woman’s suggestive pose.

  Dressing quickly, she stepped into a pair of red, lacy panties, and pulling them over her hipbones, adjusted the thong. Next, she strapped on a cheetah print bra, which to her revulsion clasped in the front, and tried not to cringe when she glimpsed her reflection in the vanity mirror. As she slipped into the jeans and sweater, she noticed they fit her well. She polished the ensemble off with a pair of high-heeled boots and a spritz of her sister’s favorite perfume—Burberry Black. When she gave herself the once over in the mirror, she was relieved that the bra’s print didn’t show through the sweater’s cashmere threads.

  She looked exactly like Rose.

  After fitting the card into her back pocket and grabbing her cell phone from the nightstand in the master bedroom, she brought Tucker down to the living room where her laptop computer was resting on the coffee table.

  It was almost time for Dora the Explorer to start so she flipped through the stations and adjusted the volume as soon as she’d found the network.

  Waking her laptop, she glanced at Tucker who was in the process of getting comfortable, lying on his stomach and shifting his little waist side to side.

  When he seemed content, she opened Google on her laptop and placed her fingertips over the keyboard, wracking her brain for what to plug into the search engine. The falling snow beyond her window instilled in her a crude sense of urgency.

  She should text Mary Cole, invite her over to babysit before the roads got really bad.

  Decisively, she typed Center Harbor, New Hampshire into the field, but couldn’t come up with a differentiator. The woman’s silhouette on the card conjured images of strip clubs and escort services in her mind, but neither were prevalent in this sleepy town. Then again, she wouldn’t have thought designer drugs like cocaine were circulating either. They obviously were and not terribly difficult to obtain.

  So she tried her luck with both, typing strip club as well as escort services into the field. A list of articles filled the screen, but she ignored them, clicking on the Images tab, and began scrolling down the page, hunting for the voluptuous silhouette.

  Suddenly, its likeness jumped out at her from the bottom of the screen. Black and rimmed with an edge of silver, the woman’s form was identical in shape to that on the card. As she clicked the image, her skin bristled with a disturbi
ng mix of longing and excitement, instantly intrigued she was one step closer to a world her sister might have embraced.

  A website opened, purple filling the screen, black letters along the toolbar—Diamonds—the woman’s silhouette softly lain behind it.

  Perusing the home page, she gleaned Diamonds was an escort service located northwest on the boarder of Center Harbor and Plymouth where the Daniel Webster Highway hooked around Squam Lake.

  Had Rose been working there?

  As Holly leaned back, staring out the window, Dora the Explorer arguing with her monkey, Boots on the television, her nephew giggling uproariously in response, the revelation stunned her.

  The cash, the garish lingerie, the distress in Rose’s voice during that panicked phone call the night she had been murdered...

  Her sister had been a prostitute.

  But had it gotten her killed?

  Had a domino effect crashed down on Benjamin after, the perpetrator tying up loose ends?

  Did it connect to the young woman who Holly had encountered—the last person to see Benjamin alive? And if so, how?

  As Tucker plopped onto the couch beside her, she smacked the laptop closed and wriggled her cell phone out of her jeans.

  Brushing Tucker’s wispy hair, which possibly soothed her more than him—his head resting on her lap, the boy drifting off to sleep—she found Mary Cole’s number in the call log and hit Send.

  When the line opened up, she heard Mary ordering someone to quiet and the background laughter petered out.

  Apprehensively, she asked, “Hi, Mary?”

  “Yeah, texting is always better,” she stated.

  Holly glanced at the clock on the television set. “Did I catch you at a bad time?” It had been ages since she was in grade school and she wasn’t sure if 2:45 pm meant the end of the day or the middle of last period.