Works of Darkness (Matt Foley/Sara Bradford series Book 1)

by V. B. Tenery

  “In homicide investigations, there is something we call SMR motives: sex, money and revenge. If the victim was married we want to know if he or she was involved in an extra-marital affair, and if their partner knew about it. Who stood to inherit the victim’s estate?”

  He leaned against the desk and crossed his arms. “Statistically speaking, you are the most likely suspect. Friends or relatives commit most murders. You had motive; he was cheating on you. You inherited everything, including a hefty life insurance policy. Both are motives. I haven’t arrested you because we can’t place you at the scene of the crime. Yet.”

  She looked directly into his eyes. “Let me be equally honest with you. Josh cheated on me for the last five years of our marriage. Why would I wait so long? Yes, he left me well off, but he would have been worth more to me alive than dead. His life insurance only equaled ten years of his salary.”

  Matt shook his head. “That won’t wash, Sara. If Josh planned to leave you for another woman, you would have lost him and his income.”

  “Josh played the field. He didn’t have a mistress. So I’m guessing you never found such a woman.”

  He shrugged. “No, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t exist.”

  “Did you consider that one of the women in his life might have killed him?”

  “Investigating is what I do for a living, Sara. Of course, we checked everyone your husband knew, men and women. They either had an alibi or no motive.”

  “I didn’t murder Josh. Perhaps I was no longer in love with him because he’d lost my respect. But I had loved Josh most of my life, and I’d never have harmed him.”

  How could she make him understand? “Sometimes, Matt, the statistics are wrong.”

  Sara met his accusing gaze and realized she hadn’t changed his opinion in the least.

  Deputy Dawg at his most obtuse.

  ****

  Matt stood at the window and watched Sara Bradford drive away. Either she told the truth, or she was an Oscar-caliber actress.

  One could never be sure about murderers, though. Ted Bundy had worked a Crisis Hotline while killing dozens of young women in the Northwest.

  CHAPTER 11

  Twin Falls Police Station

  The encounter with Sara still on his mind, Matt returned to his desk. Without knocking, District Attorney Gabriel Morrison strode into the office. He pulled a chair close, placed his feet on the desk corner, and ran both hands over thinning hair, smoothing it down against his perfectly proportioned skull.

  “Don’t mind me, Gabe. Make yourself comfortable.”

  Dressed in khaki slacks, a green polo shirt, and golf shoes, the DA flashed a grin. “Thanks, I just did. Who’s the wet dish that just left your office? Water boarding one of your new interrogation techniques?”

  Matt chuckled. “Sara Bradford, and no, not water boarding. Our sprinkler system attacked her on the way in. The staff has named the control panel Hal. They think it’s trying to take over the station.”

  Gabe’s right eyebrow lifted. “Hal?”

  “2001 a Space Odyssey.”

  The light bulb when on behind Gabe’s eyes. “Oh, yeah. You need to get that thing fixed.”

  “We’re working on it.”

  “Guess who I received a phone call from an hour ago?”

  “My first guess would be Governor Ferrell.”

  Gabe’s gray eyebrows raised a fraction. “Good guess. Thanks for leaving me the email yesterday. As you can imagine, the governor has a stake in the Bay Harbor case. What do you know so far?”

  “Not a lot. The child vanished long before Ferrell became governor. We’ll have to go back to the beginning and work our way forward.”

  “My assistant says CBS and FOX are already camped out in the courthouse lobby. The others will, no doubt, arrive before the day ends.”

  The DA removed his feet from the desk, and sat upright. “What are the odds on solving a case this old?”

  “Pretty slim. The timeframe certainly makes it more difficult, but we have a few leads.”

  “Such as?”

  “The body was buried in a custom made sleeping bag. We have Sara Bradford, an eyewitness, who saw someone load a bag like the one from the gravesite, into a truck the evening the girl disappeared. Sara was very young at the time, but the information she gave squares with what we know. The truck was apparently a commercial vehicle. It had lettering on the side. I’ve put Hunter and Davis in charge of the case.”

  Gabe’s brow wrinkled. “Hunter and Davis?”

  Matt nodded. “Don’t know if you’ve met them. They’re the best I have, maybe the best in the state. However, you need to bear in mind, there’s a possibility the killer or killers may have died or left the area. Twenty-five years is a long time.”

  “Or,” the district attorney said, “It was some vagrant passing through. In which case, you’ll never find him.”

  “I don’t think it was an outsider. A stranger wouldn’t know about the retreat grounds. Only a local would recognize the location as a great place to hide a body.”

  “It could’ve been dumb luck.”

  Matt shook his head. “The fact it was a commercial vehicle lessens the odds the killer was an out-of-towner.”

  Gabe slapped his hands on his knees, a signal the interview had ended. “If you’re as good as your reputation, you’ll find this guy.” He arched an eyebrow. “Are you as good as they say?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “You don’t know if you’re good?”

  “Don’t know who ‘they’ are. I just like to take bad people off the streets to protect the citizens. But don’t get your hopes up. This is a long shot.”

  “Keep me informed when you have anything new. We’ll need to make an official statement soon. I’d like you to be there when I talk to the press.”

  Matt nodded. “No problem. I’d prefer to wait until we have something concrete. Nothing worse than giving reporters daily updates when nothing’s happening.”

  “I’ll try to hold the press off as long as I can.” Gabe reached the door and turned. “Solving this case would be a feather in your cap. I’m sure the governor would be grateful.” He grinned. “No pressure, though.”

  Sara Bradford’s Home

  Sunday afternoon, Sara made a last-minute sweep through her home for items to donate to the church bazaar. She stopped inside the library at a shelf display that held a lead-crystal tennis ball on a matching pedestal. A trophy from the past, given to her and Josh at the Women’s Tennis Tournament on Amelia Island. Their first vacation together—with a promising future ahead of them—before she found out about the other women.

  The crystal orb weighed heavy in her palm as she lifted it from the mantel and read the inscription. She turned the sphere and remembered the tournament’s excitement. Horseback rides along the surf line and quiet strolls on the sandy beach strewn with jellyfish. That sense of wonder she and Josh shared for a brief time constricted her throat. She should add the souvenir to the donation box. Instead, she exhaled a deep breath and replaced the ball on the base. Unwilling to let go of the good memories.

  For the next couple of hours, she and Pete picked up boxes for the sale, working from a donor list the pastor had given her. The afternoon passed in a blur as they moved from house to house. The sale started tomorrow, and she already felt the pressure. She was depending on Pastor Davidson to use his influence to keep the rain at bay.

  October marked the annual event, and Pastor Davidson had tapped her the past few years to coordinate the effort, the first fundraiser the church held to send church kids to summer camp.

  People often asked why she gave up a week’s vacation to head up the sale. The answer was simple. The camp fund and bus ministry were her mission field. She shared the pastor’s passion for the project to get children into church. Most bus kids had only one parent and usually lived below the poverty level. Church once a week, and five days at camp each year, could change their lives forever.

 
Twin Falls Baptist Church

  Sara followed Pete in her car to the church parking lot. Seth Davidson’s face formed a wide grin as they pulled in. Sara smiled as the pastor waved Pete’s truck into the unloading zone, like a flagman on the deck of an aircraft carrier.

  The fellowship hall door stood open and cool air wafted outside into the warm afternoon. Weaving through the crowd of people and boxes, Sara left the men to unload and hurried inside. The large area bustled with energy, full of women, in loosely assembled groups, arranging tables and merchandise.

  The pastor entered and placed his hand on Sara’s arm. “Are you sure you’re up to this? I heard about the accident Friday, but you’d left the hospital when I called. You should have let me know.”

  “Was it on the news?”

  He shook his head. “Matt Foley told me.”

  She’d heard Matt was still in grief counseling at the church. “I would have called if my injuries had been serious, but I only received a few scrapes. I’m good.”

  Moving among the boxes, Sara joined the group of familiar faces. For the next half hour, she attached price labels and answered questions. On a trip down one aisle, she stopped. A piece of red plaid material poked out from under a stack of blankets. As she reached for it, one of the women called her name. Distracted, Sara turned away, the object forgotten.

  Sara’s Car, FM 2960

  After evening church service ended, Sara pulled away from the parking lot, ready for a shower and bed. Her finger pressed play on the Il Divo CD Siempre, and the lovely, blended voices cleared her mind. She made the turn onto the two-lane county highway that led home. It was a lonely stretch of road, but lonely meant no traffic, and that was okay with her.

  Headlights flashed in her rearview mirror, and a black truck eased in behind her. The brightness momentarily blinded her, and she switched the mirror tab, defusing the glare. What was this guy doing? Much too close and he had plenty of room to go around.

  She lowered the car window and waved the driver past. The truck hovered behind her, suddenly increased speed, and slammed into her rear bumper. Her car skidded onto the shoulder. Turning the steering wheel into the skid, she sideswiped a tree, just off the pavement, before coming back onto the highway. Trying to keep the car from hitting the tree, she realized a sudden truth─this wasn’t road rage or some crazy random assault. It was personal.

  Regaining control, Sara pressed the gas pedal to the floorboard. The high-performance engine shot the sports car forward and left the truck behind.

  Who was this crazy person? Why would he do such a stupid thing?

  Sara pressed the red button on the OnStar control. A friendly voice responded, “Good evening, how may I help you?”

  Unable to control the quiver in her voice, Sara said, “I’m on Farm Market Road 2960, headed northeast, about five miles out of Twin Falls. Someone is following me. He just rammed my car. Please send help.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll contact the authorities immediately. Let me confirm the information I have. You’re driving a white Stingray coupe, Texas license...” She read off the license number.

  “That’s...c-correct.”

  “I’ll stay on the line with you until we contact the local authorities. Can you tell the make and model of the other car?”

  Sara glanced in the rearview mirror and gasped. Her tormentor raced forward— mere feet separated her rear bumper from the truck.

  “I’m not sure, but I think it’s—” The truck again crashed into the back of her car, sending the vehicle into a tailspin. She screamed, unable to hold back the terror. The roadster careened across the highway, bounced off a railing, tipped as if to roll, then settled upright in the on-coming traffic lane.

  She glanced up, just as the truck smashed into the right front fender. The impact landed her car crossways in the road, inflated the airbags, and killed the engine. Fingers trembling, she shoved the gearshift into park and turned the key. Only a futile grinding noise followed.

  In a blur, the black pickup roared past her and out of sight.

  Voice unsteady, Sara called, “H-hello...are you...still there?”

  The operator replied, “Yes. Mrs. Bradford, are you all right?”

  “My air bag exploded. It missed my face but my right arm hurts.”

  A new male voice spoke through the OnStar link. “This is Officer Kirkpatrick, ma’am, with the highway patrol. I’m about five minutes out. Sit tight and keep talking. Where exactly are you? Is the truck still a threat?”

  “I’m stalled on the lake bridge. I think he’s gone.”

  The sergeant said again. “Sit tight. I’m on my way.”

  The voice sounded calm, confident and caring, but it amazed her. ‘Sit tight?’ What else could she do? It was easy to be calm when a maniac wasn’t trying to kill you.

  Sara stuck her head out the window, inhaling a deep breath of cool air. She filled her lungs and leaned against the headrest, eyelids closed. Pain shot through her arm from abrasions left by the airbag

  The roar of an engine made her glance through the window. She couldn’t see the truck, but she knew.

  He was back.

  Anxious fingers searched for the ignition and she turned the key again—another grinding noise sounded. The black menace barreled towards her—a sinister missile she couldn’t avoid. “He’s back...please hurry.”

  Sergeant Kirkpatrick yelled, “What’s happening?”

  Sara whispered a prayer, “Dear Lord.”

  She didn’t have time to respond to the officer. Her frantic fingers fumbled with the seatbelt as the truck drew closer. She bent forward straining against the belt that held her in place, and covered her head with her arms. A groan of panic escaped her lips.

  Sounds of crunching metal filled the night air as the truck smashed into the passenger side. The collision slammed her against the driver-side door. Her car slid towards the guardrail as her frenzied brain tried to piece together his motives.

  Was he trying to crush her inside the car? Seconds later, her mind flashed the answer. The lake lay on the other side of the protective rail.

  The sports car plowed into the railing, then punched through the barrier and over the edge. Nothing but black water lay below. Sara tugged franticly at the seat belt.

  Jammed.

  CHAPTER 12

  Lake Palmer

  A brief sensation of space and time elapsed before Sara’s car plunged into the lake, landing flat on the surface with an impact that sent shock waves through her body. The car tilted right. Nanoseconds passed. The vehicle settled upright and floated. Sara’s fingers groped madly for the belt’s release button. Before she could find it, the car’s hood dipped forward and began to sink.

  Icy water rushed through the open window so fast she only had seconds to grab a lung full of air before the lake’s depths covered her, and the automobile continued the descent to the bottom.

  Cold darkness surrounded her and she realized this might be her last moments on earth. An image of Maddie flashed into Sara’s mind. Of her aunt’s tender care after the death of Sara’s parents in a plane crash. Without her, Maddie would be alone with no one to look after her.

  Terror paralyzed her muscles. Numbed her brain. She couldn’t breathe. Her preeminent thought―find the belt release. Biting cold slowed her movements. Her lungs cried for oxygen until she thought they would burst. Please, God...not like this.

  At last, her fingers found the button. She pressed it with all her strength and the belt fell away.

  Free, she kicked to the vehicle’s roof, grabbed a breath of air trapped there, then maneuvered through the open window and pushed upward. How many feet was she below the surface? No way to tell. Pressing urgently upward through the cold darkness, she breathed a prayer with each stroke.

  Finally breaking the top of the water into fresh air, she coughed and sputtered the foul liquid she’d swallowed, struggling for each breath. Her body felt weighted and the lake’s undercurrent tried to suck her back under. S
he treaded water, her gaze searching the embankment. Which way to shore? How far?

  Light filtered across the waves from the bridge above. Through the haze of fatigue, she could see people with flashlights moving along the shore. She turned towards the brightness that shimmered across the water, about a hundred yards away, and forced herself to start swimming. The din of sirens and shouts seemed surreal as she placed one stroke after the other, almost on autopilot. Halfway to shore, her arms grew too heavy to lift. Cold seeped into every cell of her body.

  She began to slip below the surface.

  ****

  On his way home, Matt Foley’s radio picked up the emergency call at the FM 2960 Lake Bridge. Only a few miles from the location, Matt flipped on his overhead lights and siren, then floored the SUV. He arrived at the bridge the same time as the highway patrol car, soon followed by other emergency vehicles. No sign of the car that placed the distress call.

  Matt jumped from his truck and rushed to the broken guardrail in time to see someone’s head in the water. Emergency lights splayed across the surface as the swimmer struggled to reach the bank.

  Matt stripped off his jacket and shoes, calling back to the patrolman, “After I’m in the water, grab a lifeline from the fire truck and throw it to me.”

  He dove into the lake, and biting cold invaded his body like an electric shock. Breaking the surface, he shook the water from his hair, and soon located the officer on the bridge. He tossed the lifeline, and it landed just out of Matt’s reach. He swam a few strokes, clutched the collar, then slipped it under his arms, and turned towards the swimmer a few feet away. Before he reached her, the woman’s head dipped below the surface.

  He caught her shirt, but couldn’t hold on. Dark hair spread out on top of the water. Kicking closer, Matt reached out again, grabbed the woman’s hair, pulled her in close, and placed his hand under her chin. No strength left, the victim’s body floated motionless behind him as he made his way to the embankment. A spotlight followed their progress as firefighters reeled them in like fish from the sea.