Girl Eight: A Mercy Harbor Thriller

by Melinda Woodhall

  “Thanks for walking me home. Sorry I got carried away with the whiskey sours. You may not believe me, but I don’t usually drink. At least not anymore. Guess I can’t hold my liquor like I used to.”

  “Yeah, well I’m sorry I upset you. I didn’t mean to.”

  Penelope looked up into Frankie’s face, and for one crazy minute he thought she was going to lean over and kiss him. But then she just sighed and pushed the door open.

  “I’ll leave you my number. Hit me up if you think of something about Natalie or Helena or the community center. We wanna know anything that can help us track the fucker down.”

  Frankie felt around in his pockets. The only paper he had was the receipt he’d gotten from the bar. So much for getting reimbursed.

  “You got a pen?”

  Penelope dug in her purse and handed him a pen. He held the receipt against the door and wrote his name and cell number.

  “You think about it and call me. Maybe I can buy you another drink. Only I think next time we should stick to orange juice.”

  Once the door closed behind Penelope, Frankie realized he still held the pen. He rapped on the door but didn’t hear anything from inside. He rapped again, a little louder, and thought he heard a gasp, or maybe a gurgle.

  The poor thing must be upchucking again. Better leave her to it.

  As he tuned to leave he saw that the door across the hall was slightly open. A suspicious eye studied him from behind a thick, silver door chain. Frankie waved and offered the woman a cheerful smile. She didn’t respond, just kept staring as he backed toward the stairs and bounded down, two stairs at a time.

  Once he was on the sidewalk in front of Penelope’s building he looked up to see a mass of clouds roll over the moon. Anxiety settled in his stomach as he looked up at the darkening sky. The storm was on its way.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ace kept his right arm locked around Penelope’s throat, listening for further sounds from the hallway. A rap on the door prompted him to raise the boning knife in front of her face, the five-inch blade glinting in the trickle of moonlight from the window behind him.

  Another rap sounded, and Ace tightened his arm, pulling her harder against his chest, making her gasp out an alcohol-scented puff of air.

  “Shh….be quiet and I won’t hurt you,” Ace whispered into her ear, his heart hammering in his chest as he calculated the plan of attack if the man on the other side of the door tried to enter.

  He waited until he heard the man’s footsteps thudding down the stairs, before pulling Penelope back from the door. A reflection of her panicked eyes stared at him from a mirror on the wall, and his own cold eyes gazed back.

  “Remember me?” he asked with a raspy laugh, enjoying the frightened look on her face. Her stunned expression reminded him of another night, and another inconvenient woman that had gotten in the way.

  That nosy bitch never knew what hit her either.

  The remembered thrill of the kill shivered along his body, and he laughed again as he recalled how easy it had been to get away with the murder. He was still smiling when a gleam of light near Penelope’s right hand stopped his heart. He could see in the mirror that she held a cellphone by her side. The screen emitted a soft glow in the dim room.

  Has she called someone? Is the bitch recording me?

  Rage engulfed him, blurring the room around him and making his temples throb. He released his arm from around Penelope’s neck and slammed the phone out of her hand. He watched it skitter across the room and disappear under an armchair before he raised a gloved hand to grip her ponytail and wrench her head back.

  Ace kept his eyes on the mirror as he stabbed the point of the thin knife into the side of Penelope’s neck and sliced a deep gash across her throat. A torrent of blood spurted into the air, spraying against the wall, spattering the glass and soaking the protective coveralls he wore over his street clothes. He let the knife clatter to the ground.

  Transfixed by the gory aftermath, Ace stood as if frozen until the moonlight from the window disappeared behind incoming clouds; the room fell into darkness. He lowered Penelope onto the floor, dropping her head into the sticky, red puddle that had settled around them, letting her arms fall heavily beside her.

  Ace flipped a switch on the wall and the room was suddenly bathed in soft, warm light. He looked down at Penelope’s limp body, his gaze lingering on the light gray eyes that stared up in silent horror, before moving downward.

  He recoiled at the grisly slash of her throat and the blood-soaked dress, his stomach heaving. Although he enjoyed wielding the ultimate power of life or death, this type of violence, and its gory aftermath, revolted him.

  He turned his focus to the discarded knife next to Penelope’s outstretched arm, and saw that her stiff, clenched fist was clutching a scrap of white paper. He extracted the paper; a name and phone number had been written on the back of a receipt.

  Frankie Dawson. Why does that name seem familiar?

  Ace had heard Penelope talking to a man outside her door as he’d waited for her, armed with the boning knife he’d found in her kitchen. And he’d almost panicked when he’d heard her agree to call the man if she remembered anything more about Natalie and Helena.

  But now Penelope was no longer a threat. And if Ace played his cards right, Frankie Dawson, whoever he was, might actually make it much easier to get away with murder. But first, he needed to get away from the scene.

  Ace tucked the receipt back into Penelope’s hand, then stepped backward. There was no use trying to avoid the puddle of blood at his feet. The blood seemed to be everywhere; his Tyvek booties should mask any identifiable footprints in any case. He left a trail of red smears as he walked to the couch and knelt to feel under it.

  The fingers of his glove settled over the hard, slick surface of the phone. The display showed an active connection to Emergency Services at the top of the still-glowing screen. Ace ended the call, powered off the phone, and hurried toward the sliding glass door that led to the balcony. He slid the door open and slipped out, looking over the railing at the empty pathway below. A siren sounded in the distance, moving in his direction.

  If Penelope Yates’ cell phone had been properly registered to her address, an emergency response vehicle could arrive at any minute. Willow Bay was a small town. It didn’t take long to drive the ten blocks from the station to her downtown condo.

  Ace unzipped the disposable coveralls, ripping them off before removing the protective booties. He stuffed the bloody items into a plastic bag and threw Penelope’s cell phone on top of the gory pile before tying the bag shut.

  He didn’t waste time unfurling the rope ladder he’d used to access the balcony earlier. He just kicked the coiled rope over the edge, threw down the plastic bag, climbed over the rail and lowered himself down, so that he was dangling over the dry patch of grass underneath Penelope’s balcony.

  Lights were on in the unit beneath hers, but the curtains were drawn, and no one looked out as he let himself drop the final few feet, landing in a crouched position, ready to fight or run as needed. He paused, looked around, then straightened his back; he was alone in the dark night.

  But as he listened he could hear the sirens getting closer. He began to walk toward the alley that would lead him onto Bay Street. From there it would be a quick ten-minute walk to his truck, then a fifteen-minute drive home. With any luck he’d be home by ten.

  And once I’m home, I’ll be home-free. Mission accomplished.

  The nervous tension in his stomach started to fade, and he released another raspy laugh into the night sky as he entered the alley that led toward home. The thought of home made him think about the girl waiting for him there.

  She would be pretty hungry by now. If he brought her some food, she’d likely be grateful. Maybe even cooperative. He quickened his pace and began to whistle.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Nessa had been warned by the responding officers that the crime scene was unusually gory
, and unusually fresh, but nothing could prepare her for the thick blood spatter on the wall, or the sickly sweet, coppery smell that permeated the room.

  A heavy metallic aftertaste settled on her tongue and clung to the back of her throat as she pulled up her face mask, positioning it over her mouth and nose while trying not to gag.

  She inched into the room, feeling clumsy in the bulky disposable coveralls and Tyvek shoe covers, and waved to Jankowski, who was on the balcony looking down over the railing.

  She forced herself to look at the woman sprawled on the floor. Pale, glassy eyes dominated the woman’s chalk white face, which was separated from the rest of her body by the gory laceration that had once been her neck. The woman’s arms were splayed out helplessly beside her in a final surrender.

  Nessa closed her eyes and stopped before moving further into the scene, unsure if the Thai take-out that she and Jerry had polished off just before the call came in would stay down after all.

  “You okay, Nessa?”

  Officer Andy Ford was standing guard in the hall, protecting the scene from unauthorized personnel. His worried eyes followed Nessa’s progress, while keeping well away from the blood and the body in the room.

  “She’s all right,” Jankowski said, and Nessa felt a firm hand descend on her arm and guide her further into the room.

  “You took your time getting here.”

  Jankowski’s voice was low in her ear.

  “You’re lucky I’m here at all. Jerry nearly had a fit when I got called out again.”

  Nessa didn’t mention Jerry’s growing suspicion that something was going on between her and her new partner. Jankowski would probably think it was hilarious, but Nessa didn’t think the hurt look on Jerry’s face when she left was amusing.

  And looking at the scene around her, she doubted she would have time to reassure Jerry of her faithfulness any time soon.

  The sound of voices and footsteps on the stairs alerted Nessa that the crime scene team had arrived. As she turned toward the door she noticed a piece of paper clutched in the victim’s hand.

  Before she could lean over for a closer look, Iris Nguyen’s slight frame appeared in the doorway. Seconds later the larger, bulkier frame of Wesley Knox appeared behind her.

  “Hi Iris, thanks for getting here so fast,” Nessa called out, glad to see the chief medical examiner’s kind eyes behind the protective glasses she wore.

  Nessa had worked with Iris on several homicides in the last year, and she appreciated the small woman’s calm, competent approach. Glad for an excuse to back slowly out of the room, Nessa stepped into the hall and turned to Iris.

  “Hi Nessa, no problem. I saw Alma Garcia and her team pulling in downstairs. They should be up shortly.”

  Nessa nodded and breathed a sigh of relief. The cavalry had arrived. They would take care of the blood and the body. But it would be up to her and Jankowksi to catch the killer.

  Whoever did this must be a maniac. Or a monster.

  More shuffling on the stairs preceded the appearance of Alma Garcia, Willow Bay’s senior crime scene technician. She tucked dark brown curls into her coverall hood as she approached.

  “Okay, it looks like the gang’s all here,” Jankowski said, his voice loud in the narrow hallway. “I’ll fill everyone in before you get started.”

  “Okay, but hurry up, Jankowski,” Alma urged, her eyes flashing. “From what I hear this is a fresh scene. The quicker we get started the more likely we can come up with something to help you track down the perp.”

  Jankowski nodded, and Nessa was relieved he didn’t waste time arguing. She agreed with Alma that the clues at the scene might help them track down the killer before he could get too far away.

  “Officer Ford and Eddings responded to a 911 call and found the door unlocked,” Jankowski said, talking fast. “They could see immediately that the victim had probably lost too much blood to be alive, but they called for back-up and an ambulance just to be sure.

  The paramedics concurred that the wounds were fresh, and that the victim had died before they arrived.”

  So far the only people that have accessed the crime scene, besides me and Nessa, have been the two responding officers and two paramedics, all of which are still nearby waiting to give samples for elimination purposes.

  We haven’t had a chance to video the scene or take photographs, but I can tell you already that the perp entered and exited through the balcony, so the area under the balcony will also need to be treated as a crime scene.

  I’ve already sent Officer Eddings down to cordon off the area.”

  Jankowski looked around at the somber faces as he finished.

  “Thanks for the brief, Jankowski,” Iris said, her voice quiet. “I’d like to walk the scene and perform my examination of the body in situ. Wesley will be assisting me, and Alma can start recording the scene once I’m done with my initial exam.”

  Alma nodded and began rummaging through an enormous bag, pulling out equipment and typing in notes on a tablet computer.

  “Can I speak to you, Detective?”

  Nessa turned to see Andy Ford standing behind her, his freckled face somber. She nodded and stepped back further into the hall, waving for Jankowski to join them.

  “You guys will want to listen to the 911 call that came in,” the young officer said. “No one spoke on the call, just empty air, but you could hear the sounds of a struggle, and someone coughing or laughing. It’s pretty creepy.”

  “We need to be following up on whatever clues we can find inside and under the balcony.”

  Jankowski lifted up his face mask and wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his gloved hand.

  “We need to know if the perp was on foot or in a vehicle, and we need to follow him if at all possible. Listening to a 911 recording without any words isn’t likely to lead us to our killer.”

  Nessa frowned, a question forming in her mind.

  “If no one spoke during the call, how did you know where to respond?”

  “The phone was registered to a person living at this address,” Andy said, his voice matter-of-fact. “A woman named Penelope Yates. I’m guessing she’s the woman…in there.”

  Nessa blinked as she registered the likely name of the victim. It was the same name she’d given to Barker earlier in the day.

  Is the woman on the floor in there the same woman that found Natalie Lorenzo’s body? The same woman Barker was planning to track down?

  Jankowski was looking at her with narrow eyes, and she quickly looked away, not ready to share what she knew with her partner. She needed time to think first. To figure out what was going on.

  “Thanks for the heads-up, Andy, we’ll definitely listen to the 911 call as soon as possible. It could be valuable later on I’m sure. But for now, we need your help taking statements from the neighbors, building residents and anyone that may have been in the vicinity in the last few hours. Someone must have seen something.”

  “Actually, the woman across the hall came out when we first arrived,” Andy offered. “She said she saw a man hanging around, but I didn’t get a chance to ask too much then.”

  Jankowski crossed the hall and knocked on the door to Unit 202. Within seconds an elderly woman appeared at the door, her eyes ablaze with curiosity.

  “Ma’am, I’m Detective Jankowski with the WBPD. We’re investigating a serious crime, and I’m hoping you can answer a few questions.”

  “Certainly, detective. I’m Sarah Myers. I’ve lived here for the last seven years, ever since my Bernie passed away. He was a good man, God bless him, but then once he found out he-”

  “Mrs. Myers, I’m sure you can understand time is of the essence. We need to know what you saw this evening. Officer Fordham said you saw a man in the hall? What time was that, and what did he look like?”

  Sarah Myers frowned at the rebuke, apparently not liking Jankowski’s brusque tone.

  “It was about nine-thirty. I heard voices outside, and I looked out
the peep hole. Penelope was there with a man. I’d never seen him before.”

  Nessa’s pulse quickened as Sarah Myers’ words confirmed the victim was in fact Penelope Yates.

  “Can you describe the man you saw?”

  Jankowski ignored Sarah Myers’ huff of indignation, staring at her with an intense, expectant expression.

  “He looked very suspicious to me,” Mrs. Myers said, her lips pursing in disapproval. “He was tall and thin with shaggy brown hair. Looked like he hadn’t had a proper haircut in years.”

  “How tall would you say he was?”

  “About your height, but much skinnier. Almost bony.”

  “And his age?”

  “Well, it’s hard to say. Nowadays even grown men dress like delinquents half the time. But I’d have to say he was in his thirties if he was a day.”

  “Did you see what he was wearing?”

  “Something baggy. Maybe jeans and a shirt. Something dark.”

  As Jankowski jotted down notes, Iris stuck her head out into the hall, holding a white piece of paper sealed in an evidence bag.

  “I think you guys need to see this right away.”

  Jankowski stared at the bag, cocking his head to read the handwritten name and phone number.

  “Frankie Dawson. Now, why does that name sound familiar?”

  Jankowski took out his cell phone and used a big finger to tap on the display. After a few minutes he held up a picture. It was a mug shot of a man with shaggy brown hair.

  “This look like the guy you saw?”

  Mrs. Myers squinted at the screen, then nodded.

  “Yes, that’s him.”

  Nessa leaned over to peer at Jankowski’s phone, then frowned.

  “What is that?”

  “It’s a mugshot. Frankie Dawson has been arrested in Willow Bay before, and we need to track him down right away. He’s just become our number one person of interest.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Eden stood by the front window, gazing out into the dark street. She wondered for the millionth time where Kara could be, and if she was okay. The news alerts about the advancing hurricane were growing more ominous, and Eden feared for anyone who would be left on the streets if the storm did make landfall nearby.