Dead Center (The Rookie Club Book 1)

by Danielle Girard

  Dead Center

  The Rookie Club

  Book One

  by

  Danielle Girard

  Award-winning Author

  Author's Cut Edition

  DEAD CENTER

  Reviews & Accolades

  "....will keep you guessing and anxiously waiting for more."

  ~Lisa Gardner, New York Times bestselling author

  "Compelling and compassionate, with three of the strongest female characters to have graced the genre in years."

  ~John Connolly, New York Times bestselling author

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  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  ISBN: 978-1-61417353-3

  Copyright © 2006, 2012, 2013, 2014 by Danielle Girard. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Previously titled: The Rookie Club

  Cover and eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

  Dedication

  For Helen Breitwieser, for guidance, untiring support, and friendship. This one is all yours!

  Acknowledgements

  As always, I am indebted to so many generous people who took the time to keep this book on track. I hope I have done them justice. Any errors are wholly mine.

  The San Francisco Police Department has continued to be incredibly generous. Thank you to Lieutenant Richard Corriea of the sexual assault division for access to the department and to Inspector Dan Everson, now of the homicide division, who took me through a day in the life of a sex crimes inspector. I am especially grateful to sex crimes inspector Dolly Casazza who has answered every question and then some as The Rookie Club came to being. For DNA information, I would like to thank police inspector and DNA expert Pam Hofsass. For coroner information, I am indebted to Andrea Wagner of the Santa Clara County Medical Examiner-Coroner's Office. I appreciate the help of Anthony Toby O'Geen, Ph.D., Soil Resource Specialist in Cooperative Extension from the Department of Land, Air & Water Resources at UC Davis.

  In addition to wonderful professional resources, I am also very fortunate to have an amazing cast of friends who were involved in The Rookie Club. I am extremely grateful to Tony Kelly, who spent many lunch hours walking the streets of San Francisco, talking about New York City and trying to make sense of 9/11. Thank you to Dr. Rachel Lewis for the mock-ups of medical diagnoses for my victims, to Brian Grossenbacher of Grossenbacher Guides for fishing terminology, to David Wanderer of Ridgeline Computer Solutions for endless technical support, and to Dr. Tracey Hessel for setting me straight on San Rafael geography. Thank you to Inglath, Monica, Lisa H., Lisa B., and Jean for reading and commenting on all stages of the manuscript and for the moral support only other authors know how to provide.

  I'm also deeply indebted to the editorial staff at New American Library. To Claire Zion and Kara Welsh for making this happen and especially to my brilliant editor, Kara Cesare, for the incredible time and energy she has invested.

  Lastly, I want to thank friends and family who know when to tiptoe around me and when to drag me out into daylight. Especially Marcie, Ixtla, Albee, Tiffany, Dani, and Julia. And to Leigh Anne, for Tuesday lunches.

  Finally, my sincerest gratitude and affection go to my husband without whom any achievement would be diminished... and especially for this latest chapter. It's one worth writing.

  Chapter 1

  Emily Osbourne stepped out of the darkened sex crimes department and closed the door behind her. The station was deserted, everyone already at the awards ceremony. Truly the last place she wanted to go. She'd been up since five a.m., in the lab for fourteen hours. Cases were so backlogged that evidence in even the most time-sensitive ones was taking up to three months. Any crime less serious than murder was backed up six months or more.

  At least she'd finally finished the initial findings on Jamie Vail's serial rapist case. It was more than six months old and Vail had been on her hard. Now all she had to do was stay awake for two or three hours of acceptance speeches and she'd be able to catch a few hours of sleep. Maybe even seven. It might feel like a record.

  In the bright hallway, Emily blinked away the spots. Her eyes burned as she punched the down arrow on the elevator. Propped against the wall, she closed her eyes, certain she could sleep right there. Forcing herself up, she jabbed the button again. Nothing. If she took the stairs, the walk might wake her up a bit. She leaned against the long metal bar and the heavy door creaked open.

  The cold, steel handrail stuck to her clammy hand and the soles of her boots scraped against the cement stairs. She passed the fourth floor. Three more. As she reached the landing, a door creaked open above her.

  She looked up but saw no one, took a breath and shook it off. She'd never liked the police station. She preferred the bright open space of the crime lab at Hunters Point Naval Station. She picked up her pace, almost out.

  Footsteps clunked above her. At the second floor landing, she eyed the door. She could duck out here. No, she was almost there. One more floor. The footsteps neared and she hesitated. She glanced back, then moved forward again, her heart pattering.

  The footsteps stopped. She halted, like a rabbit with ears perked, poised to run. The exhaustion swept away. Adrenaline racing. A door opened then shut and she was alone again. She paused to shake off the fear. It was too much. The hours, the lack of sleep. Forget the awards. She was going home.

  With a deep breath, she began down the final flight of stairs. She imagined her bed. The down comforter that was like sleeping beneath warm air. The soft cotton sheets that her mother had picked out for her new apartment. She was twenty-six, too young to be working this hard. She was going home and tomorrow, she was calling in sick. She jogged the last steps. She reached for the door. The cool metal grazed her fingertips when the strap of her purse yanked her backwards. Caught on something, she turned back. Something struck the side of her head. She stumbled into the wall. Hands out, she tried to brace herself against the impact.

  Her face struck the wall. Hands gripped her shoulders, swung her around. The stairwell raced across her vision. She couldn't focus. He pushed her down and she landed hard against the cement floor. Her wrist collapsed and red pain rocked through her. She tried to lift herself, but he slammed her down on her back. His head was covered in a white hood that was cinched around his neck.

  She gasped. "No."

  Jagged eyeholes and a larger mouth were cut in the fabric.

  She started to scream. He covered her mouth. "Not a word," he hissed.

  "I've got a knife." He jabbed the point into her side. The blade struck a rib. Warm blood dripped down her side. She closed her eyes. Fought to br
eathe. Fabric covered her face. She opened her eyes to blackness as panic filled her lungs like water. She coughed and choked, reared her head.

  She did nothing—nothing. She turned her head into her arm and cried. Silently. Shamefully. Listened to the click, click, click of the building's old heating system. She pushed her mind away. Imagined a beach, sand, and ocean. God, drowning. She tried to inhale the water, to make this stop. Anywhere but here. She wasn't here. This wasn't happening. Not to her.

  Then it was over.

  His face was beside hers. Terrified, she turned away, squeezed her eyes closed. The next blow didn't come.

  "Tell the inspector hello for me."

  She didn't move. Didn't speak. A hundred thoughts flashed through her mind. Inspector? Jamie Vail came first—Jamie Vail of Sex Crimes. Oh God. She trembled, shudders rocking through her.

  She heard him stand. Held her breath. His shoes squeaked against the cement as he walked. The door whined open, hissed closed, and clicked as the lock engaged.

  She waited. Counted to three. Then waited some more.

  Shaking, she pulled the hood off. She blinked hard. Her focus was blurred. She couldn't separate her hands. Held them both to her face and ran her fingers across her skin. She felt the swollen mass of her left eye.

  She sat up and looked down at herself. A single drop of blood struck her shirt. She watched as the white fibers drank in the red.

  Collapsing, she sobbed.

  Chapter 2

  From the far corner of the convention center ballroom, Jamie Vail cupped the perspiring glass of Coke. Shifting from one foot to the other against the wall, she tugged at the waist of her pants, adjusted them across her flat, bony hips. She couldn't get comfortable. Under the pants, her nylons pulled the fabric in strange places when she moved. Did women even wear nylons anymore? Did they call them nylons? Her captain had warned her to come dressed professionally, but now she wished she'd just come in khakis. She adjusted her jacket, then realized nothing would help. The problem wasn't the suit or the nylons or the pants; the problem was her.

  She took a tentative sip of Coke and watched the officers mingle. Natasha Devlin stood talking to a guy from Internal Affairs (IA). Devlin did that thing where she tossed her hair over one shoulder and kicked her head back to laugh at a joke. The man looked enamored. Jamie felt ill.

  She imagined her own hair, the blunt cut just above her shoulders. Her brown strands had no rich color, no blond highlights, no sexy curls. All she had was a weird wave she could never quite control, so she wore it up in a ponytail like a grade school kid. Which was also how she was built. Her green eyes were dull and pale, faded against her light skin and hair. She'd had people tell her she could accentuate them with makeup. But for what? Or whom?

  Someone touched her elbow. She turned to face Tim Worley. Her ex-husband. Could things get worse?

  Tim clinked his glass to hers. "You okay?"

  "Great," she lied. She didn't even try to smile.

  He smiled. "Good."

  They stood awkwardly. She made no effort to fill the air. Why would she try? What did she possibly owe him? There was silence as his eyes traveled across the room. His attention piqued by something more interesting. More likely it was someone. Perhaps even Devlin, though Jamie no longer saw her. "See you, J."

  She didn't answer. Screw this, she thought, and turned for the door. She'd gone ten steps when she saw the group sitting at a small table. Women she couldn't just walk by—members of the original Rookie Club.

  Twelve years ago, when Jamie was a rookie cop in her early twenties, a group of women had bonded. It began as a drunken night back in the days when Jamie still drank. Coming off a nasty crime spree in the city that had them all working mandatory overtime, the women had ended up back at the station one night at about the same time. Six or seven of them. Someone decided they needed to blow off some steam. Someone else was craving nachos. Margaritas sounded just about right, so instead of going to O'Farrell's Sports Bar, the local police hangout, the woman opted for Tommy's Mexican down on Geary. When a dozen women in uniform walked through the door, the staff and patrons at Tommy's went nuts. Several men started chanting "strip, strip, strip." One of the rookies pulled out her badge and flashed her gun. The manager quieted the rowdies and found the women a table at the back of the restaurant. Tommy's famous margaritas appeared by the pitcher all night long. Jamie was pretty sure they didn't pay for a single one.

  The women spent hours that first night, bitching about the assholes who held them back because of their gender. After years of being isolated in the predominantly male department, suddenly they had a network. Not to mention an instant fan base. The dinner was so refreshing, the gathering became a monthly ritual. Every month at Tommy's, always seven days after the captain office made it's "monthly" statement to the press. Because the captain's office was incredibly inconsistent about the press release, the Rookie Club dinner might be on a Monday or a Saturday, two weeks apart or seven. Because the women's schedules differed so much, it didn't work to pick a specific day of the week or month. Instead, they let the captain's inconsistency rule the date. That was four captains ago. The Rookie Club continued although Jamie had heard the dates were more consistent now. She hadn't been in years. Not after finding one of the other rookies in bed with her husband.

  Jamie missed them. But she missed a lot of things about that life. The Rookie Club, being married, drinking... As she approached, several of the women glanced up. One of the women waved her over. Jamie eyed the door longingly as she approached them, wishing she hadn't left her quiet corner.

  She took the seat between two of the original rookies. Inspector Hailey Wyatt of Homicide was a curvaceous brunette with thick, wavy hair who seemed oblivious to her sex appeal in a way that made her seem like Natasha Devlin's polar opposite. Hailey was down-to-earth, bright and kind. On the other side was Sydney Blanchard, a Senior Criminalist in the Crime Scene Investigation Unit (CSU) and co-manager of the crime lab. Sydney had strawberry blond hair that she almost always wore in a ponytail. She wore little make-up. That, along with the freckles scattered across her cheeks, made her seem perpetually fifteen.

  "I haven't seen you in ages," Sydney said.

  She nodded. "Been buried."

  "I heard about the latest. Emily get you the results?"

  Jamie shook her head. "She said she'd drop them off before she came here." She glanced around the room. "I haven't seen her yet."

  Sydney shook her head. "Me, neither."

  Jamie looked back. "You know the results?"

  Sydney frowned. "No swimmers, no cells."

  Jamie slumped in the chair. It was the same as the last one. "Damn." Two percent of the male population naturally produced semen without sperm. A vasectomy produced the same results. It was rare, but it wasn't that unusual. This rapist produced no semen and that was unusual. Even without ejaculating, a man normally released some semen.

  Not this guy and Jamie had no idea why not. A condom would explain it, but she already knew that there was no evidence of latex to suggest condom use. No semen meant no DNA. And no DNA meant no way to match the rapist with the FBI'S Combined DNA Index System (CODIS).

  Sydney touched her arm.

  She opened her eyes.

  "I'm sorry."

  Jamie nodded. She assumed Sydney was referring to the case, but when she glanced up, she saw Natasha Devlin saunter toward them. An inspector with the Crimes Against Persons Department, Devlin wore a black pantsuit that hugged curvy hips and fell straight down over long, thin legs. Her jacket was cropped, and when she raised her hand to touch her thick dark hair, a tiny strip of navel showed. Tan, with all the little ab muscles in perfect lines, of course. What Jamie would have paid to see some love handles there.

  When Devlin returned her hand to her wineglass, cleavage hefted out of the top. Somehow, though, it was never quite enough to be obscene.

  "Will you excuse me?" Sydney said. "I'm going to try to find Emily."

 
; Jamie nodded, steering her gaze away from Devlin, who walked right toward them.

  Sydney stood, greeted Devlin briefly, and left.

  Devlin laughed at something Sydney had said and Jamie felt the room silence as all eyes turned toward the beauty.

  "Hi, ladies," she said, then glanced at Jamie. "Vail."

  Jamie nodded to her. "Slut," she said just loud enough for the group to hear.

  Devlin glared. "Did you say something?"

  Jamie stared back. "Nothing newsworthy."

  "Sit down, Natasha," one of the others said.

  Devlin glared at Jamie and sat.

  Hailey Wyatt leaned in to Jamie. "She does it to get your goat. Loves the reaction."

  Jamie shifted toward her. "She got my husband already. You'd think that would be enough."

  "You doing okay?"

  Jamie looked over at her. "Fucking dandy."

  Hailey smiled softly. "Glad to hear it."

  Jamie laughed, then relaxed a little. "I just found out my rapist isn't leaving any DNA. I'm in a lousy mood."

  "Condom?"

  "No sign of that either. Just no semen."

  Hailey frowned. "I'd say you've got reason to be pissed."

  Jamie nodded. "How are things with you?"

  She winked. "Murder."

  Jamie watched as Tim approached the table. She shifted awkwardly as Tim stopped beside Devlin. Damn him. Did he have to do this here? As if it wasn't bad enough already. Tim glanced at her, a little apology or pity that she didn't want. Before she could send a scathing response, he shifted his gaze away. Jamie had made all sorts of bets that the relationship would never last, but Tim and Devlin had been on again, off again, for more than a year and a half.