Except, of course, for the blood.
Abby’s jaw tightened. Murder shattered more than just the victim. She knew that firsthand. Life would never be the same for family and friends, and she couldn’t change that. But she was certain that giving the grieving the comfort of seeing someone arrested and prosecuted would allow for a modicum of closure. Many victims had told her as much, and it was that knowledge that pushed her hard to solve every case.
“One case that you let define you . . .”
Ethan, I do bring hope. Why can’t you see that?
The small space was furnished with old-fashioned, ornate, and well-worn furniture. Abby pulled latex gloves from her kit and snapped them on as she began a methodical and careful inspection of the area, searching in an ever-widening circle without disturbing the body, leaving that for the coroner’s investigator.
An eerie déjà vu gripped her. As with the other homicide, it appeared as though the burglar had woken the victim and then committed the murder by bludgeoning with something close at hand. Here, it was a brass-handled cane, tossed on the floor and already marked with an evidence tag.
Same MO. She shot off a text to the watch commander; he could enter serial killer on his log.
“What’s your name, dear?” she asked absently, searching for information that would identify the victim. From what she could see, the woman lived alone but for a dog—obviously not a watchdog. Abby figured animal control had already responded.
Drawers were open and contents strewn around the house. In the previous murder, the suspect had taken small items—coins and jewelry, easily concealed and carried away—which was typical if the suspect were a crackhead. But the murder made it atypical if this was a simple burglary for quick cash. The posing said something as well, as it was a rarity with serial killers and usually done to shock, not to lessen the blow. Ultimately, the old women were no threat, so why kill them? Abby chewed on this question as she continued her survey.
On the bureau in the bedroom she found a California ID card and put a name to her unfortunate victim. Cora Murray smiled in the picture on the card, and Abby noted by the birth date that she was three months shy of her ninety-fifth birthday.
On the nightstand Abby spied an open Bible. She picked up the well-worn book, open to the fourth chapter of Hebrews. Goose bumps rippled down her forearms. Abby’s favorite work verse was in this New Testament chapter, verse 13. She read it in the King James: “Neither is there any creature that is not manifest in his sight: but all things are naked and opened unto the eyes of him with whom we have to do.”
She liked to say the verse was a holy version of her homicide motto: You can run, but you can’t hide. What a coincidence. Her eyes perused a bit more of the chapter. Much was underlined, and neat handwritten notes covered most of the space around the text.
Abby paused as a bittersweet memory interrupted her train of thought. The only personal effect she had from her mother was an old Bible. It was the Bible her mother had been given upon her baptism at age ten. Patricia had used it all through her high school years, up until she married Abby’s dad and apparently walked away from God. Aunt Dede found the book in their mother’s things after Patricia was gone, and Dede eventually gave it to Abby. She cherished the small brown Bible because it was filled with notes and insights—much like this one belonging to Cora—and it was all she knew about her mother’s thoughts and dreams. She prayed that this Bible would be as important to someone in Cora’s family.
“Why the frown?”
Abby looked up and set the Bible down. Woody was back; she hadn’t heard him come in. A tall, lanky patrol officer with a full head of steel-gray hair, Officer Robert Woods studied her with an expressionless cop face. Woody had thirty-four years in harness, almost all in graveyard patrol, and as far as Abby knew, he had no intention of retiring anytime soon. It always tickled her to know that he pinned on the badge the same year she was born.
“I hate this,” Abby said, not surprised she’d been frowning. “Why kill an old woman?”
He hiked a shoulder and rubbed the gray stubble on his chin. Then Abby saw the pain in his face, and it brought her up short.
“You knew her?”
He grimaced. “Been here a few times on calls—415 music complaints, prowlers, you know. Sometimes she’d make me a cup of coffee. Tried to talk her into bars on the windows, but she refused to live in a prison. Poor lady had a hard time adjusting as this neighborhood went from quiet and genteel to—”
“Noisy and slummy?”
Weariness settled over his craggy face. “I’ll fill you in later. Your wit is back. I left him on the porch. I know you’ll want to hear what he has to say.” His body language told Abby he had more to say and that this murder affected him more than he would ever let on.
She rubbed her nose with the back of her gloved hand. She’d finished enough of the scene survey to draw a diagram, and the lab tech had arrived to process and collect the evidence. And now the witness was here to be interviewed. That was a whole different problem.
Abby had one more question for Woody before dealing with the witness.
“Can you tell what’s missing? Were you in here often enough to notice?”
He looked around. “Not really, but I’ll take another look.”
“Thanks.” Abby turned and, shedding the latex gloves, stepped out of the living room and through the doorway to talk to the man who’d called in the crime: Luke P. Murphy, private investigator.
ARROGANT SHOW-OFF.
That was how Abby mentally classified Luke Murphy. PIs often interacted with police, so it was no surprise she knew the name. But this guy did more than interact with the police. He was a local media celebrity. Two months ago he’d confronted a man believed to be trafficking in young runaway girls, forcing them into prostitution, and become a national sensation when a home video of the incident went viral on the Internet. Murphy claimed he had nothing to do with the filming—that he was only concerned about the girls, and missing and runaway teens were his investigative specialty.
Abby had seen the YouTube video of the altercation when she was at the academy for some training updates. Surprisingly enough, it was shown as part of an information piece on human trafficking in the city. The thug and his two bodyguards were seen advancing on Murphy in a threatening manner. Murphy incapacitated the two bodyguards without any trouble. The ringleader responded by pulling a handgun from his pocket. Murphy’s masterful gun takeaway move earned him applause from a roomful of cops. As for the rest of the smackdown . . . well, Murphy was obviously proficient at martial arts.
The video showed the PI had acted in self-defense, and it rocketed him to cult hero status because of the way he’d handled himself in the face of three attackers, one of them armed. The suspect and his bodyguards were eventually arrested and charged with sex trafficking and a host of other crimes.
All the interviews Murphy had given afterward Abby interpreted as the worst kind of showboating. She wasn’t about to let him turn her homicide into a media piece to publicize his business.
Murphy stood on the porch, facing the street. He was tall—at least a few inches taller than her five-ten—trim and fit, wearing tan cargo pants and a dark-blue Nike T-shirt. Well-defined biceps strained the short shirtsleeves.
She cleared her throat and he turned. His eyes made a bigger impression on her than the biceps. They were a kind of hazel brown with gold flecks in them, and in spite of the early hour they were sharp and alert. The video image of a braggadocio’s vigilante vanished as she took in the military posture and poise of a man who looked adept, ready for anything, and dangerous if you were on the wrong side.
Abby doubted Murphy missed much, and it surprised her that a spark of visceral attraction flared. She doused it quickly, conjuring up an image of Ethan and struggling not to feel guilty. The last thing Abby expected was to be attracted to another man, and that it was this man made it all the more disturbing.
“I’m Detective Har
t. Thank you for coming back, Mr. Murphy.” Something flickered in his eyes when she said her name—recognition, maybe. She didn’t know him, but just as she’d read about him in the paper, he’d probably read about her.
His handshake was firm, his hand rough and calloused. “Sorry I called too late to help the resident.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. “I know you have my contact information, but here’s my card.”
Abby glanced at the card. It read, On the Mark Investigations, Luke Murphy, Private Investigator. It was masculine in design with bold colors and surprised her with the word shamus embossed at the bottom. She knew of no one besides herself who ever used that term. It was near and dear to her because of the old detective novels she loved. Mickey Spillane, Rex Stout, and Raymond Chandler had immortalized the term. She squashed the curiosity that begged her to ask about it.
The murder, Abby thought as she looked into those sharp, clear eyes. Back to the murder.
“Tell me what you saw.”
He blew out a breath. “I’m actually looking for someone.” He handed Abby a sheet of paper, a standard “Have you seen” flyer with a picture of a smiling blonde girl and text explaining why she was considered missing.
“I got a tip my runaway was seen in the neighborhood. I’ve walked the area for the last two nights, hoping to see her or get more info. I think people down here are starting to see me as a regular.”
He pointed to the alley side of the small bungalow. “I saw a kid come out that window, and it looked wrong. I yelled; he ran. I started after him, but my partner tripped and went down. Turns out she broke her ankle. I had to stop and call medics.” He paused, rubbing his hands together, and Abby indicated he could continue.
“Medics took her to Memorial. It was a bad break.”
“If I need to, I’ll contact her later. What happened next?”
“While the medics were on the way, I knocked—” he pointed to the victim’s doorway—“and no one answered. Neighbors on either side don’t speak English, so I called 911 again. Officers arrived quickly, and they tried to pick up the kid’s trail with no luck. Officer Woods said he knew the lady who lives here and that something was wrong because she didn’t answer the door. He forced entry into the house and . . . well, you know the rest.”
Those eyes of his washed over her, and Abby saw pity, compassion, and a warmth that rattled her for a moment. For something to do, she brought a casual hand up to brush away a strand of hair that had escaped the clip.
“Did you get a good look at the kid? You think he was young?”
Murphy nodded. “His build made me think he was young. With the shadow on the side of the house, I’m afraid I didn’t see much of his face. But he was small. I work with teens, and by his size I would judge him to be about fifteen or sixteen.”
“Sure it’s a he?”
“Yeah, the way he cut and run—I’ve never seen a girl who could move that fast.” He gestured toward the telephone pole at the mouth of the alley. “Leslie tripped over the guide wire there and went down hard. I couldn’t leave her and keep running.”
Abby considered this for a moment, ignoring the rise she felt with his words. I know girls who can move quite fast.
“How close were you to the individual?”
Murphy took a few steps toward the corner of the porch and pointed to the sidewalk. “Leslie and I were about there.” He indicated a distance of about thirty feet. “I started running toward him and was in the alley gaining when Leslie went down.”
“Did he have anything in his hands?”
“I saw a backpack in his left hand. And I think he had a glove on.” Murphy closed his eyes and frowned as if trying to remember. “It happened so fast, but the movement of the pack made me look at his hand, and I think he had a black glove on.”
“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
Hunching his shoulders, he said, “I might. He looked my way when I yelled but then turned away quickly. I thought at the least he was another runaway, and at worst he was a burglar. I never considered someone had been murdered.”
“No, that’s not a consideration anyone would make,” Abby said evenly. “By the way, who gave you the tip?”
“Excuse me?”
“The tip about your runaway.”
“Oh, a kid I know from martial arts. He works the night shift at the twenty-four-hour food mart in the truck stop.” Murphy pointed back toward Pacific Coast Highway. “He was pretty sure he saw her but couldn’t follow her to be certain.”
Abby handed him her card. “Thank you, Mr. Murphy, for calling this in. Call me if you remember anything else, and if I need to talk to you, is this the best number to reach you, the one on your card?” The card that says shamus.
“Yes, ma’am, my cell phone is my work number, but I also added my home number to the back.”
Normally ma’am bugged her because it could be patronizing, but when the term slid off Murphy’s lips, it was charged with respect. Abby’s opinion of the man began to soften. “Thanks. Do you want this flyer back?”
He shook his head. “Keep it. If you come across her, I’d appreciate a call. Her mother is worried sick.” He reached the bottom porch step, stopped, and looked back. “I’m making a guest appearance on Good Morning Long Beach in a few hours. Do you want me to tell this story and ask for help finding the burglar?”
“What?” Abby stared, as exactly what he’d said sank in. “Absolutely not. This is a police investigation, not a platform to build your business.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Some publicity might—”
“I don’t want that kind of publicity,” Abby said through clenched teeth. “Next of kin has not yet been notified. Would you like them to find out about the death of a loved one through you, on TV?”
For his part, Murphy stepped back. Abby hoped he was suitably shamed. I hate show-offs.
“Sorry; didn’t quite think that through.” He gave a cavalier tip of his head. “Thank you, Detective Hart. Don’t hesitate to call me if you need my help.”
He stepped down and walked across the yard to the sidewalk, then made his way to a pickup truck parked down the street.
At the shock of his parting statement, Abby felt her jaw drop. His help? Not likely. His strong, sure stride across the yard brought one word to Abby’s mind: cocky. He probably would have caught the killer if someone were filming.
When she realized her thoughts were dwelling on the man, she considered what he’d said and seen that concerned her victim. She needed to find next of kin and make notification, the only part of her job she disliked. Blood and guts didn’t shake her, but naked grief often did.
“NO MATTER WHAT, he’s a good wit,” Woody said when she turned to go back inside. He leaned in the doorway, a grin tugging at his mouth.
“He’s a show-off,” she said, and Woody laughed. He’d been her first training officer and was a good friend, a valuable resource. Even with the teasing, Abby was glad he was there.
“But what he saw is helpful—gold, I think,” she continued as she reached the doorway and he stepped aside to let her in. “Let’s forget Luke P. Murphy right now. What do you know about my victim?”
Woody followed her back into the house. “Cora Murray was old Long Beach money. You know that Victorian place—the big one near Cherry Park they just made a bed-and-breakfast?”
Abby nodded.
“Her dad built that, and a bunch of these.” He knocked on the yellowed lath-and-plaster wall. “Little two-bedroom bungalows in working-class neighborhoods.” He paused, thumbs hooked in his Sam Browne.
They were back in the living room. The lab tech was still processing evidence.
“And . . .” Woody reached out and put a hand on her shoulder, his voice lowered to a whisper. “She’s related to Lowell Rollins. She was his aunt, I think.”
“The governor?” Abby’s head jerked around. Forget left field, this news w
as out of the realm of consideration.
Woody held her gaze. He was one of only a few other people in her life who knew of her connection with Governor Lowell Rollins. The room seemed to shift and Abby had to sit. She stepped into the kitchen and sat at the small table, looking toward the tech but not really seeing her.
“His chief of staff will probably handle this,” Woody said, taking the chair across from Abby. She forced herself to look at him, praying her face stayed blank. Worry now creased his brow.
Abby didn’t say anything. Only a handful of people knew of her struggle with this issue. Ethan was the only person not connected in some way who knew who she was and what drew her back to Long Beach. The draw was so strong Aunt Dede had warned her the day she was promoted to homicide.
“Be careful, Abby. Obsession is never a good thing,” Aunt Dede had said. “It clouds your mind and steals your perspective, telling you that you can do things in your own strength when in truth you need to trust God.”
One case defines you. . . .
Abby took a deep breath now and decided to ignore what was screaming in her ear. I do trust God. This was no obsession; it was a tragic murder case with an unimaginable connection.
“I need to be prepared for anything,” she told Woody.
His expression was one of understanding. “You might not have to deal with him.” Woody’s tone told her that this was what he hoped.
But even as she agreed with him, Abby knew that was not what she wanted.
For a minute she let her gaze travel over the room, and neither spoke. Woody’s leather gear squeaked when he moved, and outside, faint daylight began to brighten the windows. Focus, she told herself. Cora deserves my focus.
When Abby spoke again, she was certain her cop face was solid.
“Was he . . . ? Was Rollins—” she cocked an eyebrow—“ever involved in her life? Is this going to be hugely political?” Skirting the hard issue, she felt her balance return.
Drawing Fire Page 2