by Anne Frasier
“Weeks?” Cripes. She had to put an end to this right now.
Elise pulled out her phone and poked at the touch pad. While waiting for Major Hoffman to answer, she crossed her arms and leaned against the car, eyes on the man in front of her. Hard to believe an hour ago she’d been enjoying the beauty of the May morning—admiring the flowers that were the glorious harbinger of summer, colorful blossoms everywhere, brightening up even the darkest of streets. Now she had to deal with a dead body and an overenthusiastic reporter.
He smiled at her.
She stared back.
He was actually rather attractive. God, she couldn’t believe the thought had even popped into her mind. Where had it come from? But he was. Not handsome like Gould, who was the kind of perfection that turned heads. This guy was familiar and safe. He wouldn’t notice or care about her scars. More to the point, she wouldn’t care if he saw them.
“I’ve got somebody here who looks like he’s going on safari and says he’s supposed to shadow me,” she said as soon as her boss picked up. “Curly hair. Hipster glasses. Vest with a hundred pockets. Please tell me he’s lying.”
“Jay Thomas Paul. He was just in my office,” Hoffman said.
Elise imagined Hoffman sitting at her desk, a bag of her current choice of snack food in front of her, red nails, red lipstick. Always immaculately groomed.
“I told him to wait outside,” Hoffman said. “Glad he found you.”
At that moment a black Honda Civic squealed into the parking lot. The engine cut, the door opened, and Elise’s partner, David Gould, tumbled out, an insulated coffee mug in his hand. He strode toward her, looking all movie star, coattails flapping, a question on his face as he took in the new guy.
Elise shrugged as Major Hoffman went into a spiel about how they needed to be more transparent, needed to seem more like real people, needed to boost the department’s image; how Elise especially needed to come across as professional, as well as personable. “We’ve already talked about shedding that chilly persona,” Hoffman reminded her.
“I don’t think it’s a bad thing for me to keep my distance, especially now that I’m head of homicide.” A weak argument, Elise realized.
“I’m not saying you need to kiss babies, but just be a bit more approachable, that’s all. And this article they want to run could help you achieve that. Try to be more like Detective Gould. Not that casual, but you know what I mean.”
Elise turned her back to the two men and walked away, ducking into a shaded corner of the lot and whispering into her phone. “He’s going to go for the conjurer’s daughter angle. No matter what they told you, that’s the story. You know that’s the story.”
“It won’t be the story, because the piece has to be approved by you and the department before the paper runs it. He signed an agreement. Like it or not, we’re locked into this.”
A contract. Elise had lost the argument before she’d even started. All the things she’d planned to say were kicked to the curb. “I want you to know I think it’s a bad idea.”
“I would have been surprised if you’d said otherwise.”
Elise laughed, disconnected, slipped her phone into her jacket pocket, and turned to see the two men watching her with guarded eyes. One guy afraid she might kick his ass again, the other . . . Well, who knew what David was really thinking?
Over the past couple of months he’d made advances that she’d either ignored or fended off until he’d finally stopped. And once he stopped, she’d found she missed the flirty part of their interactions. How ridiculous was that? But his giving up was for the best. She’d even heard he was dating somebody now. Who, she didn’t know. And she didn’t know if it was serious or just something he did for release. For sex.
“Don’t we have a body to visit?” David finally asked.
She dumped her thoughts while hitting the car’s “Unlock” button once again. They all piled in—Elise behind the wheel, David in the passenger seat, and her new friend directly behind her. One cozy family.
“Details?” David asked as he clicked his seat belt.
“Female and dead.” Elise maneuvered the car out of the parking lot and made a left onto Drayton. “That’s all I got.”
David took a sip of coffee. “Who’s your buddy?”
“Somebody from the New York Times. He has three first names. Jay Thomas Paul.”
“And he’s going to be with us how long?”
“Could be weeks.”
“That sucks.”
“Truly.”
This was what they did. Elise considered it a mental exercise. A type of relaxation. Light conversation to prep themselves for what was ahead.
“Do the crossword today?” David asked.
“Didn’t have a chance.”
She was fast suspecting the whole crossword thing was David’s way of trying to retain some form of relationship. Every morning he arrived at headquarters with the puzzle partially done. They’d share their answers and, with luck, complete it together by grabbing a few minutes here and there throughout the day. It had been going on for two months now, and the crossword device was becoming another thing that irritated her, even though she knew her reaction was extreme. Maybe because it wasn’t really about the crossword puzzle at all. Why didn’t he just come right out and admit he’d butted in where he shouldn’t have? Why didn’t he just apologize?
“I would have had it done in fifteen minutes, but I got hung up on one word,” David said. “The clue is ‘the Cornish Wonder.’ Four letters. What the hell does that mean? Cornish Wonder? Is that anything like a Cornish hen?”
“No idea.” Traffic. The tedious pattern of going around the one-way squares, stopping for horse-drawn carriage tours and tourists clutching maps.
From the backseat came one word: “Opie.”
Gould turned so he could eyeball the reporter. “Opie?”
“John Opie. Known as the Cornish Wonder.”
“That’s obscure.”
“Very,” Jay Thomas agreed.
“You do the crossword puzzle?” David asked, with sudden interest in their new friend. The crossword puzzle.
The crossword puzzle used to be the one in the New York Times, but there was a new kid in town, a new puzzle designer who was said to be as mysterious and reclusive as J. D. Salinger. Maybe Jay Thomas and David could bond over crosswords, Elise thought. Maybe she could step aside.
It didn’t surprise her that Jay Thomas was a fanatic. The whole country seemed to be humming about the new puzzles. The first one had run a year and a half ago in a few city papers. Other presses quickly followed, and now a new puzzle was a weekday feature in the Savannah Morning News. The popularity of the puzzles had elevated interest in physical paper sales throughout the country—a true phenomenon in this digital age. It seemed most people still preferred to fold the paper and hold it in their hands, filling in the squares the old-fashioned way, with a pencil or pen.
The popularity of the puzzles was a bit of a mystery, but some thought it was because the clues were often clever, sarcastic, and funny, and as toughness went, they ranked in that sweet spot somewhere between those in USA Today and the New York Times. Adding to the appeal was the mysterious nature of the designer. Nobody knew his or her identity, although many people took stabs at guessing, one of the most popular theories being that it was the president of the United States, due to his well-known love of word puzzles. But you couldn’t have a president supplying clues for words like “manwhore.” Plus he had a job to do. A big job.
“I consider myself an aficionado,” Jay Thomas said.
Elise glanced in the rearview mirror and spotted a small silver device in his hand. “Is that a recorder? Are you recording us?” She turned her attention back to the road in time to see the stoplight ahead of them turn red. She slammed on the brakes, and every object that was unattached hit the floor. “Sorry,” she mumbled.
“You okay?” David asked. “You seem a bit more . . . wound up than usual.”<
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“Forgot my coffee on my desk.” True, but an excuse all the same. Her next choice would be PMS, but PMS got a bad rap. Her theory about PMS was that it simply lifted the veil. It wasn’t always pleasant to see the world so clearly, so it only happened once a month.
The light turned green, and Elise drove through the intersection. At the same time, David unlatched his seat belt and dove at the backseat, swiping the recorder from Jay Thomas’s hand.
“What the—?” Jay Thomas protested as David plopped back down.
“You’re not recording anything.” David examined the device and hit some buttons, presumably erasing files. “Especially not our lame private conversations. Pull that again and I’ll open the door and toss you out in the street.”
“That’s how I work,” Jay Thomas mumbled. “It’s the only way to be a good journalist.”
“Find another way.”
At a stop sign, David lowered his window and stuck out his head. “Hey,” he said to a kid straddling a bike. “Catch.” David tossed the recorder, and the kid caught it while Jay Thomas made a sputtering sound of outraged protest.
“It’s okay,” David shouted to the kid as Elise pulled through the intersection. “I’m a cop.” As if that would explain his actions.
“Is everybody here either hyperreactive or an asshole?” Jay Thomas asked.
David hit the “Power Window” button, once again sealing them off from the rest of Savannah. “Pretty much.”
CHAPTER 3
Elise saw the beauty that was Savannah every single day. She lived in the heart of that beauty. She drove down the city’s tree-lined streets, passing under shadows of Spanish moss, sheltering and mysterious. She walked past blooming azaleas and magnolia blossoms.
Born here.
Abandoned here.
But time and familiarity hadn’t bred desensitization. Daily, the city took her breath away. Different times, different views, different lighting. But always an appreciation of the brick sidewalks edged with wrought iron and draped in pink blooms. The steeples and palm trees against the bluest sky and the whitest clouds. Fountains and street musicians and ships docked in the harbor. All of those things filled her heart and made her glad she hadn’t left—something she used to swear she’d do. But not so much anymore. Not so much since she’d made a conscious decision to embrace her heritage, regardless of how she felt about Jackson Sweet. Yes, she was the daughter of a root doctor. Daughter of a conjurer.
And maybe a bit of that decision not to leave had to do with David.
As they walked across the grass toward a gathering mob that indicated their target spot, she let out a sigh. “One of my favorite parks. Why in one of my favorite parks?”
The scene was familiar. Police cars, white coroner van, yellow crime-scene tape. Waiting in the wings was a threat of rain hinted at by a darkening sky.
Beside her, David matched her stride. “Beneath beauty lie many dark deeds.”
“I’m not familiar with that quote.” Jay Thomas trailed behind them, forgotten until he spoke. “Who said it?”
Without giving him a glance, David replied, “Me.”
The reporter’s pen scratched in his little notebook.
Elise felt bad about the recorder. Bad for Jay Thomas and bad for herself, because she was sure David’s behavior would mean a call to Hoffman’s office, where she’d be reprimanded. Funny how Elise had thought being head detective might put an end to those visits.
“Stay back,” David told the reporter once they reached the barrier.
Elise and David ducked under the yellow tape and were quickly spotted and recognized by a female officer who briefed them on the situation. “Body was found by a homeless man,” the officer said. “We’ve already taken his statement.”
“Anybody else see anything or hear anything?” Elise asked.
“Right now we only have the one person. Officers are canvassing nearby houses to see if we can find anything to add to the picture. And now”—she glanced up at the sky—“looks like rain. Sent someone for plastic tarps, and the crime-scene team is trying to collect as much evidence as possible before the storm hits.”
Elise and David did a cursory visual of the body. A young woman with long dark hair. Nude. Ankles bound with silver duct tape. Fingerprint bruises on her throat, arms, and thighs. Discolored and swollen face. Blue lips.
John Casper, coroner and medical examiner, straightened away from the body and gave them a nod of greeting, eyes silently communicating something none of them would talk about here.
Even in the darkest of circumstances, John could be counted on to lighten the mood. There was no sign of that happening now, his face pale and looking older than his thirty-some years.
A body left on display in the heart of one of the most beautiful and loved parks in Savannah was especially heinous. This was blatant. This was someone who wanted attention. This was a nose-thumbing at the police department and the city itself.
The young woman had been placed faceup, her arms bent on each side of her head in what Elise would describe as the goalpost position—just like the last body. And again like the last body, this one had what appeared to be a single word, written over and over, covering every visible piece of flesh.
Undeniably ritualistic.
“Damn.”
That one syllable from David said it all. It said everything they were both thinking.
The first body had been put on display, but they hadn’t wanted to think the worst. Sometimes family members or friends or boyfriends or sick kids did such things. It hadn’t meant there would be more—even though the profiler in David had worried that the unsolved crime might be the beginning of something bigger.
They wouldn’t know for sure until the autopsy, but a visual told Elise this was the same killer, same MO. Two didn’t mean serial killer, but it looked like they might be on their way.
“Damn,” David said again.
Someone jostled Elise. She looked over her shoulder to see Jay Thomas standing with a camera in his hand. Just seconds ago she’d felt bad about his lost recorder. Now she wanted to grab the camera, slam it to the ground, and stomp on it.
Instead, she grabbed it and stuck it in her pocket. “Get on the other side of the crime-scene tape and stay there,” she ordered. “And if I have to point out one more stupid thing you’re doing, you’re out of here. For good. Contract or no contract. Understand?”
He blinked behind his glasses. For a second she tried to read his reaction—she picked up on a quiet anger—but then she filed him away as unworthy of the moment and a waste of her focus.
“My camera?” he asked.
“You’ll get it back later. Once I erase the photos.”
He still didn’t leave, and now she was aware of David taking in the exchange.
“I’m supposed to shadow you,” Jay Thomas said. “Everywhere.”
“You are in my world, Jay Thomas Paul. And just because you’re shadowing me doesn’t mean you get a special pass to confidential information that could impact this case,” Elise told him. “Anything confidential will hit your eyes and ears the same time the rest of the media gets it. At a press conference. Understand?”
He looked from her to David, then past them to the body on the ground. Temporarily defeated, he nodded, spun on his heel, and walked away, giving the crime-scene tape an angry tug as he ducked under it and vanished into the crowd.
Elise turned back to the body, David beside her, everyone else engaged in their jobs.
David pulled out his phone and snapped several photos of the victim. “It’s not him.”
His words cut through the chaos in Elise’s head. She didn’t even pretend not to know what David was talking about. Tremain. The Organ Thief. The guy who’d kidnapped her and defaced her body and sexually assaulted her.
“There are similarities.” Her voice, as she attempted to control her emotions, was monotone. “The dark hair. The violence. The tape. The defacing of her skin with ink . . .”
“Tremain is dead.” David spoke slowly and clearly, but with words for her ears alone.
“We don’t know that,” she argued. “Until I see his body on a slab in the morgue, he’ll be out there to me. The possibility of his still being alive will haunt me.” She hated the word “closure,” but that was what she needed.
“I get it,” David said. “I do. But I shot him. He was dead.”
“Then what happened to his body?”
“Alligators dragged it away. Tide came up. Somebody found him and buried him.”
Because David needed her to believe, she pretended. She pretended in the very way she’d been pretending ever since finding out Tremain’s body had vanished from the island where they’d left it. And maybe, with time, the pretending would have worked. It might have eventually led to belief—belief that Tremain was truly dead—if not for these new reminders. If not for this person on the ground in front of her who’d most likely been tortured in much the same way Elise had been tortured. If not for the brutal assault and murder of two women in this beautiful city, both crime scenes deliberately creating an echo that couldn’t be ignored.
Survivor’s guilt. That was what a psychiatrist might say about Elise’s reaction. And it was true. Elise felt guilty for being alive when two women were dead.
She wanted to go home. Just go home.
She imagined herself in the safety of her living room, feet tucked under her in one corner of the couch, a drink in her hand, soft music playing. And after that drink, another. Then bed, with covers over her head.
Even as she focused on the body, Elise’s vision went half-dead in some unconscious primal attempt at self-preservation. She stared with clouded eyes, and her brain struggled to comprehend the shifting and melting in front of her. For a second she wondered if she was passing out.
Finally vocalizing her observation, she said, “The words—they’re moving.”
The letters on the body were changing, the black lines spreading against white skin. And then a cold droplet hit her cheek.