Pretty Dead

by Anne Frasier

  “You’ll have to put aside your differences. Be adult.” She pinched her straw between two fingers and looked up at him. “What did he do? Short-sheet your bed?”

  “No.” The next words came as a reluctant admission. “But he slept in it.”

  She let go of the straw.

  “When I was in Washington State working on the Puget Sound case, that bastard was back in Virginia sleeping with my wife.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Vic Lamont.

  It was a name David had hoped to never hear again, the man himself someone David sure as hell had hoped to never see again. But the biggest shock of the day wasn’t finding out that Lamont was coming to Savannah; it was finding out that the mere mention of the bastard’s name made David’s heart pound and his mouth go dry.

  Savannah was miles from David’s old life, both literally and figuratively. He’d planted new roots here. Started over. He had friends, and, except for the constant ache caused by the loss of his son, he thought he’d put the past behind him.

  Enter Vic Lamont.

  People trick themselves into thinking they’ve moved on. That’s what it was. David had made progress during his waking hours, but sleeping was another story. He dreamed about the people who’d caused him so much pain—those people being his now-dead ex-wife and Lamont. And in that dream, David was a hero. He saved his son’s life over and over, arriving home in time to pull him from the tub, alive and breathing. Good versus evil, and good won.

  But the blackness was back, eating a hole in his gut so it could live and sleep and spread dark thoughts. It had been close to two years since David had felt this bad. Shaky and helpless and distracted, while at the same time wanting to drive a fist through the wall. In the past, the things he turned to were prescription drugs, alcohol, and sex with strangers. All seemed nice choices right now.

  In an attempt to distract himself from impulses that in the end would only make things worse, David lay down on the couch and grabbed the remote control. His Siamese cat, Isobel, jumped on his stomach and settled herself on his chest, just below his chin, purring loudly while David worked his way through channels until he came to the last five minutes of the eleven o’clock news. Footage of the crime scene. A bit about the mayor and Elise. The female anchor didn’t come right out and say that the mayor had struck the head of homicide.

  “Public disagreement,” she called it. The report concluded with the Twitter photo of Elise. It looked like a mug shot.

  David shut off the television and was contemplating taking Strata Luna up on her open offer to send him a prostitute, when his phone rang. He checked the screen, saw a photo of Elise’s unbruised face. He didn’t answer. She was too perceptive. Back there at the bar a few hours ago she’d tried to get him to spill his guts, but he’d told her nothing other than the few words about Lamont sleeping with Beth. That was all she needed to know.

  The phone stopped ringing. A minute later the screen brightened and a banner appeared, indicating a message. He was about to listen to it when the phone rang again. Knowing Elise wouldn’t give up, he answered this time.

  “Want to talk about it?” she asked.

  David struggled to pull himself out of the black pit. He made an attempt to sound adequately level, a combination of chirpy and irritated. “If I wanted to talk about it, I would have talked about it earlier. No, I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Just checking. Did you see the news?”

  “Caught the tail end of it. They’re calling it a public disagreement.”

  She let out a dry laugh. “I heard that. Are you home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  A pause. “Maybe you shouldn’t be by yourself.”

  Damn. She knew he was fighting a meltdown. Was she calling to lend an ear, or make sure he didn’t arrive at work tomorrow with a hangover or still drunk? He was struggling to formulate a casual and reassuring reply when a knock sounded on the door. Isobel let out a cry of alarm, jumped off David’s chest, and vanished into the bedroom. Typical MO. Figuring it was Elise outside his apartment, he said, “You didn’t have to come over.” He got up from the couch and opened the door, the phone still in his hand.

  Not Elise.

  But close.

  Standing in the dark hallway was Jackson Sweet. The man had stopped by a few times, but not often, and never this late.

  “Gotta go.” David ended the call before Sweet could say anything and alert Elise to the visit. She was already upset enough over David’s association with her father, slight as it was. David, of all people, knew what betrayal felt like, and he didn’t want to be the one serving it to Elise, but he also wasn’t going to ignore someone in need.

  Without invitation, the older man stepped inside.

  Sweet’s clothes had a limp, unwashed sheen; he needed to shave, and he smelled like a trash fire. Was he no longer staying at the shelter? David wondered. But lacking a permanent address and looking like a street person didn’t diminish the power Sweet projected.

  The folklore about Elise’s father was that he had a hard-to-define thing about him. A thing. People talked about how his presence filled a room. That was true. But it wasn’t overt. And it wasn’t anything he deliberately projected. It wasn’t calculated. It just was. A kind of cool and laid-back quality that emanated from his pores. It took a lot to impress David, but Sweet impressed him.

  The man closed the door, then pinned David with eyes reminiscent of Elise’s. “I’ve been following the news about the murders,” he said with a voice that was slow and deep and as Georgian as a Southern plantation. “I want to help.”

  “I appreciate the offer,” David told him, “but we typically don’t use anybody outside the department unless they’re FBI or Georgia Bureau of Investigation.”

  “I can interview witnesses and suspects. That’s my strength.”

  Oh man. Elise would love that. “Probably not a good idea,” David said.

  Getting straight to the point, Sweet said, “Coretta contacted me.”

  David frowned in surprise. “And?”

  “She asked me to come in tomorrow. I just stopped by to let you know. I thought maybe you could break it to Elise.”

  Holy hell.

  David had long suspected that Coretta hadn’t left her Gullah heritage far behind, so it shouldn’t have been a surprise to find that she’d reached out to Jackson Sweet in a time of crisis. But to bring him in to help with the case? Maybe interrogate suspects? Somebody wasn’t going to be happy about that. Hell, David wasn’t happy about it.

  David offered Sweet something to drink and eat, but the man declined and didn’t hang around. Once he’d vanished into the dark hallway and the door had closed shut behind him, David called Coretta, hoping there’d been some mix-up.

  Nope.

  “We have to use whatever resources are at our disposal,” she said.

  “Involving Sweet is a bad idea.” It felt weird and wrong to be talking to Coretta about work outside of headquarters. Which was probably a sign that their relationship, or whatever it was, shouldn’t be happening.

  “I didn’t ask for your opinion,” she said, clearly angry that he was taking what she probably considered Elise’s side in this.

  He was tempted to bring up the fiasco that had been the press conference, but he decided her chilly response wasn’t inviting any more criticism.

  “I want you and Elise to go over the details of the case with Mr. Sweet,” Coretta told him. “Bring him up to speed.”

  “Even the information we haven’t yet released?” This was getting odder by the second. He didn’t want to think it, but he’d sensed that Coretta was jealous of the relationship he had with Elise. Was Coretta doing this to torment her?

  “Yes. Everything. And David? I’ll break the news to Elise tomorrow morning at a meeting in my office. I want you and Jackson Sweet to be there.”

  David disconnected and headed for his bedroom and hopefully
sleep; he was dreading tomorrow. But the Jackson Sweet twist had brought with it an unexpected consequence. David was no longer fixating on Vic Lamont.

  Standing in the kitchen, Elise contemplated going to David’s apartment to make sure he was really all right, but she’d have to either leave Audrey alone or drag her out of bed to bring her along. Both bad ideas.

  Instead, she dug out the business card Jay Thomas had given her the day they met. She hadn’t bothered to enter his number into her phone. She did so now, then called him.

  A groggy voice answered, and she checked the clock: 11:35 p.m. “This is Detective Sandburg.” She heard rummaging, heard the click of what sounded like a lamp switch, and imagined him in bed, dressed in striped button pajamas, fumbling for his glasses.

  “Has there been another murder?” Jay Thomas asked, his voice edged with sleep.

  Elise opened the refrigerator, stared at a few shriveled oranges and a pizza box, then closed the door. “No.” At least not that they knew of. “I’m calling for a couple of reasons. One, to thank you for intervening earlier today. And two, to tell you to remove the YouTube video you posted.” She found a bag of chips in the cupboard, set her phone aside, and opened the package, corn tortillas scattering across the counter.

  “That YouTube video isn’t mine,” he said. “I swear. I wouldn’t do that.”

  “But the Twitter photo is?” she asked, grabbing the phone.

  “Um, yeah.”

  She’d tell him to delete his post, but the damage was done. The photo was trending.

  “I already talked about this with Detective Gould,” Jay Thomas said.

  “You’re talking about it with me too.” She scooped most of the chips back into the bag and folded the top down. “Are you writing a piece on what happened today? Because if you are, let me remind you that you have a contract.”

  “This doesn’t fall under the boundaries established in the agreement I have with the police department. It’s current news.”

  “You wouldn’t have been privy to it if you hadn’t been with me.”

  “I disagree.”

  “I’ve felt bad about treating you with suspicion. Not anymore.”

  “I’m sorry, but I have a job to do. Report the news. I could have sold that photo of you, but I didn’t. I posted it to Twitter to circumvent anyone else who might try to do that.”

  “Noble of you.” Pure sarcasm. “If I see a sensationalized story about the altercation with your byline, we’re done. Don’t expect to get in a car with me again.”

  She disconnected and began eating chips off the counter.

  CHAPTER 16

  Elise dreaded being summoned down the hall to Major Hoffman’s office. The visits were known to involve a reprimand, often dealing with something David had or hadn’t done. And now, since David and the major were dating—well, that put a new spin on things.

  Unlike some police departments where walls were glass and afforded little privacy, most offices in the ancient building that housed the Savannah PD were private and full of dark wood and high ceilings. Even the newer updated areas were nothing like the contemporary spaces portrayed in modern cop shows.

  The building was old and not very functional, but Elise couldn’t picture herself in a modern office on the outskirts of town. It wouldn’t feel right. She liked the brick building and the location. She liked being in the heart of the city; she liked that the station was a part of the neighborhood. Whenever anybody brought up the topic of moving, Elise would point out that having a police department downtown established a stronger police presence.

  Or maybe she just disliked change.

  Major Hoffman’s door was as old as everything else. A window of beveled milky glass was held in place by rusty nails from another era. Elise knocked and received the standard invite from the other side. Stepping into the room, she was fully braced for an awkward encounter. What she wasn’t prepared for was the sight of her father sitting in one of the heavy wooden chairs positioned along one wall.

  Much like the first time she’d seen him, not that long ago, he was dressed in faded jeans, scuffed and ancient work boots, and a button shirt, the cuffs frayed but clean. He was thinner than she remembered, his face more gaunt. Beside him sat David Gould, his hands clasped between his knees, eyes trained on the floor.

  David, Jackson Sweet, and Coretta Hoffman.

  What the hell?

  David looked uncomfortable, Sweet unreadable, and Hoffman, sitting behind her desk, had that air of authority she never seemed to put aside.

  “Detective Sandburg,” Major Hoffman said in formal greeting. She was dressed in a blue suit that complemented her skin tone. Nearby on the wall was a framed photo of her with a white dog that looked like a miniature poodle. Elise had a hard time imagining David in that picture. “I’m sorry about your black eye and the circumstances under which it came about.”

  Elise touched her face, feeling the stickiness of the makeup she’d applied earlier to hide the bruise.

  “I heard Jay Thomas Paul broke it up,” Hoffman added.

  “I think it would have ended the same way regardless of his presence.” Elise would have felt better about giving him credit if not for the Twitter business.

  Hoffman motioned to an empty chair. “Sit down.”

  “I’d rather stand.”

  “Suit yourself.” The major shrugged. “As you already know, we’ve contacted the FBI to request their aid in solving the murders of these young women. After much discussion with Detective Gould about the case, I’ve decided to also enlist the help of someone else.”

  After much discussion with Detective Gould.

  Really?

  Jackson Sweet was watching Elise with silent intensity.

  The man had a strange way of unplugging from his surroundings. Just a body in the room. So deceptive, because he seemed to be able to turn himself on and off. Kind of like a cat that could wait hours without moving. And then something imperceptible shifted, and even though there was no discernible change, his presence expanded. Just sitting there, hardly moving, watching her.

  Had she imagined the change? Then she had another thought. David, powerful in his own right, dimmed next to her father, dimmed and almost vanished. Her father would be in his late fifties now, yet she could feel his power. It was something charismatic leaders had. Something serial killers had.

  Then Major Hoffman dropped the bomb, and the room got weirder. “Mr. Sweet has agreed to consult on the case.”

  Now both men were staring at her, David with the look of someone braced for conflict, Sweet with something more like a smirk of defiance.

  Elise thought about how her father had snuck around behind her back to meet with Audrey after school. And now . . . Now he was worming his way into Elise’s work life. He’d also been at the Murphy crime scene. Why? Curiosity? Or was it more than that? Another question: Had he approached Major Hoffman?

  “That’s ludicrous,” Elise said. Maybe not the best choice of words, and certainly words she shouldn’t have spoken to the chief of police. “He has no qualifications,” Elise went on to explain, speaking as if her father weren’t in the room. “Unless being dead for thirty-some years qualifies him.” Now it was her turn to smirk.

  “I shouldn’t have to remind you that Mr. Sweet was a sheriff years ago,” Hoffman said.

  “That’s right,” Elise told her. “Years ago. The world was different back then. This is like calling in a psychic, or . . .” She locked eyes with David. “Did you know about this?”

  Hoffman answered for him. “It was my idea.”

  “Do you know what the press will do with this information when they find out?” Elise asked. “They’ll say we’ve called in a witch doctor to help with a case we can’t solve.”

  Hoffman sat up straighter in her chair. “I’m hoping we can keep it quiet for a while. And if the press finds out—which they will—we’ll deal with it. It won’t be the first time they’ve ridiculed us, and it won’t be the last.”


  “I can’t be a part of this,” Elise said.

  “You don’t have a choice,” Major Hoffman told her. “The mayor wants this case solved immediately. Immediately, or heads are going to roll. He’s already reached beyond Savannah for help, but now he’s threatening to get rid of all of us. Everybody. You, me, Detective Gould, and Detective Avery. We’ll all be out.”

  So in desperation she’d called in a flimflam man.

  “I want you to make a copy of the case file for Mr. Sweet. Everything. Every minute detail. I want him to be privy to it all.”

  Elise was beginning to doubt the major’s sanity.

  She made one final attempt to reason with the woman. “So what if he was some sort of self-proclaimed sheriff for a few years, back before cell phones and the Internet? That’s nothing. Hell, he could be a suspect. Did you think of that? This all started after he decided to return from the dead. And the way he’s been lurking around crime scenes . . . suspicious.”

  “That’s enough, Elise,” Hoffman said, her tone a warning.

  But Elise was winding up. “The man’s been living underground for decades.” She pointed at him without looking in his direction. “Things have changed. Yes, he has a reputation for getting the truth out of people, but I call BS on that. You’re grasping at a myth. You know how it is here. People embellish. People make heroes out of criminals. And the stuff about Jackson Sweet? It’s folklore. Nothing but folklore. Bringing him in on the case is like calling in Harry Potter.”

  David let out a loud snort—his first comment. The sound had her spinning around in time to see him put a hand to his mouth to hide a smile.

  Ass.

  “This is a waste of time,” Elise said. And David. His betrayal was so deep. Her father. His relationship with Hoffman. They all seemed a tidy little group, and she was on the outside looking in.

  She had to get away from them before she said more she shouldn’t say. “Is that all?” she asked, trying to keep her voice from shaking.