Buried Alive: A dark Romantic Suspense (The Buried Series Book 1)

by Vella Day

  Hardly a million. “Try eight.”

  From her subdued tone and her slumped shoulders, perhaps he’d been too hard on her. She wasn’t totally at fault. She didn’t know police procedure. Hell, he should have given her a heads up about interviewing techniques.

  Actually, he blamed himself for even bringing her with him to talk to Willie in the first place. The old guy probably was harmless, but she shouldn’t have interfered with the interrogation.

  Phil shoved a box of blueberries toward her as a peace offering. “I’m sorry I yelled.”

  She smiled and straightened. “That’s okay. Does that mean I can stop calling?”

  “Police work is about never giving up. Try a few more names.” Phil failed to keep his tone stern. Man, the woman had a way of getting under his skin.

  “Why can’t we ask Samson DeMarco’s brother about the files? They might contain this man’s contact information.”

  He had to hand it to her. The woman was bright. “I already tried to get a hold of the brother, but he’s out of town for a few more days.”

  “Let’s go back and make Willie talk.” Her adorable lips puckered.

  “I understand your frustration. I’m frustrated too, but we can’t make someone confess if he doesn’t want to.”

  “I think he knows something about the body.”

  “I agree, but we have no evidence to bring him in.” He didn’t have time to teach her everything about police regulations.

  She leaned forward and her breasts nearly popped out of her top. Dear God in heaven, it was hard to look at her and not drool.

  Phil pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “I’m hoping Lefevre is back. He handled the DeMarco case.” He turned his back to the enticing hottie and punched the number for the front desk. Mac Gibbons answered.

  “Say, Mac. It’s Tedesco. Is Lefevre back yet from vacation?”

  “Yeah, he’s about twenty feet behind me. He came back today.”

  “Thanks.”

  Phil disconnected and turned to Gina. “I’m going to see what Lefevre knows about this Hakeem guy. There’s no use wasting our time reinventing the wheel.”

  She huffed. “Why didn’t you think of that before you made me do all this work?”

  God, she looked so cute when she was angry, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still pissed at the stupid stunt she’d pulled today in the field. “I thought you’d like to practice the investigative techniques.”

  “Fuck you,” she said with an engaging smile.

  Love to.

  For the fifth time in the last half hour Hunter passed by Kerry’s house. An old couple walked across the street with their dog, and two teenagers raced down the middle of the street on bikes.

  If the angry caller was smart enough to find Kerry’s phone number, he could figure out her address. There were plenty of places to hide in this tree-lined neighborhood.

  Damn. The queasiness that crawled around in his stomach every time someone he knew was in danger came back full force. That’s why he’d picked Kerry up for work and dropped her home again. At least when she was in his car, the killer had little chance of harming her.

  Kerry’s grandfather said he and his friends could stand watch at night. Hunter appreciated their offer, but he couldn’t trust men in their seventies or eighties to have the best reflexes. It didn’t matter they used to be cops.

  As he circled her block again, his cell rang. He glanced at the display and tensed. The number wasn’t a familiar one.

  “Markum.”

  “This is David Kopetski. You left a message to call you?”

  Janet’s husband. Hunter eased over to the shoulder, his mind racing with questions. “Thanks for the call back. I wanted to ask you about your wife, Janet.”

  There was a long pause. “What about her? I haven’t heard from her in a long time.”

  No shit, since she died a year ago. “Can we meet someplace to discuss her?”

  “Who the hell are you?” The man had definite anger management issues.

  Hunter had told him he was with the sheriff’s department when he’d called the first time. Apparently, some people don’t listen. “Hunter Markum. Hillsborough County Homicide.”

  “Homicide? Is she dead?”

  The man’s lack of concern caused a cold knot to form below Hunter’s ribs. “We believe so, Mr. Kopetski. I’m sorry.”

  “Shit. She probably got what she deserved. Did you know she was an ex-con?”

  So he knew of her release. “Yes. Could we talk? This won’t take long. I can swing by your place if you’d like.”

  “I have nothing to hide.” He gave Hunter his address.

  Leaving Kerry’s neighborhood to speak with Kopetski bothered him. Not that he planned on driving around until she went to bed, but he wanted to make sure if someone was watching, they’d know she was under surveillance.

  If he took Kerry with him, she’d be able to add detailed information about the woman’s abuse. If by some chance Kopetski turned violent, Hunter would make sure nothing happened to Kerry.

  Who was he kidding? He shouldn’t take her on a police matter even though she was involved in the case, but he worried about leaving her alone, unprotected. She’d be safer with him. Or so he told himself.

  To be honest, he liked being with her, became lost in her warm green eyes and dreamed of touching her soft skin. Today, when he’d driven her home, he’d caught her glancing his way a couple of times. The moment he caught her eye, she tossed him a little smile before looking away. Man did his heart skip a beat or what.

  Fuck it. He dialed her number before he changed his mind.

  “Tom Hardy.”

  “Tom. Hunter Markum. Is Kerry around?”

  “Sure. I’m not letting her out of my sight if I can help it.”

  Hunter smiled. He liked Tom.

  A moment later she was on the phone. “Hunter? Did someone call about the reconstruction?”

  He hated to dampen her hope. “No, I’m sorry. Janet Kopetski’s second husband just returned my call. He’s willing to meet.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Do you want to come with me? I thought maybe having—”

  “Yes. When?”

  He chuckled at her enthusiasm. “How soon can you be ready?”

  “I’m ready now.”

  “I’ll be there in two.” He hung up before she questioned why he was nearby.

  She wouldn’t be happy he was circling her house, but too damned bad. The caller was a potential killer and posed a threat to her.

  Hunter pulled into her drive and smiled at the picture she made standing outside her front door. He liked how the lamps around the base of the trees illuminated the leaves and cast a nice glow on the single-story home. It was harder for someone to sneak up to the place.

  When Kerry climbed into the cruiser, a mixture of sweet and sour hung in the air—like lemons and cinnamon, a scent he’d remember a lifetime as Kerry’s.

  “Thanks for inviting me.”

  The chocolate richness of her words pulled him out of his sensual journey. He inhaled, needing to move back to safer ground. “You didn’t receive any more calls, did you?”

  “No. Why?”

  “You never know with some crackpots.” He didn’t want to scare her too much. “I did some digging into Janet’s first husband, Stanton Grayson. Seems he was, or rather is, an accomplished lawyer. While they lived in Connecticut, she filed for divorce and stated abuse as the reason. It was thrown out of court for lack of evidence.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. The husband probably pulled enough strings to get the court case tossed.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Probably.”

  “Did you find any evidence hubby tried to reconcile?”

  “No.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if Grayson wanted to see her one more time after he’d broken her jaw.” She set her purse on the floor between her legs. “Maybe he feared she’d try to reopen
the lawsuit. A lawyer wouldn’t like to be exposed as a wife beater.”

  “That’s true.” Hunter backed out of her drive. “Let’s see what Kopetski has to say before I contact Stanton Grayson.”

  “Good idea.” Kerry leaned her head back against the seat. She looked as exhausted as he felt. He wished the police had the manpower for around the clock surveillance, but until Kerry was physically threatened, he’d have to be content to motor past her place himself.

  He handed her the directions to Kopetski’s place. In less than twenty minutes, they were at the man’s home, or rather his shack. His living accommodations were not what Hunter had expected, given Janet had married well the first time around.

  In the dark, it was hard to see how much the paint had faded on the one-story wood-framed house, but the missing shutter on the front window told him Kopetski didn’t visit Home Depot on a regular basis. The grass, or maybe weeds, hadn’t been cut in weeks. The trashcan by the curb had been knocked over and its contents littered the drive. The heat mixed with the rotting food filled the air with a rancid stench.

  Kerry stepped around the strewn beer cans and other unidentifiable contents but didn’t comment.

  Kopetski jerked open the door on the first knock. Legs wide, he scowled, narrowed his eyes and planted both hands on the doorframe. The odor of alcohol rolled off him. The stained wife-beater T-shirt only added to the cliché of an abuser. At least the elastic-waist nylon shorts, flip flops, and too tight shirt gave him no place to hide a weapon.

  Why had the man returned his call? To see how much Hunter knew?

  “Mr. Kopetski?” Hunter asked, flashing his badge.

  Kopetski grunted, turned around, and headed toward the living room. The guy didn’t stagger. Good. Nor did he acknowledge Kerry—a good sign he might not be the one hunting her.

  Hunter and Kerry followed him into a musty, smoky living room. He debated asking Kerry to return to the cruiser to wait until the interview was over, but right now, he needed her expertise.

  Without waiting for an invitation, Hunter sat on the sofa, leaving the cleaner-looking chair to Kerry. A dirty plate and half empty coffee mug sat on a table between the sofa and the two chairs. The slob had tossed two pairs of Jockey shorts on the floor in the corner.

  “Mr. Kopetski, when was the last time you saw your wife, or rather your ex-wife?”

  He scratched his chin. “Must be over a year now.”

  “Why did you two divorce?” Hunter wondered if he’d admit to the abuse.

  “Irreconcilable differences.”

  “Was that before or after she landed in prison?”

  “Before.”

  “Did you talk to your ex-wife after she was released from prison?”

  The man’s shoulders stiffened and his lips firmed. “And if I did?”

  Hunter scribbled a note in his pad about Kopetski’s belligerent response. “I’m here only to gather information. We found the remains of a woman with a tattoo on her ankle. The particular shape led us to her father who identified the tattoo as belonging to your ex.”

  “So?”

  So? What an asshole. “Did you stay in contact with Janet throughout her incarceration?”

  Kopetski swiped a hand across his mouth. “I tried, but she wouldn’t talk to me.”

  Hunter didn’t buy the guy’s story. “When she was released, did you contact her?”

  “Maybe.”

  If Kopetski had nothing to hide, why wasn’t he more cooperative? And why call back? Disgusted, Hunter caught Kerry’s attention, jerked his head in the direction of the door and raised his brows.

  Kerry held up a discreet finger. “Mr. Kopetski, I’m a forensic anthropologist, which means I examine bones. Janet had a broken right collarbone shortly before her death. Do you know what happened?”

  Kopetski looked to the right, then to the left. “Yeah. She was carrying a heavy suitcase downstairs from the bedroom. She was almost to the bottom when her foot caught, and she fell.” He glanced to his feet, then back at Hunter. “Say, do I need a lawyer or something?”

  “Only if you killed your wife.”

  Kopetski jumped up from the couch, his lips pulled back in a sneer and his fists clenched at his side. “Fuck that. I didn’t touch the bitch. She fell on her own.”

  Hunter shot to his feet and stepped in front of Kerry, his hand on his weapon. “I merely asked a question.”

  “Fuck the question. I didn’t do shit.”

  Hunter wondered how he could get Kerry out of there without a confrontation. Before he formulated a plan, Kopetski crumpled back to the sofa.

  Hunter released his breath but remained standing. “What were you doing with her the night she fell?”

  “I found some stuff of hers in my garage, so I called her to come pick up her crap.”

  This place didn’t have stairs. He must have been living somewhere else—or else he was lying. “Did you take her to the hospital after the accident?” There’d be a record if he did.

  “She wouldn’t let me. She called a friend who came and picked her up, along with her stuff.”

  “Do you know the name of this friend?”

  “No.” Kopetski stood.

  Enough was enough. “Thanks for your time. If you leave town, let me know.” Hunter dropped his business card on the coffee table.

  He grabbed Kerry’s hand and hurried her outside. The last thing he wanted was her around if a fight broke out.

  Even heavy with moisture, the warm, fresh air was a hell of a lot better than the cigarette-laden house interior. Hunter cut across the lawn to avoid the stinking trash in the drive. He held Kerry’s hand long after they were safely outside, and a feeling of comfort blanketed him. It was the first time since Amy had died he’d been at ease.

  He released his grip to open the car door and said nothing until he’d pulled out of Kopetski’s drive. “So what do you think?”

  “Think? He’s a drunk, he’s angry, and I wouldn’t want him for a husband.”

  Hunter chuckled, but his laugh contained little joy. “You got that right.”

  Kerry twisted in her seat and tucked her leg underneath. “Mr. Norwood mentioned Janet met this guy at work. Brokers usually make a fairly good living. This guy looked like he barely had enough money for food and certainly not enough for cleaning help.”

  “I agree. With his temper though, I wouldn’t be surprised if he lost his job though. His anger could have stemmed from the rejection from the wife or because the market wasn’t doing well. I’ll check out the case file for Janet’s arrest. It might give us a clue about what kind of man we’re dealing with.”

  “Good thinking, detective.”

  Her compliment lightened his anxiety. “The break in the collarbone. How severe was it? Would it require something other than a sling and some ibuprofen?”

  “Hers was bad. Enough to require some screws and a small plate.”

  Hunter pulled onto Dale Mabry Highway, away from David Kopetski. “This woman had a broken collarbone and a broken jaw.” He shook his head in despair. “I don’t understand how a man could hit a woman.”

  “Me neither. Her jaw injury was older than the collarbone break, which fits with the story her father told us.” She slapped the dash. “Damn. Janet had a nick in the bone of her right index finger.”

  Hunter braked at the light and looked over at her. “So?”

  “A collarbone break is a routine operation, probably done by someone in Emergency. I could tell from the coloration of the bone in the finger her injury was right before her death.”

  Someone behind him honked and he diverted his attention back to the road. “How could that lead us to a suspect?”

  “In order for the bone to be chipped, the finger would have been close to being severed.”

  “Go on.” Was she thinking the killer did this?

  “If she didn’t get immediate help, she would have bled to death.”

  “And how do we know bleeding to death wasn’t the
cause of death?”

  “From the smoothness around the bone chip, her finger had been repaired.”

  “Could someone in Emergency have handled it?”

  “The hospital would have called in a vascular surgeon to reconnect the tiny blood vessels. It’s exacting work and takes a specialist. I’ve also known plastic surgeons who do this type of vascular work. One doesn’t rule out the other.”

  He slapped the steering wheel. “Why do we always come back to doctors?”

  “Because we believe they are there to help.”

  11

  Hunter walked Kerry to her front door. She liked being around Hunter, liked his chivalry. She couldn’t remember the last time a man had worried about her so much—other than her grandpa.

  “I’ll pick you up at quarter to eight Monday morning,” Hunter said.

  “I feel bad you’re taking so much time out of your day. If I park in the garage, I’m sure I’ll be safe to drive to work. I wish I could have Grandpa to take me, but he’s kind of a scary driver.”

  “It’s no bother. Really.”

  A small thrill lightened her step knowing someone was watching out for her—and not just anyone, but Hunter Markum.

  Once she threw the deadbolt on the door, she peered through the peephole and watched him trail back to his car.

  She turned around. “Hi, Gramps.”

  No surprise, Grandpa was waiting up for her on the sofa reading a frayed-edged magazine. He wasn’t reading a word if the speed with which he flipped the pages was any indication.

  The Jack Russell jumped at her legs, and Grandpa clapped his hands. “Down Buster. Come here, boy.”

  The dog obeyed. Her cell phone rang, and she smiled. It was Hunter. “Yes, Detective?”

  “I had a thought. Could Kopetski have been your angry caller?”

  Kerry’s joy evaporated. She’d rather have spiders crawling over her body than be in a room with a man vicious enough to kill those women.

  She stepped over to the chair across from the sofa and slid onto the seat, grasping the arm. “I’m not sure.” She tried to replay the stranger’s voice in her mind but couldn’t come up with any distinctive accent or odd speech patterns. “The man on the phone hadn’t spoken more than a few sentences. To be honest, I didn’t pay attention to Mr. Kopetski’s voice, but it’s possible. Both men were angry.” She bit down on her lip. “But what would have been his motive? Murdering his wife, Janet, I could buy, but would he have killed Jane Doe #1?”