The Hangman (Forgotten Files Book 3)

by Mary Burton

  “Officer Sara Young,” she said. “This is Charlie. You want us to search for cadavers?”

  “Crews have been through the house, but I don’t want to overlook anything.”

  “Where do you want us to start?”

  “How about upstairs.”

  “Will do.” She left Novak, and she and her dog climbed stairs that creaked and groaned with each step. He followed.

  The second floor was dark, and if not for the sunlight streaming in the windows, it would have been hard to navigate. He pulled a flashlight from his pocket and clicked it on as Charlie moved into the first room, sniffing as Officer Young spoke softly to him.

  There were three bedrooms and one bathroom upstairs. A string dangled from an attic pull. The canine checked the first bedroom. It was small, and a soiled twin mattress lay on the floor. The second bedroom wasn’t much different, though this one had a window that overlooked the brick wall of the town house next door.

  He moved toward the front room and found a series of yellow numbered tents that he guessed Natasha had left behind when she’d moved her investigation upstairs. He knelt in front of the tents, which were placed on dark spots that stained the room.

  Charlie moved to the brown spot and sniffed. He wagged his tail and barked.

  “He’s alerting me that he’s found something. Likely blood.”

  “Looks like the forensic tech spotted it.”

  Charlie barked again as Officer Young rewarded him with a treat. “We’ll move downstairs and to the basement.”

  Fishing his phone from his pocket, Novak texted his number to Young and, after the pair left the room, called Natasha.

  Her voice was heavy with sleep when she answered. “Natasha Warner.”

  “It’s Novak. Did I wake you?”

  “Taking a short break. Just in from the Church Hill home an hour ago.”

  “Why the yellow tents on the upstairs bedroom floor?”

  “Field test showed the presence of human blood.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll have a better idea when I run more tests, but someone bled out in that room. However, I don’t know when.”

  “DNA can match it to the victim.”

  “It might. That’s assuming we can pull some kind of DNA from her teeth or bones. Still too early to tell given the house was ground zero for countless homeless people.”

  “You find anything else while you were upstairs?”

  “Place is full of trash. I’ll be back later and sift through what’s there. Again, will let you know.”

  “Right.”

  “I’ll be in touch soon.”

  “Thanks.”

  He stood and stared at the brown stain. If she’d been killed up here, it would explain the lack of blood in the basement. Twenty-three years old. She was young, but he’d seen younger kids die.

  Novak checked in with Officer Young one last time and drove to Marcus Delany’s house, located in a community twenty-five minutes south of the city. He wound his way down the center drive to a two-story brick colonial with a wide front porch furnished with a handful of white rockers.

  Novak parked at the top of a circular drive and climbed the front steps. He rang the bell. Within seconds, the door opened to an older African American woman, who peered at him over half-glasses. “Can I help you?”

  He held up his badge. “I’m looking for Marcus Delany. And you are?”

  “Susan. I work here. What’s this about?”

  “Questions about one of his properties.”

  “He’s in the sunroom reading. Let me tell him you’re here. Wait here.” She closed the door, leaving him to stand on the porch. He waited a good five minutes before she returned. “He’ll see you.”

  “Thank you.”

  She pointed down the hallway. “Follow me. Second door on the left.”

  Novak followed, taking in the expensive modern art on the walls and the vaulted ceiling.

  “Mr. Delany,” Susan said. “You have the police here to ask you questions about some property.”

  Novak found a lean man sitting in a chair by a large window as he read from a laptop. “Mr. Delany, Detective Novak.”

  Delany looked up from his screen and rose. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

  Novak moved toward him and showed him his badge. “I’ve questions about a property you inherited from your father.”

  “Pops left me several properties. Which one?” Delany sat and motioned for Novak to do the same.

  He pulled up a straight-back chair and sat. “This is a 1920s row house a block off Broad Street in Church Hill.”

  “I turned that over to the city a couple of years ago. I’m in the land development business, and my fortunes rise and fall. A few years ago they were low, so I stopped paying the taxes on that place. Does the city want to give it back to me?”

  “No. Nothing like that.”

  “Hell of a location to own property. Has a lot of potential if you can wait for the real estate market to turn. It still hasn’t really taken off in that particular section, which I suppose explains why I couldn’t sell it when I needed to unload it. In the end, I had to walk away. Maybe the current owner will have better luck.”

  “The newest owner has a troubling problem. The body of a woman was found in the basement.”

  “What does that have to do with me? I’ve not had access to that property in years.”

  “We think the victim has been in the basement twenty-five years. You had possession of the property at the time of her death.”

  “I did inherit it from my father while I was trying to launch my land development project in the Far West End. Another great location, but I lost my shirt in the early nineties. I was getting back on my feet by the end of the decade.”

  “Looks like you’ve done well for yourself.”

  “Like I said, the fortunes rise and fall.”

  “Was the Church Hill property vacant in the early nineties?”

  “It was not. There was a guy whom I allowed to live there. He needed a roof, and I didn’t care as long as he paid the utilities.”

  “What was his name?” Novak pulled out his notebook and flipped to a fresh page.

  Delany raised a thin hand to his chin and scratched as he dug for the name. “Scott Turner.”

  “When is the last time you saw Mr. Turner?”

  Delany shook his head. “He packed up his stuff without warning and moved out of the house right about the time you’re asking about. He gave no word to me that he was leaving. And he stuck me with one hell of a heating bill. I haven’t seen him since.”

  He scribbled the man’s name on a clean sheet. “What did Mr. Turner do?”

  “He bartended in the Slip and worked odd jobs. I met him at one of my construction sites. Likable guy.”

  “Did Turner ever mention a woman named Rita Gallagher?”

  “Hell if I know. Like I said, I was letting him squat in the place.” He sat back, uncrossed and recrossed his legs again. “I can tell you the guy was good-looking, a real ladies’ man. If half the tales he told on the construction site were true, there were a lot of ladies in and out of his bed.” He shifted in his chair. “Is this Rita Gallagher your victim?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think Turner killed her?”

  “I don’t know. I’m trying to piece together what happened in and around the house at the time. And you’ve had no contact with Scott Turner at all since?”

  “You know, I think he moved to California. Heard one of the boys on the job talking about him. Turner owed him money.”

  “Turner have any friends in the area?”

  “I was his boss, not his friend. I didn’t keep up with him.”

  “Did anyone else live in the house?”

  “After Turner bolted, I couldn’t get anyone to live there for free, let alone for money. The area was rough, but I had hopes the real estate market would improve around there. I locked the front door and waited for property valu
es to come around. And as you know now, they didn’t move fast enough and the city took the place.”

  “Did you have anyone check on the property over the years?”

  “I didn’t invest a dime in the place. My properties in the West End took all my energy. And when they paid off, I set my sights even farther west. I’m always looking for the next big real estate score.”

  Novak handed the man one of his cards. “If you think of anything else about the house, let me know.”

  “Yeah sure. So who was this woman?”

  Novak rose, not willing to discuss details. “I don’t know much at this stage. Like I said, I’m still pulling the pieces together.”

  Delany stood. “And she’s been in the house for twenty-five years?”

  “Looks like it.”

  He shook his head. “Damn. I’m glad I didn’t know. She can’t be much more than bones.”

  Novak didn’t comment on the state of the body. “Thank you for your time.”

  “Sure. Call me anytime.”

  In his car, he drove toward the Far West End to the last address listed on Rita Gallagher’s driver’s license. The Maple Tree Apartments were next to the area hospital and in the early nineties had been new. The development had been updated with a fresh coat of gray paint, but the design and building materials hearkened back to that decade. The landscaping was neat and crisp and the lawns mowed.

  He parked in front of a rental office and, once inside, found a petite strawberry-blond woman with large glasses sitting at the reception desk. “I’m Detective Tobias Novak with the City of Richmond Police.”

  “I’m Wanda Richardson, the manager.”

  “I’m hoping you can help me with a former tenant. The name is Rita Gallagher, and she listed her last address as 702 unit D.”

  “Sure. Let me see what I can find.” Smiling, Wanda turned to her computer and typed. “You’re lucky. We digitized our records several years ago. When was she here?”

  “Around 1992.”

  “Why’re you digging into twenty-five-year-old records?”

  “We found Rita Gallagher’s body last night. I’m trying to trace her last steps.”

  Wanda adjusted her glasses as she looked up. “You just found her?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I didn’t see any mention on the news.”

  “We’ve not released any information yet, but I imagine it will make the evening news.”

  “Did you find her in a grave?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Right. Sorry. Not the kind of question I should be asking.” She nodded and turned her attention to the computer. “We’ve been through a couple of management changes since 1992.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Since ’96. Sorry.”

  She keyed in the name and leaned in to read the screen. “She lived here with a roommate, Charlotte Gibson. They were in the apartment for a year. According to a note from the property manager, Rita Gallagher moved out and defaulted on her share of the rent. Ms. Gibson was able to finish paying the last two months, but was late both times. Ms. Gibson moved out at the end of 1992.”

  “Do you have any forwarding information for her?” He pulled out his notebook and flipped to a clean page.

  “I have an address where we sent the remainder of her security deposit.” She rattled it off. “But it’s twenty-five years old. Not sure if it will help.”

  “It’s a start.” He looked up. “Was there employment information on file for Rita Gallagher?”

  “She listed her place of employment as a bar called Billy’s, located on Main Street in the city.”

  Julia lived above Billy’s now. He didn’t like all the leads trailing back to her. He scribbled the information. “Thanks.”

  Wanda frowned as she read the computer screen. “Charlotte and Rita lost most of their security deposit. The carpet in the back bedroom was destroyed. I have a note here that Charlotte came in and complained about us keeping her deposit. She blamed the stain on Rita. She received ten dollars and two cents back from her deposit.”

  “Does it say how the carpet was damaged?”

  She read the files, scanning lines of neatly written notes. “Nope. Says it was a rust stain. Floorboards also had to be replaced. When the floorboards have to be redone, that’s usually pet damage. At that time we had a no-pet policy, but people break the rules all the time.”

  “That color usually associated with pets?”

  “Depends. There’s mention of a rust smell, which we usually don’t find with pet damage.”

  “Can you print out what you have on file for me?”

  “Sure.” She turned to a printer and collected the pages. “Just because they weren’t supposed to have a pet doesn’t mean they didn’t. If this job has taught me any lesson, it’s that people lie. Some more than others.”

  “Right.”

  Rita had been killed by blunt force trauma to the back of her head. There’d been no blood at the basement crime scene, but blood upstairs. She could have been struck in her apartment and brought to the Church Hill house to die. Or neither stain could be of relevance. At this point, he suspected he was dealing with multiple crime scenes.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Monday, October 30, 10:00 a.m.

  As Julia slipped into the courtroom, the commonwealth’s attorney and the defense attorney were huddled in front of Judge Robert Bischoff, an athletic man in his late sixties. The judge did not suffer fools gladly and had a reputation for imposing the maximum prison terms allowed by law.

  Bischoff scowled as he stared over half-glasses at the sleek, tall female defense attorney dressed in designer black and then at the thirtysomething male prosecutor in an ill-fitting suit. Today was sentencing day for drug trafficker Benny Santiago.

  Julia looked toward the defendant’s seat and noted the wide shoulders of the man in the conservative dark-blue suit. Benny Santiago had cut his long dark hair into a sensible style that now highlighted flecks of gray he normally dyed. There was no sign of the bird tattoo on the right side of his neck, and she guessed the attorney had used stage makeup to cover it up. Benny Santiago was presenting himself as Respectable Man in a play called A Judicial Travesty.

  She didn’t need to see Benny’s face to know that the sleeker hairstyle enhanced his angled olive-toned features. He was as beautiful to look at as he was vicious.

  When he lifted his arm slightly to adjust a cuff, she noted the tattooed snake on the back of his wrist. She knew from experience the tattoo wound up his arm and coiled around a muscled bicep. Beneath the bland cotton shirt and traditional suit beat the heart of one of the cruelest drug dealers in the mid-Atlantic. And he was here today to learn how much time he’d serve in prison.

  For seventy-one days, Julia had worked undercover as a dealer and bartender in El Lobo, a bar ninety miles east of Richmond in Virginia Beach. As she slung drinks, the wire embedded in a necklace had video recorded Benny and his crew as they made deal after deal. She’d blended well into the rough culture, easily losing herself in the role of Jules Glover. She’d been so close to finding out who supplied Santiago with his drugs.

  And then, the last night of the operation, someone had told Benny a police takedown was in the works. Benny had gone wild with rage and turned his anger toward a familiar target, his young girlfriend, Lana Ortega, a full-figured blonde with dark-brown eyes. He’d pinned Lana up against the wall and, always careful not to harm her face, drove his fist into her belly. He’d cocked his fist and hit her again as he demanded to know who had betrayed him. She’d crumpled and whimpered, begged him to stop as a bar full of Benny’s boys watched. He’d pulled her up by her hair and raised a gun to her temple.

  Julia hurried around the bar. “Shit, Benny. Leave her. If what they’re saying is true, you need to get out of here now.”

  “Who the fuck are you to talk to me?”

  “The only one here who has the guts to give you good advice.”

&
nbsp; Benny turned on her in a blind rage, grabbed her wrist, and twisted. The pain made her drop to her knees. “I’ve seen you talking to Lana.”

  Before she could speak, he hit her with a bone-rattling punch to the jaw. She landed hard on the floor. He grabbed the necklace and ripped it off. “What the hell were you two bitches talking about?”

  He rolled her on her back as a crowd gathered. He drove a fist into her ribs. The pain overwhelmed her, and she struggled to reach the small service weapon strapped to her ankle.

  Lana stumbled to her feet, her hand pressed to her gut, and watched as Benny reached for the snap on Julia’s pants. “Benny, she wears a gun in her boot.”

  Benny’s fingernails scraped along her leg and pulled the gun from its strap.

  “Nobody gets in my business, bitch,” Lana spat.

  The judge’s gavel brought Julia back to the present. The attorneys returned to their seats as the courtroom doors opened.

  As Julia tried to relax against the hard bench, a plump blonde wearing a tight red skirt and a form-fitting white sweater made her way to the front of the courtroom. A thick trail of perfume followed her.

  Lana took a seat behind Benny. “Hey, baby.”

  As Benny turned to smile at Lana, his gaze swept the room and, for an instant, hitched onto Julia. A small smile tipped the edge of his full lips. Without a word spoken, she understood he considered her unfinished business.

  Julia didn’t budge or allow her line of sight to waver.

  Lana’s gaze trailed her boyfriend’s, and when it settled on Julia, her lips rose into a snarl. She wore her hatred as plainly as the fresh heart tattoo above her right ankle.

  Julia remained as still as stone. She could hide her thoughts and feelings better than Benny. He was an amateur.

  Judge Bischoff’s gavel drew Lana’s attention to the front of the court. Benny winked at Julia before he slowly turned to face the front of the courtroom.

  The female attorney, Elizabeth Monroe, was on retainer for many of the drug dealers in the area, and Julia knew exactly how Benny had been able to hire her. Monroe beckoned Benny to stand. The commonwealth’s attorney and his assistant also stood and faced the judge.