Twisted Threads (A Cape Trouble Novel Book 3)

by Janice Kay Johnson

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash where a photographer worked, and a minute ago he’d watched a tech fingerprinting the French door that led from the master bedroom out to a small deck to the side of the house. A square of glass had been neatly cut out to allow the killer to reach in, unlock and open the door. Unbroken, the glass that had been removed sat on the decking to one side. They suspected it had been done earlier. Mrs. Lowe had said dully that she’d never opened the drapes that day and therefore wouldn’t have noticed.

  “Okay.” The lieutenant turned his very dark eyes on Sean. “What did you get out of her?”

  Wilcynski was new to the department, replacing the fat-ass who had finally retired. The sign on his desk said B.J. Wilcynski, inspiring ribald speculation as to what the B and the J stood for. He had informed everyone he was fine with being called BJ or Will. Or – he’d paused - lieutenant. So far, Sean stuck with lieutenant.

  Wilcynski was maybe five years older than Sean’s thirty-two. He’d admitted to having been a sergeant working homicide for the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department, most recently in Compton, known for high crime. Rumor had it that something bad had happened, or that he’d burned out, or he’d been fired, or was madly in love with a woman who lived up here. Take your pick. He wasn’t saying. Sean suspected he’d been referred here by Adam Rostov, a detective also from the L.A. area who had been in Cape Trouble a few months ago, trying to keep a woman alive. Otherwise, what were the odds?

  All Sean knew for sure was that Wilcynski was sharp, professional and experienced enough Sean didn’t mind serving under him.

  Sean didn’t know Jason Payne well, either. He’d joined the department something like four or five months ago. Detectives didn’t partner here; there weren’t enough of them. He was fresh out of uniform, that Sean did remember, but he seemed to be catching on fine.

  Now Sean repeated what Rebecca had gotten out of Rita Lowe as a sequence of events, then the results of his own, difficult conversation with her.

  “She said her husband had an upset stomach after dinner. He took some antacids before bed. She was vaguely aware he’d gotten up a couple of times. Once she heard him crunching on some more antacids. Sounded like she’s a pretty heavy sleeper, though. Certainly didn’t hear anyone coming in the back door. Thinks she might have heard someone talking quietly, but she didn’t pay any attention. Apparently Frank took calls sometimes at night and it wouldn’t have been unusual for him to go in the bathroom so as not to wake her. Anything louder - a shout or thud – she’s sure she’d have heard.”

  “What’s your take on her?”

  “She didn’t do this,” he said right away. “I didn’t get any undertones. I think she was really worried about him when she realized he must have gotten up. Her shock looks genuine to me.”

  “Not to mention her hysteria,” Rebecca muttered.

  Wilcynski’s mouth twitched. “Thank God for sedatives.”

  Amen. “This looks like a professional hit. I can’t imagine we’ll find fingerprints.”

  The lieutenant grunted. “Come daybreak we’ll search for the knife in case he tossed it, but that doesn’t seem real likely either.”

  They all turned when the ME appeared. Sean knew Dennis Yates, balding but fit. He’d almost have to be, with the hours he had to stand during his workday, Sean figured. As small as Burris County was, they were lucky to have their own medical examiner, and one who was actually a doctor. The hospital in North Fork, the county seat, was a decent size, and he was their pathologist. Sean had had longer conversations with him than he’d ever had with two of the other three cops from his own department who were present. The only one he’d spent any time with was Rebecca Walker in her role as negotiator.

  Yates tended to be direct. “I’m going to say time of death was between one and two. 911 call was 3:37, right?”

  Rebecca nodded. “I was fairly close by, got here at 4:00.”

  The ME nodded. “Bruises on his cheeks pre-mortem. A hand closed hard over his lower face, presumably to keep him quiet. The blade was sharp, non-serrated.”

  “Butcher knife?” Sean had seen the wooden block of knives on the kitchen counter. Personally, he kept his knives out of sight. Why advertise an assortment of weapons to an intruder?

  Yates frowned. “Possible, but I’m thinking hunting or military surplus. Something with a four, five inch blade. Sharper than most people keep their kitchen knives. I can tell you more once I have him cleaned up on the table.” He shook his head. “I know this guy.”

  “We all know this guy,” Sean muttered.

  His lieutenant’s eyebrows rose. “I don’t. I take it he wasn’t well liked?”

  “What can I say? He was a defense attorney.” The name hadn’t rung a bell because he knew the victim as Frank, not Francis. Sean had been cross-examined by him in court half a dozen times or more. “He was no worse than most. It’s just...the possibilities for who could hate him are almost limitless. Somebody he failed to get off? Or who he refused to defend? A witness he shamed? A victim who didn’t get justice thanks to him succeeding in getting the scumbag off? Someone who didn’t like the bill he sent? A family member of any of the above?”

  “The wife should know if he’s received any recent threats,” Payne contributed.

  “He has a partner in his practice, too. A woman.” Sean didn’t like her any better. The last time he’d met her in court, he wondered how any woman could defend a rapist. And the odds of her answering questions openly, even given that her partner had been murdered and you’d think she might be scared? Zero. He predicted she’d fight to the death any attempt they made to get a look at client files.

  The ME excused himself, but paused when Sean raised a hand.

  “I don’t want the fact that he wrote letters in blood to get out. Let’s keep the message to ourselves.”

  “Agreed,” the lieutenant said.

  “Nobody talks to me anyway,” Yates said, and departed.

  Wilcynski let Rebecca go, too. Then he turned to Sean.

  “BCD. What does it mean?”

  “First thing I thought of is Burris County Sheriff’s Department. But he left out the S, and what sense does that make anyway?”

  “Birth Control Device,” the photographer called from the kitchen.

  Wilcynski grunted. “I guess death is one form of birth control..”

  “Battlefield Command Detachment,” Jason threw out. When the others looked at him, he shrugged. “I was Army.”

  “I’ll look it up online,” Sean said. “God knows, in the age of acronyms, it probably has a hundred meanings.”

  “You were involved in looking for that missing girl, weren’t you?” the lieutenant asked.

  He nodded. Scratches on his hands and face stung.

  “Then go home and catch a few hours of sleep. I want you to stay primary on this, which means you need to be sharp. I’ll stay here until the CAU people are done and then I’ll check on Mrs. Lowe at the hospital. If she’s awake, I’ll talk to her, then the partner. We can’t rule out this being entirely personal, but I’ll get started on a warrant for his office.”

  “That’ll be a tough sell to any judge.”

  “Have to try.” He glanced at Payne. “Since you’re here and look bright-eyed, I’ll have you knock on doors as soon as neighbors start stirring. One of them might have seen a vehicle parked or slowly driving the neighborhood in the past few days. Even someone walking up to the house. This guy would have had to case it. Tonight wasn’t his first visit.”

  Payne nodded.

  Sean said, “The rain didn’t let up until after midnight.” He probably didn’t have to say this, but he didn’t know Wilcynski well enough yet to leave something this important unspoken. “There almost has to be footprints.”

  “I’ll make sure they look.”

  “Then thanks. Some sleep will help.”

  “Good. I’ll see you when you can get in.” Looking energized, the lieutenant headed for the be
droom. Hey, without a recent homicide in Burris County, he’d been going cold turkey.

  “I’ll walk you out,” the other detective said, grinning when Sean let loose of a jaw-cracking yawn.

  They’d almost reached his vehicle when Jason said, “I just wanted to apologize because I’m kind of sticking my nose in here.”

  Sean looked at him in surprise.

  “I happened to be talking to Carol about something else, and she mentioned Walker’s call.” Carol being the dispatcher. He shrugged. “This sounded more interesting than the couple of homicide investigations I’ve been involved in. Thought I could learn something.”

  That made sense, and Sean understood his eagerness even though he knew most people wouldn’t. Women especially were either fascinated by what he did for a living in a way he found ghoulish, or they were creeped out and he could see them wondering when he’d last touched a dead body.

  He opened his door but stopped before getting in. “It’s good you jumped in. Unless this turns out to be something easy—” and what were the chances of that? “—you’d likely have been pulled in anyway. This way you’re already up to speed.”

  Jason backed away. “I’m glad you don’t think I’m being too pushy.”

  “Nope.”

  Jason was already loping up to the porch when Sean got in and started the engine. He rolled down the window, needing the cold air to keep him awake during the half hour drive home.

  *****

  Emily peeked through the blinds but saw nobody. She appreciated the kindness of her neighbors – really, she did – but sometimes all she wanted was to go out and get her newspaper or mail without having to make conversation. She could have anonymity if she were willing to sell the house and move to a city, where people ignored their neighbors. But this was Cape Trouble, and…she couldn’t leave this house.

  This early, not many people were up yet. She was blessedly alone when she walked the short distance out the gate in her picket fence to her mail and newspaper boxes. Clutching the paper, she heard a car engine and glanced to see the Subaru Outback turning into the driveway of the house next to hers. She’d heard her neighbor come home sometime after one in the morning, then leave again only a few hours later.

  A man got out, his gaze locked on her even before he slammed his door. He always looked at her with the same open intensity, part of what made her so uneasy about him. The other part was…she didn’t quite know. His size, maybe? He was a big guy, probably six foot two, if she had to guess, broad-shouldered and solidly built, his easy power visible in the smallest movement. His brown hair always looked unruly, as if he never combed it or had cowlicks winning the war. He was good looking, not that she had any intention of looking ever again.

  Mostly, she thought it was his eyes that disturbed her. They were bright blue, well-suited for his laser sharp stares.

  Usually, she would dip her head the minimum amount to be polite and retreat as quickly as possible without appearing to flee. But today, a gasp slipped out before she could cover her mouth with her hand. He looked terrible. Lines carved deep aged him a decade from the last time she’d seen him. Scratches decorated his face. What had to be two-day stubble shadowed his jaw. Exhaustion and something indefinable in his stance and eyes had her moving toward him before she’d had time to think.

  She stopped perhaps ten feet from him, the closest she’d been since the day he came to her door to introduce himself. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  He blinked, mitigating the force of his stare, and rubbed his palm self-consciously over his jaw. “That bad, huh?”

  “Well…yes.” That was probably rude, but she couldn’t help herself. “I heard about the missing girl. Did…was she found?” She hadn’t been able to think about anything else all day. Usually she managed a few hours of sleep during the afternoon, but not yesterday.

  Detective Sean Holbeck’s hard face softened. “We found her. She’s okay. She threatened suicide, you know. Took her dad’s old Colt Revolver, but I guess she chickened out.”

  Emily closed her eyes momentarily. “Oh, thank God. I was so afraid—” Then she focused again on his face. “That’s how you got scratched.”

  “Yeah. We had to search the woods.”

  “Is that where you’ve been all night?”

  He shook his head. “Got in at one-thirty or so, then was called out again.”

  “In the middle of the night?” She couldn’t believe she’d said that. Of course terrible things happened in the middle of the night. They happened any hour of the day or night. Any minute. She of all people knew.

  She’d given something away. His eyes narrowed slightly. After the briefest of pauses, he said, “I work major crimes. This was a murder.”

  “Oh, no.”

  His mouth twisted. “You’ll be reading about it in the paper.” His eyes dropped to the one in her hand. “Not this morning’s. But by tomorrow.”

  “Was it…bad?” The idiocy of her question almost made her moan. Was there such a thing as a good murder? A so-so one?

  Her next-door neighbor gave no indication he thought the question to be dumb. “Yeah.” It came out rough. He didn’t seem to notice. “It was.”

  She wanted to run away, but didn’t let herself. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks. As nights go, this one sucked.”

  “Except you found the girl alive.”

  “You’re right. Her parents were really scared.”

  She felt herself blanch. What had she been thinking, to talk about something like this?

  Sean took a step toward her. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” She edged backward. “Yes, of course. I shouldn’t have kept you standing out here. You must be exhausted.”

  She could tell he was thinking about her reaction, but he didn’t comment on it.

  “I’m going to grab a bite and then get some sleep,” he admitted.

  “Okay. Um…I hope you sleep well.” Her heel caught a crack in the sidewalk and she had to do a quick two-step to stay on her feet. Now her cheeks were undoubtedly flushed.

  Sean Holbeck hadn’t moved. He kept standing right where he’d been, still watching her.

  But I don’t have to keep watching him. She nodded, which was what she should have done in the first place, and turned away to march the last few steps to her gate.

  “Emily.” His voice just reached her.

  She paused with her hand on the latch. “Yes?”

  “I can’t help wondering. I hear what sounds like a machine running in your house, often through the night.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. Does it bother you?”

  He shook his head. “Only because I can’t figure out what I’m hearing.”

  “I’m a quilter. It’s my sewing machine.”

  “Ah.” One corner of his mouth lifted in an almost-smile. “Thank you for solving the mystery.”

  “You’re welcome.” She opened her gate and entered her yard, protected by shrubs that would soon be in bloom. Even so, she saw him cross his own yard in a few strides and let himself into his house.

  She felt…raw as she climbed the porch steps and slipped into her own house. She tried so hard not to feel any more than she could help. Worrying about that poor, troubled teenage girl had lowered her guard. Perhaps because of what he did for a living, her neighbor’s gaze seemed to penetrate it effortlessly. He made her feel vulnerable, something she couldn’t allow.

  No more neighborly sympathy, she told herself. Or neighborly anything else. Not where Sean Holbeck was concerned.

  Agitated more than she wanted to admit, she went to the room where she stored fabrics, already envisioning a wall-hanging quilt. Browns and deep greens to suggest dense forest, but touched by shafts of golden sunlight. Or were they flashlight beams in the night?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sean’s prediction had proved to be absolutely correct. Frank Lowe’s partner in the legal practice had dug in her heels at any request for cooperation. Two days later, Sean
’s original distaste had progressed to active dislike.

  He was back today at the firm of Lowe & Graafstra for yet another try. When he’d been ushered into Sandra Graafstra’s office by a subdued receptionist, she had led him past a couple closed doors. One had to be Frank’s office.

  “He surely had clients who made him more uneasy than others,” he suggested, once they settled down with her desk between them.

  “Of course he did. I do.” Sandra Graafstra looked at him as if he was an idiot. “We recognize that some of our clients actually committed crimes.”

  He refrained from saying, No, really?

  “As you have pointed out, however, the killer could just as well be an individual Frank declined to represent, or a family member of a victim he had never even met, or, who knows, a neighbor he offended when he used a weed killer too close to the property line. Your desire to browse at will through records we are legally obligated to keep confidential smacks of a witch hunt.”

  He knew she was right, but he also thought she didn’t entirely get it. Likely in her early forties, medium height, Ms. Graafstra was a painfully thin woman with a razor-sharp haircut that followed her jawline. Her composure was absolute. She didn’t bother to hide the fact that she didn’t like cops any better than he liked defense attorneys, and especially her. Sean was more tempted than he should be to slap a photo of her partner’s body on the desk in front of her and see whether that would even shake her.

  Probably not, considering her expertise at verbally brutalizing rape victims in the courtroom.

  “The likely presumption is that your partner was killed by someone angry at him because of an action he took or didn’t take in his legal practice. I’d think that might make you a little nervous,” he said.

  “Detective, are you not familiar with the concept of attorney/client confidentiality?”

  Her condescension grated. She knew damn well he understood her legal obligations.

  “I wonder how big Frank was on it while he was kneeling naked in his own bathroom feeling that knife start to slice his throat,” he said.