Nature photography was a solitary pursuit, which was precisely what she’d wanted when she’d come to Lost Beach. But lately she’d been craving people, activity, human interaction. All her life she’d been an introvert, but now she found herself chatting up strangers in the grocery store and looking forward to Tuesdays on campus, when she would be surrounded by students.
She was lonely. She could admit it. But being lonely didn’t mean she wanted to plunge right back into CSI work. Her last case had turned her inside out. Even now, all these months later, she still had the pictures of a lifeless child seared into her mind. The crime scene was every parent’s worst nightmare, and she remembered every soul-crushing detail.
Miranda shuddered at the memory. And then the conflict was back, putting a knot in her stomach.
She missed police work, plain and simple. She missed the people. She missed the surge of adrenaline that came from looping a camera around her neck and approaching a scene, her pulse thrumming with anticipation. She missed the sense of foreboding. The challenge. The euphoria of finding that one overlooked clue that could break a case wide open. It was a high like nothing else. Not even sex came close.
Plus, Miranda was good at it. She had an instinct that set her apart from other CSIs, even ones with years more experience. She knew this about herself, and it gave Joel’s words all the more impact.
I’ve seen your work. I want you.
Miranda felt a warm pull deep inside her as she pictured his blue eyes. How was it that a man she’d only just met could invade her thoughts so completely? Joel and his case had permeated every waking hour since she’d made her discovery. Was she obsessed with the man? Or was it the work she longed for because she needed to fill a void?
Maybe both.
But she couldn’t have it both ways. If she worked with him, a personal relationship was out. And if she started seeing him, she could forget about accepting the job offer. Miranda had naïvely tried to mix professional and personal once before and it had backfired on her completely. After an intense four-month relationship—which had probably been more intense, she realized now, specifically because they’d kept it under wraps—her boyfriend had abruptly broken up with her. And then she’d had to cross paths with him every day while secretly nursing her wounds. She’d made a vow to herself not to go there ever again.
Miranda sighed. She knew what she needed to do. What she wanted to do. But the thought of actually doing it made her heart race. Forensic work was high stakes, the very highest. Not like nature photography. In police work, if you missed your shot, you didn’t get another one. The possibility of failure was always there, swirling beneath the surface like a current ready to pull you under. She’d been pulled under before.
The job was risky, which attracted her and scared her, both at once.
Miranda unzipped her pouch and took out her phone. Before she could change her mind, she scrolled through the call history and found Joel’s number. Her thumb hovered over it.
Maybe calling his cell was too personal. She should keep things professional and call him at work.
She found the website for Lost Beach Police and tapped the number. As it rang, Miranda remembered the time. It was barely seven. He probably wasn’t in yet.
“Lost Beach PD,” a woman’s voice said.
“I’m calling for Detective Breda.”
“Which one?”
Miranda didn’t respond. Did he have a brother on staff? Maybe a sister or a cousin?
“Joel, please.”
“He’s out,” the woman told her. “Would you like to leave a message?”
“No. Thank you.”
Miranda hung up, uncomfortable now. Things with Joel had felt friendly last night—almost intimate. But in reality, she knew almost nothing about him.
She found his cell number and called it.
“Breda.”
“Hi. It’s Miranda.”
“I know.”
Her heart skittered. Damn it, she’d thought she knew what she wanted to say to him. She stood up now, brimming with nervous energy.
“Hello?”
She cleared her throat. “I’m calling about your offer. I’d like to accept.”
No response. She waited a beat. And another. And another.
“Joel?”
“Let me call you back.”
He clicked off, and she stared down at the phone.
Benji bounded up to her. He halted at her side and shook water all over her feet. She looped the towel around his neck and scrubbed him dry. Then she walked over to a piece of driftwood and sank onto it. Benji plunked down on the sand beside her, panting.
Miranda stroked his head as she gazed out at the waves. Her pulse was thrumming again now. Was she making a mistake? She wasn’t sure how she’d expected Joel to react, but that hadn’t been it.
Benji scrambled to his feet and darted toward the surf again just as her phone chimed.
She took a deep breath. “Hi.”
“Sorry about that,” he said. “Where are you?”
“At the beach.”
“You have your camera with you?”
“No. But I can get it.”
“Hang on.”
She heard muffled voices in the background as he talked to someone.
“Get it,” he said.
“You mean—”
“You’re officially hired,” he told her. “And we’ve got a crime scene.”
* * *
* * *
Nicole popped open the trunk of the patrol car and rummaged through the heap of equipment. Traffic cones, waders, extra ammo. She found the box containing disposable Tyvek suits. She handed the box to Miranda.
“Thanks for coming,” Nicole said.
“No problem.”
Nicole offered Miranda a pair of gloves, too, but she shook her head.
“I brought my own.”
Nicole eyed the tackle box at her feet. “And you have your own kit?”
“Yep.”
Miranda zipped into the suit. Then she pulled her hair back into a ponytail and secured it with an elastic band from around her wrist.
“Where’s Joel?” Miranda asked, looking toward the campground.
“On his way. He’s getting the warrant.”
“You sure?”
“The judge just signed off. The vehicle’s registered to the female victim, tentatively identified as Elizabeth Lark, age twenty-two.”
Miranda nodded. “In that case, I’ll go ahead and get started with the outside.” She looped her camera around her neck. “Don’t walk on anything till I’m finished, okay?”
“Sure.”
“And don’t touch anything.”
“I know.”
Miranda trekked across the grass and set down her tackle box by a police barricade. She ducked under the yellow tape that Nicole and Emmet had set up last night. After the driver’s license photo had come back, she and Emmet had cordoned off the scene and stationed an officer nearby while Joel got the ball rolling on the warrant.
Nicole slammed shut the trunk and looked around, wishing Joel would hurry. It was humid as hell. She’d been here an hour already, and the can of mosquito repellant she’d doused herself with was having little effect.
She leaned back against the trunk and watched Miranda Rhoads circle the Airstream with her camera. Smart. Pretty. Pushy attitude. The woman was one hundred percent Joel’s type, and Nicole wondered how much flirting he’d done to get her to take this job. Not that she cared, really. They were headed into the high season shorthanded, and Nicole was glad he’d managed to find someone before Memorial Day.
The CSI knelt beside the door of the camper and looked over her shoulder at Nicole.
“What size shoe do you wear?” she asked.
“Six.”
“Anyone else been walking around here?”
“Just me and Emmet. He’s a thirteen.”
She turned and photographed something before continuing around the Airstream. Nicole slapped at mosquitoes, thinking wistfully of the sixteen-ounce coffee she’d decided not to buy this morning because she didn’t want to have to pee while stuck at a crime scene.
A low rumble had Nicole turning around. Joel’s gray pickup bumped across the field. Emmet was in the passenger seat. Joel slowed as he drove through the fence posts and then parked beside her patrol car. He got out and looked at Miranda.
“You get the warrant?” Nicole asked him.
“Yep.”
Emmet walked over, swilling a Red Bull. “Where’s Hartman?”
“I sent him home. He was out here all night.”
Joel nodded at Miranda. “How long’s she been here?”
“About fifteen minutes.”
They watched as Miranda crouched beside the camper door with her tackle box open beside her. Using a fat black brush, she dusted the doorframe for fingerprints.
Joel swung his long legs over the crime scene tape. Emmet followed. Nicole grabbed the boxes of gloves and shoe covers and joined them by the Airstream.
Miranda knelt beside the door, flushed cheeked. She adjusted her camera lens and took pictures of the doorframe. Next, she took out a piece of clear tape and carefully stretched it over a trio of black fingerprints.
“Morning,” Joel said.
“Morning.” She didn’t look up as she slowly lifted the tape. “You get your warrant?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m almost done here.”
She placed the tape over a white index card and slid it into an evidence envelope. Then she stood up.
“You plan to jimmy it?” Miranda asked as everyone pulled on gloves and shoe covers.
Emmet held up a battery-powered lockpick. “We’ll use this.”
“Wow. Fancy.”
Miranda moved out of the way as Emmet inserted the pick into the lock. It made a low hum, and metallic dust sprinkled down. A soft click, and Emmet moved aside.
Miranda stepped toward the door, but Joel held up his hand. “We need to clear it.”
“Okay, but don’t move anything,” she instructed.
“I won’t.”
“Don’t even touch anything.”
“I won’t.”
Joel took out his pocket flashlight and entered the camper, followed by Emmet. The Airstream was small, so Nicole kept Miranda company outside while she packed up her evidence kit.
“All good,” Emmet called.
Miranda went in first and placed her kit by the door. She lifted her camera and immediately started clicking away.
Nicole stepped into the Airstream. The space was stuffy and dim, with only natural light streaming through the open door. Thick white curtains covered the windows.
The guys moved to the back, and Nicole scanned the living space, cataloging impressions. Her first one was that Elizabeth Lark was a meticulous housekeeper.
The camper’s countertops were spotless, the sink empty. A pair of lemon yellow plates sat in a drying rack beside a toaster oven. A half dozen different-colored coffee mugs hung from evenly spaced hooks beneath the kitchen cabinet. Nicole noticed the mint green Mixmaster and did a double take. She tried to imagine whipping up a batch of cupcakes in a kitchen this small. While on a road trip, no less.
Miranda was crouched beside the fridge now, photographing the contents. Nicole stepped around her to the small booth by the window. The seats were white vinyl and they looked like they could fold into a bed.
On the wall beside the booth was a strand of twinkle lights. Polaroid photos were clipped to the strand with small pink clothespins. Nicole leaned close to look. Each photo featured Elizabeth by herself or with her as-yet-unidentified boyfriend. One photo showed the couple on a beach at sunset with their hands pressed together in the ubiquitous heart shape. Another picture showed Elizabeth doing yoga, then another in tree pose on a rock bridge. Another photo showed her in full splits at the top of a cliff.
“Damn.” Emmet leaned over her shoulder. “Can you do that?”
Nicole rolled her eyes. “Get a life.”
“What? I’m curious.”
She ducked under his arm. “Any evidence in the bedroom?”
“Yeah. Evidence they’re schizo.”
“What?”
“This room’s perfect.” He turned around to look at it. “The bedroom’s a dump.”
Nicole squeezed around his oversize body and stepped to the back of the trailer.
Joel stood there, looking around, his gloved hands tucked obediently in his pockets. The bedroom was indeed a complete crap hole. Shoes and clothes were strewn everywhere. The sheets were in a tangle atop the mattress. A pizza box sat open on a pillow, a gelatinous glob of cheese stuck to the bottom.
A magazine lay open on the floor, and Nicole stooped to see what it was. Entertainment Weekly. The date on the header was three weeks ago.
Joel crouched beside the mattress to look at something with his flashlight. Nicole could tell by his expression that it was something important.
“What is it?” she asked.
With a gloved hand, he picked up a yellow scrap of paper. “Check it out.”
She stepped over to look. It was one of those wristbands they gave out at bars and waterparks.
“This could really help us,” Joel said.
“How? They hand those out everywhere.”
“This one’s from Buck’s Beach Club. See the palm tree logo?” He held up the wristband, and she noticed the design. “They use them to differentiate over-twenty-one and under-twenty-one customers. Different color for every night, so—”
“So we can figure out what night they were there, which might tell us when they showed up on the island,” she said.
“Exactly. And possibly who they hung out with, too,” he said. “They have security cams at the door there.”
“Wow. Good lead.”
Emmet stepped into the room and made a face. “Smells like piss in here.”
He was right, and Nicole searched for the source.
Thunk.
She whirled around. The sound had come from the closet. She drew her weapon.
Ka-thunk.
Nicole’s heart lurched. She reached for the door, but Emmet stepped in front of her.
“Emmet, wait. Don’t—”
A yowl erupted as he opened the door and a gray animal leaped out.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Miranda tromped across the grass to the pickup truck. Emmet stood beside it with his shirt off, cleaning the gashes on his chest.
“Here.” She held out a tube of antibiotic ointment from her first-aid kit.
“I’m good.”
“Really, you should use it. Cat scratch fever’s no joke.”
He reluctantly took the ointment, and Miranda rounded the back of the pickup as Joel ended a call with someone and slipped his phone into his pocket.
“You about done?” he asked, looking her over. She’d stripped off her Tyvek suit and now wore a tank top and yoga pants.
“For now.” The breeze felt good against her skin after the stifling coveralls. She looked at the patrol car, where Nicole was using a pocketknife to puncture holes in the top of a cardboard box. “Is that for the cat?”
“Yeah. She’s taking it to a shelter.”
Miranda shot him a look.
“Relax. They don’t euthanize.”
Nicole walked back to the camper, probably to retrieve the traumatized kitty, which had likely been stuck in the closet for days. After clawing Emmet, it had raced into the bathroom to hide behind the toilet.
“What do you mean ‘for now’?�
� Joel asked her. “What’s left to do?”
“I’d like to come back after dark with some luminol. I didn’t see any traces of blood or signs of a struggle, but I want to be sure. Someone could have cleaned up in there.”
“Couldn’t we cover the windows and do it now?”
“It’s easier just to wait.”
Joel’s brow furrowed as he turned to look at the camper. He rubbed the stubble on his chin, which was thicker than last night. The scruffy look suited him, and Miranda was annoyed with herself for noticing. She’d accepted his job offer, and they were co-workers now. She needed to stop thinking about his looks.
“What’s your take?” he asked.
“My take?”
“I want your opinion.” He turned those vivid blue eyes on her. “You’ve seen a lot of crime scenes. What stands out to you?”
She felt flattered that he’d asked—which was probably his intent.
“Well, for starters, the obvious,” she said. “No wallets, no IDs, no phones. Which makes me think they had those things out on the boat, maybe in the backpack, and that the killer took them.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “To stall identification? Or if he knew them personally, maybe to hide phone calls or text messages? Could be a combination of reasons.”
Joel nodded, and she felt a twinge of irritation. This was Homicide 101, and he didn’t need her to tell him this stuff.
“Also, no sign of hard drugs,” she said. “No paraphernalia that would make me think they were moving product for someone. No cigarettes, no alcohol, no prescriptions of any kind. Just some over-the-counter allergy meds. And no evidence of visitors that I could see, although we’ll need to run the prints I lifted. As far as I could tell, it was just the two of them using the place.”
“We’ll get the prints to the ME today. It shouldn’t take us long to confirm her ID. Then we can notify her next of kin and hopefully figure out who the boyfriend is.”
“That’s big progress.”
“Yeah.”
“So, why are you frustrated?”
He glanced at her, then looked back at the camper and shook his head. “Something about their place seems off.”
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