Her Perfect Bones: A totally addictive mystery and suspense novel

by Ellery A Kane

Olivia stepped over a T-shirt and a dingy black sock, Deck close behind her. She reached the shelf, where the dolls gathered dust, waiting for someone to love them threadbare. But a framed picture on the nightstand called to her instead.

  She picked it up, brought it close to her. Her breath caught in her chest as she realized.

  “Is that your dad?” Deck asked, over her shoulder.

  Scott’s eyes popped open. His nostrils flaring, he lurched up and snatched the frame from her hands. “Gimme that.”

  “Sorry, I just—”

  “What the hell are you doin’ in my bedroom? Where’s Pearl?”

  “I’m right here, Scotty.” Miss Pearl stepped in from the doorway, motioned with her hands to soothe him. “Cool your jets. Calm down and count to five, just like your counselor taught you.”

  His voice shaky as a tripwire, Scott began to count. His knuckles whitened as he squeezed the frame.

  Olivia turned to Miss Pearl. “Why does he have a photo of my dad?”

  “What the hell are you talkin’ about, lady?” So much for his anger management.

  Olivia grabbed the picture back from him, ripped it right out of his hands. She jabbed at the image of her father, clad in a blue jumpsuit, posing in front of a prison mural, the words “Valley View” stenciled in black paint beneath it. A younger Scott on one side of him, Termite on the other. Her father had wrapped the both of them beneath his burly arms.

  “This man, Martin Reilly, was my father.” As Olivia spoke the words to him—practically shouted them—a sickening shame coursed through her; it had taken her this long to truly claim him.

  She looked into Scott’s eyes, the glinting blue both strange and familiar. Watched his fire dampen, his anger turn to confusion. “Mad Dog, ya mean? He’s my grandpa.”

  Olivia stood open-mouthed and staring at Scott—her nephew? Still rumpled from sleep, he seemed genuinely confused by her indignation. She couldn’t stand to look at him any longer. Spinning around, she directed a question to Miss Pearl. “Is it true?”

  Miss Pearl nodded and hung her head as she released a world-weary sigh. She motioned for Olivia to follow her from the bedroom, padding back down the hallway to the kitchen. Both of them shell-shocked, they sat at the table, avoiding each other’s eyes.

  “How long have you known?”

  “It wasn’t my secret to tell, dear. Your father was a complicated man.”

  “How long?” she asked again.

  “Since Termite was a baby. His mama, Ruby, came to me, told me the truth. That Three Fingers wasn’t Termite’s daddy. That she and Mad Dog had a fling. This was right before your father met your mother. Ruby asked me for my advice on what to do.”

  “And you told her to lie?”

  “Three Fingers Colvin wasn’t nobody to mess with. You know that. He would’ve beat her to a pulp if he’d known she was steppin’ out on him. Especially with his long-time buddy. I thought maybe a baby would settle him down.”

  Scott had slunk down the hallway to listen in. She couldn’t fault him for being exactly like her. Desperate for the scraps of her own history. “So if you didn’t tell anyone, how did he find out? How did Termite?”

  While she spoke, Miss Pearl motioned Scott to the table, pulled out a chair for him. “Your dad contacted Termite a year ago, after Three Fingers had that heart attack. I guess he figured it was about time to come clean.”

  “To everyone but me, apparently.”

  From behind her, Deck placed his hand on her shoulder. The solid warmth of it grounded her, even as she felt herself breaking into pieces, scattering. He handed her the Mary Jane doll he’d rescued from Scott’s room, and her fingers busied themselves in the reddish-brown yarn covering its head. “What about the safety deposit box? Did you know what was inside? That he was an informant for the cops?”

  Miss Pearl clutched her chest. “Well, I’ll be darned. I had no idea. Honestly, I’d always imagined he’d left you a letter, telling you Termite was your brother.”

  “Half-brother.” The word stuck in Olivia’s throat. Bad enough her father had been a shot caller for the Oaktown Boys. Her half-brother was too. Turns out she’d been related to a murderer after all. Termite had surely slit Tina Solomon’s throat. And as the shot caller for the Oaktown Boys, she felt certain he’d had a hand in her father’s death.

  Olivia gripped the doll in her hands, squeezing the life from poor Mary Jane. She turned to Scott, unsure how she felt about him. “That photo… your dad looked happy.” Until it all came out, the storm inside her building to a crescendo. “Why did he have my—our—father killed?”

  Scott considered her, puffed his chest and sized her up like a wannabe tough guy. His stare, hard as nails. He looked exactly like his father. But seconds later, the mask slipped. A teenage boy after all, he just shrugged.

  Twenty-Five

  Will followed Olivia to her car, neither of them speaking. He marveled at the strangeness of it all. At how she’d been completely right about the doll on the dresser. At how she’d held it together in there, taken the blow to the gut like a prize fighter and stayed standing. But mostly, at how their fathers had been so much the same, burying their secrets deep. Unearthing them now felt fated somehow. It scared him too, the razor-thin difference between the two men. One man who’d called himself Detective, the other Mad Dog.

  Olivia stopped short suddenly, as if she’d been thinking the same. “That went well.” She held up the Mary Jane doll, looked it in its button eyes, and laughed as she placed it in his hand.

  Hysterical but contagious, her laugh bubbled over, and he couldn’t stop himself from joining in. And so it went, until they’d both doubled over.

  Will wound down first, wiping his eyes while Olivia’s shoulders shook. When she looked up, her eyes were wet too. From laughing or crying, he couldn’t tell which, but the sadness there made him reach for her. Drawing her to him, he held her against his chest. As her hands clutched at the sides of his shirt, he hated himself for liking it.

  Finally, she let go, lifted her face to glance up at him. “Emily’s right. I’m the worst psychologist ever. I can’t even manage my own…” She gestured to the whole of herself. “Whatever this is.”

  “You just found out you have a brother. Called Termite. I think that warrants at least a minor downward spiral.”

  She shook her head, seemingly still disbelieving. “It was bad enough when I thought he was behind the murder of my dad. Now, I find out he killed his own dad, too. What am I supposed to do?”

  Will hardly felt qualified to give advice, especially to a psychologist. But he wanted her to keep looking at him like that. Like she needed him. “Just put one foot in front of the other. Get back to Fog Harbor and bury your dad. We’ll figure out the rest.”

  “I really blew it.” She lowered her eyes again, spoke to the sidewalk. “I should’ve forgiven my dad a long time ago. I just want him to have some justice. Even if he didn’t always deserve it.”

  “He will. I promise you.” Will knew the danger in making promises. He’d learned that lesson as a rookie detective, when his first murder case—a homeless woman found stabbed in a dumpster in the Tenderloin—had gone unsolved. His badge was made of brass; he was no superhero.

  “You should see Ben before you leave.”

  “He doesn’t want to see me. He made that clear last time.”

  “That was what, two years ago? He called you for help, didn’t he? Don’t be like me. Full of regrets.”

  “Trust me. He still blames me for everything.” But he had to admit, Olivia had a point. “I’m probably not even on his visitors’ list.”

  “Just try.” The way she squeezed his hand, her fiery green eyes imploring, he would’ve done anything. Even if it meant swallowing the bitter pill of his pride. “For me.”

  After they parted ways—Olivia driving north to join up with Emily and head back to Fog Harbor, Will south to Valley View—Will dialed JB’s number, expecting to reach his voicemail. Instead,
his partner picked up, heaving a sigh into the phone the size of a gale force wind.

  “Didn’t you tell me to take the day off?”

  “Then why’d you answer the phone?”

  “I figured you missed me, City Boy. It’s okay to admit it.”

  “About as much as I miss hell week in the academy.” Will chuckled at his own joke. “Big news, buddy. I got a last name. Mayfield. Shelby Mayfield.”

  “Sounds like Doctor Rockwell’s solving your cases again.”

  Even now, with the Mary Jane doll riding shotgun, Will could hardly believe it. “I’ll be back in Fog Harbor by tonight. We can start looking for next of kin first thing in the morning.”

  JB made a noise of half-hearted agreement. In the quiet that followed, Will swore he heard Chief Flack’s commanding voice.

  “Are you at the station? What happened to Tammy at the beach in her halter top?”

  Another gust of wind from hurricane JB. “Started drizzling as soon as we got there. Forecast said sunny. Tammy headed to the nail salon for her weekly session instead.”

  “Well, you could’ve joined her.”

  “Trust me, City Boy, when a woman gets her nails done, she doesn’t want male company. It’s meditative. Like spending an hour at the shooting range, putting holes in paper targets. Or going fishing in the bay. Fishing is never about catching fish.”

  “Not the way you do it.” Will swallowed his laugh, as the sign for Valley View loomed up ahead. The hunkering beast of the prison just beyond it. Its gray walls and barbed wire an eyesore in the otherwise picturesque landscape. On a clear day like this one, you could see the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance.

  “Hey, remember that reporter, Heather Hoffman?” JB asked.

  Will stifled a groan. Like he could forget the scornful look on her face when she’d handed over her camera to Amy. Beneath her humiliation, she’d seethed, more than likely plotting his demise.

  “She’s been poking around our case. She called my cell last night, asking if we’d ruled out old man Grimaldi as a suspect.”

  “How’d she know about Grimaldi?” Will asked.

  “I tell ya, that woman’s got more moles than Cindy Crawford.”

  “What?” As usual, JB spoke his own language. “Cindy Crawford had one well-placed mole, if I remember correctly.”

  “Exactly. Just like Hoffman. One well-placed mole. And we both know who it is.”

  “Graham Bauer.” Will had no doubt.

  “Bingo.”

  “So, what did you tell her?”

  “Not a damn thing.” JB cackled, and Will braced himself for another humdinger. “I shared my suspicions with Chief Flack. And she had a little powwow with Bauer. Let’s just say, Cindy finally got that thing removed.”

  “If I can’t see my brother, can I at least speak with Warden Ochoa?” Will directed the question to the CO at the entrance of Valley View, who was too busy shooting the shit with his cronies to pay him any mind. Luckily, he’d also been too distracted to notice Will peering over his shoulder at the computer screen.

  As Will suspected, his name did not appear on Ben’s approved visitor list, which bore only one entry: Their father, Henry Decker. Petey’s criminal record had surely disqualified him right off the bat. And Ben’s buddies from the department had long since dwindled. Say what you want about the thin blue line, nothing will sort your real friends faster than a prison term for voluntary manslaughter.

  “Thought you were just visiting,” the CO said finally, after Will repeated the question. Twice. And loud enough for the lieutenant to hear. He emerged from his office, and the CO’s spine immediately straightened.

  “You have an appointment?” the lieutenant asked.

  “Official police business.” Will flashed his badge to legitimize his little white lie.

  With the lieutenant’s solemn nod of approval, the CO buzzed Will through a chain-link gate and into the courtyard. The final stop before the cold, concrete corridors of the prison where real life ended and purgatory began. A man with a jagged neck scar and a double teardrop tattoo stopped his work sweeping the sidewalk to politely inform Will that the door to the warden’s office was just inside the administrative building. But Will never made it that far.

  “Hey, mister!” The CO called him back. “About your brother…”

  “What about him?” Will’s stomach curdled, as the dread from last night’s nightmare returned.

  “The lieutenant just chewed my ass. He said I overlooked a flag in the system. Apparently, Ben Decker shipped out of here this afternoon. He’s on a bus headed north right now.”

  On a prison bus. Not dead then. Not strung up like a fish. But Will’s relief quickly turned to confusion. “Where to?”

  The CO grimaced. “The boonies, if you ask me. Crescent Bay State Prison in Fog Harbor.”

  Script: Good Morning, San Francisco

  Cue Heather

  Good morning, San Francisco. I’m Heather Hoffman. It’s 5 a.m. on Monday, March ninth. Time to rise and shine.

  Roll intro music

  We have a thrilling show for you today, starting with our crime segment, Murder in the Bay.

  Roll segment intro

  We begin with the story we’ve been following closely in the small town of Fog Harbor, where a few days ago, a man discovered the mummified remains of a still-unidentified pregnant young woman. According to the latest information from our sources in law enforcement, at least two persons of interest have been identified in the case.

  Good Morning, San Francisco has also learned that the secluded cabin was the scene of a sordid movie produced by Obscura Films, which may have been shot in the months, weeks, or even days surrounding the victim’s death. The short clip we obtained depicts violence toward women. Due to the graphic nature of the film, viewer discretion is advised.

  Roll Chained excerpt

  Our sources at Fog Harbor PD tell us that convicted sex offender and recently paroled third striker, Chuck Winters, has been interviewed at a local halfway house regarding the murder. He has not yet been charged with any crime.

  Please stay tuned to Good Morning, San Francisco this week. Starting tomorrow, we will be on location in Fog Harbor to keep abreast of the developments in this case, and will bring them to you the moment they occur.

  Next up, celebrity dating coach Orlando Gray shares his insider tips on how to make that spring fling last until summer.

  Cut to commercial

  Twenty-Six

  Will knew he’d come to the right place. He felt it even before his GPS confirmed he’d arrived at 221 County Road 37, the last known address of Shelby Mayfield they’d dug up yesterday in Vital Records. Even before he’d spotted JB’s Camaro parked in the ditch nearby, or the dilapidated mailbox that read MA IE D in faded black paint. Set back in the redwood grove, a rusted travel trailer had rooted itself to the earth. Vines of ivy rose up from the underbrush. Like long fingers, they’d crept across the aluminum siding, staking their claim. Growing so thick they’d nearly concealed its rotten tires. Given enough time, ivy could strangle even the largest redwood. Block its light, restrict its growth. Insidious as grief, it wore down its opponent. Grief had grown unchecked here for a long time.

  Will tucked a DNA swab kit into his breast pocket, along with Miss Pearl’s Mary Jane doll. He hoped to find out if Shelby had still owned hers when she’d gone missing. By the end of the day, he felt certain they’d have a probable ID on their victim and Shelby’s mother would have the answers she’d been seeking for the last thirty-five years. It all felt bittersweet.

  JB leaned against the hood of his car, chewing on a blade of grass and looking like a man in desperate need of a cigarette. He pointed into the woods, the sunlight dappling through the canopy. “You sure she still lives here?”

  “That’s what she said on the phone yesterday. She moved out here about a year after Shelby ran away.”

  “Alright. But if this is an ambush, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”


  Will plodded into the forest, JB behind him, careful to stay on the narrow path. More worried about snakes and spiders and sprained ankles than sixty-eight-year-old Trish Mayfield. Still, he’d holstered his Glock just in case.

  Movement in the underbrush caught Will’s eye. A squirrel launched itself atop a rusted VW that had also fallen victim to the ivy, then scurried inside it, where the vines protruded like entrails, and disappeared.

  When they reached the front door of the trailer, Will found the lock broken, the latch closed with wire looping from the outside in. A butterfly perched on the knob took flight when he knocked. “Ms. Mayfield?”

  Footsteps approached from within. A clouded eye appeared in the crack above a sun-spotted nose. “Who is it?”

  “Detectives Decker and Benson. We spoke on the phone.”

  The woman slowly unwound the wire, and the door creaked open. A mangy cat shot out from between her slippered feet—JB yelped—and disappeared into the thicket. Judging by the odor that wafted from within, the cats outnumbered Trish ten to one.

  “Did you find her? Did you find my Shelby?”

  Will peered over her shoulder into the dimly lit trailer. The sink, stacked with dishes. The window shades drawn. Suddenly, he thought of his father. The inside of a home said a lot about the inside of a person.

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out. Do you mind if we come in and chat?”

  She shuffled aside, allowing them entry. JB first, then Will. He left the door open behind him, hoping the spring breeze would help air out the place.

  JB shooed two calicos from Trish’s recliner and guided her to her seat. “You like cats, huh?”

  “It sure beats being alone. I used to have a parakeet too. Pippen. I taught him to say a few things like, Pretty bird and Here, kitty, kitty. But he flew off a while back, when I left the window open.”