Her Perfect Bones: A totally addictive mystery and suspense novel

by Ellery A Kane

  “Crashing.”

  “Jeez, Louise. You don’t say ‘crash’ in an airport. Just like you don’t say ‘bomb’ on a plane. C’mon. You’re just asking for trouble.”

  Chief Flack approached, looking as tired as Will felt. He didn’t envy her job. She’d been taking shit from all sides since the Drake Devere debacle. “Thanks for coming on such short notice. I don’t like it any more than you do. But I’m getting sick of the media dragging us through the mud, showing us up on our own turf. We need to get to the bottom of this case. And we need to do it now.”

  JB saluted her. “Right to the bottom of the proverbial barrel, Chief. That’s where we’ll be.”

  “Uh…” Will shook his head. “I think what Detective Benson means to say is that we have some solid leads. And we’re not coming back until we know who killed Shelby and Drea.”

  “Good. I’ll hold you to that.”

  JB held his lengthy sigh until Chief Flack had walked out of earshot. “If you’re making promises like that, City Boy, I hope you got a damn good cat sitter.”

  As the Cessna rattled down the runway and picked up speed, JB cinched his seatbelt and maintained an iron grip on the armrest. The nose tilted upward; JB sucked in a breath. When the front wheels lifted, and the plane left the ground, he squeezed his eyes shut. By the time they’d reached cruising altitude, the single bead of sweat that had appeared on his forehead had multiplied. He leaned away from the small window as if the portal to hell lay on the other side.

  “You okay?” Will asked from his seat across the aisle.

  JB pulled a tissue from his pocket and wiped his brow. “Do I look okay?”

  “I’m gonna plead the fifth on that one, partner. But on the bright side, it’s a short flight. Just a little over an hour.”

  “Great.” JB grimaced at his watch. “Fifty-nine more minutes in this steel coffin.”

  Opening the Mayfield case file, Will passed him the autopsy photos and the stack of pictures Shelby had taken on the Nikon FA. “Here. Take a look at these again. See if you spot anything new.”

  “Thanks, brother.”

  Will wondered what it said about the both of them. That pictures of a dead girl would be a welcome distraction.

  JB began to flip through the stack, while Will studied his notes from the Winters’ interview. With the ex-con’s prints turning up on Shelby’s get-out-of-town ticket, it seemed likely he’d been the one to buy it for her. When Simpkins had turned her down, she’d sought help from good ole Chuck. Shelby liked the bad boys. That’s what Drea had said. And it was true. But even worse, the bad boys liked her. Probably, Winters had pawned something belonging to Margaret Rollins, hoping to tag along on the trip, earn his brownie points, and get lucky after she’d had the baby.

  “Hmph.”

  Will turned to his partner. “You got something?”

  Just then, the plane wobbled, and JB tensed, gritting his teeth. “Hopefully a parachute.”

  “It’s mild turbulence. Nothing to worry about.” Will leaned across the aisle to study the autopsy photo on JB’s lap. In it, Chet had captured Shelby’s swollen abdomen, his ruler laid adjacent to the laceration he’d found there.

  “Easy for you to say. You’re the kind of Bear Grylls type who survives a plane you know what in the wilderness and whittles his own canoe to row himself to safety. I’m the guy who gets impaled by a nail file in his wife’s carry-on bag.”

  Will chuckled, then sobered fast when he pointed to the cut on Shelby’s stomach. “What do you make of that? Wounded in the struggle with our perp?”

  “Maybe. Or…” Another bump, and JB suddenly found religion, making the sign of the cross.

  “Or?” Will tried to keep him focused.

  “Olivia told you she thought the baby was the key to the whole shebang, right?”

  Her name came with a pang. Seeing her standing there, hand raised, in his rearview, Will had wanted nothing more than to turn around. The baby is what brought her here. That’s what Olivia said that night at the Hickory Pit. “More or less.”

  “And Chet said it was a cutting wound.”

  Will nodded, already knowing where JB was headed. But he didn’t want to think it. Certainly didn’t want to say it out loud.

  “What if our perp wasn’t after Shelby at all? What if our perp was—”

  When a sudden jerk of the plane dropped the photo from his lap, JB stopped pontificating and unleashed a stream of curse words.

  Will stared at the small incision, finishing JB’s thought. “After something else.”

  “My whole goddamned life just flashed before my eyes.” Still shaky, JB gripped the railing with one hand as he lowered himself down the wobbly airstairs and onto the tarmac, where Will waited for him. “And it really got me thinking. I realized a few things.”

  “This I’ve gotta hear.”

  “Come closer, City Boy. Let me impart some wisdom.”

  Cupping his hand to his ear and grinning, Will leaned in JB’s direction. But JB said nothing. Just smacked Will’s shoulder with the case file instead. “I didn’t learn shit. Except that you’re driving my ass back to Fog Harbor. There’s a reason people don’t have wings.”

  “Fine. We solve this case, I’ll drive you anywhere you want to go.” Will walked on ahead, stopping alongside the rental Inspector Amy Bishop had arranged for them.

  “Shake on it?” JB extended his hand, and Will took it, already eating his words. “I know just the place.”

  Will popped the trunk and tossed his duffel inside. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, partner. Because the only place I’m driving tonight is to the Embarcadero police substation.”

  But when Will looked up, JB had already planted himself in the driver’s seat, leaving his suitcase behind for Will to manage.

  “I thought I was driving.”

  “We need to get there tonight, don’t we?”

  Sixty-Seven

  Homicide Inspector Amy Bishop glanced up at Will and JB from her desk inside the Robbery/Homicide Division at Embarcadero substation in San Francisco, still bustling well past midnight. “Well, look what the cat dragged in.”

  JB marched ahead, introducing himself to Amy. Judging by their whispers and conspiratorial laughter, Will figured they’d become fast friends, probably bonding over their shared joy in needling him unnecessarily.

  But Will hung back, took his time. The place looked familiar, of course—his desk had been right there less than a year ago—but he’d forgotten what it felt like. The energy that coursed through the building, igniting a fire in his veins. Even as a boy, visiting his dad here, he’d felt it. The pure rush that came with catching the bad guys.

  “You owe me one, Deck.” Amy nudged him out of his reverie. “Do you know what torture I had to agree to in order to convince Agent Merriweather to wait for you? Dinner at the Top of the Mark. Gag me.” She stuck a finger in her mouth.

  “The horror,” Will replied, knowing full well Amy hated schmaltzy restaurants. “White tablecloths. Silverware. Leather-bound menus. How will you ever survive?”

  She rolled her eyes at him. “I swear that man Merriweather has eight hands. And every time I turn around, one of them is grabbing my ass.”

  “I appreciate the sacrifice. It means a lot. Do you want me to talk to him?”

  “I can handle myself.”

  Her eyes cut to the hulking figure who had just appeared in the doorway. “You certainly can,” the man told her, winking at her lasciviously. Octopus Arms himself, Will figured, judging by Amy’s thinly veiled disgust.

  Will’s fists clenched at his sides. This guy was even smarmier than he’d expected. And he planned to give him an earful just as soon as he got the info he needed.

  “Detectives Decker and Benson, this is Brian Merriweather, Winters’ parole agent. He’ll fill you in on what he found.”

  “So this is the infamous Will Decker?” Merriweather slapped him on the back, and Will prepared himself for the worst. The look of d
isdain he usually got from law enforcement because he’d crossed the blue wall of silence. To report his own brother, no less. “Rumor is you and Amy were engaged once. You’ll have to give me some pointers, man. Because that little filly keeps freezing me out.”

  Will couldn’t stand to see Amy shrink down in her chair. “Lesson number one, take a hint.”

  JB guffawed, then covered it with a cough. “I think what my partner means to say is we’re working a hell of a case, so let’s stick to business. Tell us what happened with Winters.”

  Merriweather leaned back against Amy’s desk, leering at her. “There’s not much to tell. Winters was a lifer. Easiest guy on my caseload. After you two rolled into town, he started acting squirrely. Talking crazy. I thought he might be using again, so I gave him a piss test on Monday. But it came back clean. Right after that, he left Second Chance without permission and didn’t show up for our meeting on Wednesday morning. I talked with the house manager and retraced his steps down to the pier. Found the poor sucker by the rocks, bobbing up and down in the water like a buoy.”

  “Acting squirrely, how?” Will asked, putting a pin in his revulsion.

  “Well, he was real jittery when I saw him. He told me he thought he was being followed. Like maybe you guys were tailing him.”

  “So, how’d you know to go down to the pier?” JB asked.

  “Winters told Guthrie he had a job interview down there on Monday. Some kind of construction company.” Merriweather chuckled. “Guess he didn’t get the job.”

  Sickened, Will turned to Amy. “Did you find his phone?”

  “No. But we requested the records. It’ll take a day or two at least.”

  “Can we take a look at the photos of the pier?”

  With a few clicks, Amy pulled up a series of images on her computer, scrolling through them at a slow and steady pace. The conclusion, foregone, like a march to the guillotine. Pier 28 had seen better days. So had Chuck. He lay half in the water, half out, his belt buckle caught on a piece of fishing net discarded at the end of the boardwalk.

  Amy narrated the sad scene. “We feel pretty confident he was killed there and rolled into the water. The perp didn’t count on him getting tangled in the net. There’s a camera in the area, installed by the city, but apparently it hasn’t been turned on for years. No word yet on the ballistics.”

  Will forced himself to lay eyes on Agent Merriweather. He’d maneuvered himself behind Amy, one tentacle suctioned to the chairback near her shoulder.

  “What do you think happened to him?” Will asked.

  “No telling. Pier 28 gets a lot of action. Druggies, hookers. Plus, Guthrie said a few of his housemates caught wind of his sex offense, started giving him a hard time. If you ask me, it seems like his past might’ve caught up with him.”

  “You’re probably right.” That Will could agree on. But as he watched Merriweather’s hands find Amy’s shoulders and give her an unsolicited squeeze, he’d had about enough.

  “Hey, Merriweather. Can I have a word?”

  With a clueless grin, Merriweather joined him in the hallway. “What’s up?”

  “You wanted some advice, right? Some pointers? Man to man.”

  He nodded eagerly. “She likes to play hard to get, doesn’t she? But I’ll bet she’s a real tiger in the sack.”

  Will stepped into Merriweather’s personal space. Let’s see how he likes it. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll show Inspector Bishop some goddamned respect. She’s trying to do her job, and she doesn’t need you tripping over your tongue and getting in the way.”

  Merriweather raised his hands and backed away. “C’mon. It’s all in good fun. She deserves a night on the town.”

  Will stared back at him. “Yes, she does. Lucky for her, she can buy her own overpriced dinner.”

  “What’re you thinking?” Amy asked Will as she walked them to their rental in the parking lot.

  “Nothing.”

  “BS. I know you better than that. You’re being too quiet.”

  Will’s sigh turned to a groan when JB nodded his agreement.

  “She’s right, City Boy. Spit it out.”

  “I’m just working through the details. If we assume the same perp killed Winters on Monday and Drea on Tuesday night…”

  “Yep. Plenty of time to make it from San Francisco to Fog Harbor. Even for an aerophobe like me.” JB gave Amy a wave and climbed in the driver’s seat, shutting the door behind him. But Will caught him watching through the side mirror.

  “So what’re you really thinking, Deck? Just between us.”

  Amy sized him up with her stormy blue eyes. He’d forgotten what that felt like, too. Her look came straight out of June, three years back, when he’d dropped to one knee on Baker Beach and listened to her enthusiastic yes as he’d proposed forever. Turned out he hadn’t read the fine print.

  “Just between us, I feel guilty. I got Winters involved in this thing. Now he’s dead. I know we had to talk to him—I liked him for a suspect. Still, I can’t help but wonder if—”

  She stopped him talking with a hand to his chest. “And that right there is why we just weren’t meant to be, Detective. First, you stand up to Merriweather for me. Now you’re apologizing for doing your job. You’re too good of a guy. It makes me look bad.”

  So, she’d heard him pull Octopus Arms aside and give him a piece of his mind.

  From the rolled-down window of the rental, JB’s head craned out toward them. “How do you think I feel?”

  Laughing, Amy brushed the back of Will’s hand with her fingertips. “But I’m okay being bad.”

  One thing he hadn’t forgotten. How good Amy had felt in his arms. Too good, like the fourth shot of tequila. It goes down smooth but you always regret it the next morning.

  He took a step back from her, putting a safe distance between them, and opened the passenger door. “I’ll call you after we check out the scene in the morning.”

  JB fired up the rental car and sped toward downtown. At the first stoplight, he side-eyed Will. “Damn, City Boy. How’d you let that one get away?”

  Not in the mood, Will stared out the window, until JB prodded him with an elbow. “So?”

  “What makes you think I’m the one who ended it?”

  A wry smile stretched the corners of JB’s mouth. “I’ve been your partner for at least six months.”

  “And?”

  When the light turned, JB screeched ahead, maneuvering around the car in front of them. “And I rest my case.”

  Will lamented the inevitable lack of a heavy bag and gloves in the sad hotel room that awaited him. He’d have to go old school, hammering his fist into his pillow instead.

  “Besides, Amy told me.” JB accelerated through the next yellow, still grinning.

  “What?”

  He shrugged smugly. “She called a couple times to check in on the barrel case. We got to talking. I’m a good listener, you know. I’ve had four wives.”

  “Ex-wives.”

  JB took a quick right turn, narrowly missing a pedestrian. Will looked back apologetically, while the man offered them his middle finger. “At least I made the trip to the altar.”

  “It’s an aisle. Not a conveyor belt.”

  JB drove the rest of the way in silence, screeching into the parking lot of the Cozy Bear Inn. The hole-in-the-wall motel on Mission Street had earned a full one and a half stars online. Only the best for Chief Flack’s homicide detectives.

  JB jerked the car into park and turned to Will. He’d had six blocks to prepare a comeback. “You know your problem, Decker. You’re a chickenshit when it comes to women. When I was a little kid, I used to beg my dad to take me down to the five-and-dime and let me ride Bucky, the mechanical pony. But once I’d get down there, I’d start to cry, thinking I’d fall off the damn thing. Finally, Dad shook me by the shoulders and said, ‘Jimmy, if you want to ride, you’ve got to get on the goddamned horse.’”

  Script: Good Morning, San Franc
isco

  Cue Heather

  Good morning, San Francisco. I’m Heather Hoffman. It’s 5 a.m. on Thursday, March twelfth, and I’m thrilled to be back to tell you it’s time to rise and shine.

  Roll intro music

  I’m joining the show today from my hospital room here at Fog Harbor General. As you all know, I was the victim of a shooting on Tuesday evening that claimed the life of Fog Harbor resident, Drea Marsh. I would like to extend my gratitude to all the doctors and nurses here at Fog Harbor General and to the officers of Fog Harbor PD who responded so quickly to the scene. A special thanks goes out to Graham Bauer of Fog Harbor PD, who has guarded my bedside like a true hero for over twenty-four hours. Detective Bauer, I salute you!

  Cue Graham Bauer photo

  Sources close to SFPD believe the shooting on Tuesday may have been related to the Mayfield murder. Overnight, there have been even more shocking developments in the case. As reported exclusively here at Good Morning, San Francisco, the body of person of interest, Charles “Chuck” Winters, was found floating near Pier 28 in San Francisco, prompting the Port of San Francisco to renew their focus on addressing crime and homelessness at the waterfront. Pier 28 has been identified by the city council as one of the areas most in need of extensive repair and revitalization. Police have ruled Winters’ death a homicide.

  Roll Pier 28 crime scene video

  Like Ms. Marsh, did Mr. Winters know too much? I’m no detective, but it certainly seems someone is intent on making sure the secrets in that barrel remain buried forever. Stay tuned to Good Morning, San Francisco as we bring you the latest developments in the case.

  Next up, Pamela is back in the studio with celebrity astrologer Marie Orion, to find out if the fault really is in our stars.

  Cut to commercial

  Sixty-Eight

  “Cozy Bear Inn, my ass.” JB rolled his head from one side to the other, massaging his right shoulder, while they stood outside Second Chance Halfway House, waiting for the house manager, Mr. Guthrie, to start his eight-to-five shift. “I’ve got enough kinks in my neck to make a stripper blush. You think Chief Flack would spring for a massage?”