“They were hanging out in the woods near Crown Pointe.”
“Devil’s Landing?”
Maggie was taken aback. “You know it?”
“Who doesn’t? Seems to be my daughter’s place of choice these days. In that respect, she’s just like her mother.”
“You were a student at the school?”
“With above-average grades and doing great. Up until Lindy came along, that is, and ruined everything.” She slid an arm across her waist, hugging herself.
“I was there, too, a couple of years before you.”
Ronda shrugged, as if it meant nothing to her.
Maggie switched tack. “Did Lindy ever mention the school’s guidance counselor? Her name’s Dana. Dana Cullen.”
“No.”
“Do you know where Lindy is right now?”
“No idea, hon.” She sucked a final breath through the cigarette, then dropped it on the ground, grinding it into the concrete with the toe of her shoe. “Maybe with this Pruitt boy?”
Chapter Fourteen
FROM THE DEEP
Maggie remembered a quote from a book she once read: Daylight has a way of diluting the demonic.
The author was right. Under the smiling sun, the woods separating the high school from the lake had lost all of their nighttime eeriness. Gone were the spooky shadows and the cackle of cicadas. In their place, a gentle autumn breeze meandered through the trees, and black crows cawed as they wheeled against the late-afternoon sky.
As far as Maggie could see, there was no trace of the overnight police activity. No black-and-yellow police tape to map out the crime scene boundary, and no hint of barbecued flesh tainting the air.
It was as if the murder had never happened.
She didn’t park right away.
Instead, she followed Ocoee Parkway as it looped from the highway to the school and back again, driving no faster than a crawl, imagining Thomas Cullen traversing this same route early yesterday evening, either with his wife’s body dripping blood on the upholstery, or with her still alive and unknowingly traveling to her doom.
Maggie knew that if they could locate Dana’s vehicle, it could disclose which scenario was correct.
A raccoon crossed the street in front of her, glancing her way with jet-black eyes before scurrying into the underbrush.
Maggie had spent the last few hours canvassing business owners and residents along the two-mile stretch of roadway between the Cullen house and the crime scene. In all, she’d spoken with a handful of people, showing each the image on her phone of Cullen, taken during his processing at the Sheriff’s Office. No one recalled seeing anyone on foot and heading north into Paradise Heights yesterday evening. Maggie didn’t subscribe to the idea of Cullen calling a taxi back home after murdering his wife, which left, in her opinion, only one viable option: Cullen had driven Dana’s car to and from the lake.
But where was it now?
Maggie parked the sedan in the same spot where Tyler’s red Charger had been a matter of hours earlier, and climbed out onto the curb.
The sandy trail sloped downhill from her feet, disappearing into the trees. Lake water visible through the meshed branches, glittering in the afternoon sunshine. It all looked different than she remembered, more compact.
Twenty years ago, the slope from the school down to the tree line had been gradual, the trail much longer as it snaked across the undeveloped land. The construction of the new roadway had flattened out the incline, raising it in line with the school, and now the trail was a quarter its original length, the slope falling steeply away from the road.
Maggie made her way downhill, finding the going easier in daylight.
All things considered, the walk through the woods was pleasant. Dappled sunshine slanting in through the swaying canopy. Lizards scurrying and birds tweeting. Palmetto fans and fuzzy firs. A scent of pine trying to mask the musk of standing water. But for all its natural beauty, Maggie knew this place harbored an equal amount of unnatural ugliness. Bad things had happened here. And not just recently.
She came to the end of the trail, pausing before entering the clearing proper.
In her youth, someone had erected a wooden sign here, staking it in the ground, as though making claim to the small patch of land that lay beyond. On rough wood, they had written the words Devil’s Landing in bloodred paint, adding runs and drips for dramatic effect. The sign had long since rotted away, or been uprooted and flung into the trees, but the name remained stuck in the social consciousness, like a barb.
The clearing looked bigger in daylight, its dome-shaped canopy less imposing. Several logs were positioned around its edges, acting as benches for kids with reasons not to be in school, their bark worn smooth and shiny by years of use. The same logs that had been here when Maggie was a teen. Crime scene investigators had left them in place, but they had raked the sand clean, removing all the trash accumulated in the trees and in the tangled vines.
The clearing looked pristine.
But Maggie could see a faint shadow in the sand where Dana’s body had lain, a darkening caused by the soot of burned human skin.
Why did your killer choose to leave you here?
Maggie dropped to her haunches, placing a palm against the sand. It felt cool to the touch and less gritty than it looked. When she lifted her hand, it came away covered in a fine coating. She wiped it off on her pants before making her way over to the narrow beach.
For their working theory to grow legs, Maggie needed to understand not just why Cullen had decided to kill his wife, but also his reason for choosing to burn her here at Devil’s Landing. Rita had hung out here with Maggie, doing all the same boundary-pushing things that Dana had probably counseled seniors on. She’d known about this place. But how did Cullen know about it? Did Dana tell him?
Cullen was from Arizona. Still relatively new to the area. Granted, he’d lived in the vicinity of Lake Apopka for the last eighteen months, but what reason would he have for ever coming down here? The nearest houses were a few hundred yards back along the parkway. Even if Cullen had tended to a backyard overlooking the lake, he wouldn’t have been able to see the small beach, let alone know that a convenient hideaway lay behind it. The sandy trail leading into the woods wasn’t obvious from the roadway either, and unless you walked the trail in its entirety, you wouldn’t know that it ended here, at the shore.
How did Cullen know this place existed?
Maggie went over to the narrow beach, her heels sinking in the soft surface.
The casting of the boot prints had left rectangular lines in the mud. Blobs of what looked like dried pancake batter speckled the brown beach—dental stone, mixed on-site and poured into the molds.
She edged up to the waterline, then leaned out as far as she could, looking to her right, toward the gated community that Loomis had canvassed Saturday night.
No houses were visible.
Not even a single rooftop poking above the trees.
If she listened, she could pick out the distant sounds of civilization carrying over the water: children playing in sprinklers, and moms calling for calmness while dads cleaned cars, stereos booming.
Of course, it was possible that Dana had mentioned Devil’s Landing to her husband during an innocent conversation, never knowing that he’d made note of its location for future use.
Maggie scanned the open water.
In daylight, the lake no longer looked black as tar. It was the color of tea, stained brown from rotting vegetation. Diamonds glinting on its rippling surface. An egret wading through the shallows. A lone heron slicing across the blue. On the far horizon, she could see a thin smudge of buildings, but no discernible detail.
Standing here, surrounded by foliage and water, with the sun beating down and no other human beings in sight, she could quite easily be on a desert island.
Miles from nowhere.
The perfect dump site.
Her gaze landed on the small mud mound.
It
seemed closer in the day. An elliptical hump of silt covered in swaying reeds. Dark lake water swirling around it.
The mound had changed location in the last twenty years, she realized. She remembered it lying more to the left, and more at an angle to the shore. Time, wind, and current had all conspired to migrate its position, bringing it level with the beach.
A memory came back to her.
The last winter they spent together, she and Rita had made the mound their own. Each day, after school, coming down here, holding their shoes aloft as they waded out to the mound. Flattening out an area of the reeds at its center, so that they could sit and talk, and sometimes spy on their fellow seniors making out in the clearing. Occasionally skinny dipping when no one was around. Two girls dreaming of things to come. Making plans and making waves. Watching the sun as it set, turning the water into a lake of fire. Laughing and cuddling. At one point, Rita leaning in to her, kissing her on the mouth, her lips hot and moist, her hand cupping Maggie’s breast. And Maggie returning the kiss with a passion that surprised her, unable to breathe, her lungs aflame, her head spinning. Then breaking free, pushing Rita away, picking up her shoes and splashing back across the shallows, her heart beating wildly in her bosom.
Maggie realized she was holding her breath, and she sucked in a lungful of air.
Their friendship had changed that day. Something broken. Unspoken. Something irreversible. Like a comment that couldn’t be unsaid. A distance setting in. A feeling of something missing that had stayed with Maggie all her adult life. Like internal scar tissue left over from an operation. Every now and then, niggling under the skin.
Maggie’s heart was pounding.
A mullet leaped out of the lake a few yards away, making her jump as it belly flopped back into the water.
Chapter Fifteen
GOOD COP, BAD MOTHER
Steve parked his Tahoe alongside the silver minivan in the driveway of the Loomis residence and, as he and Maggie got out, said, “Let’s hope dinner isn’t ruined.”
If it was, Maggie had only herself to blame. It was almost eight p.m., and they were running late, mainly due to her getting home later than intended.
Steve leaned on the bell, and Loomis answered the door.
“We come bearing gifts,” Maggie said, holding two wine bottles aloft.
Loomis took one of the bottles. “French Grenache,” he said with an admiring nod. “Nice pick, guys. You’re forgiven.” He waved them inside.
The Loomis house smelled of cooking and scented candles. Discreet lighting and a gentle pulse of folk music breathing in the background. Children’s toys scattered randomly along the hallway and up the staircase.
“Where’re the twins?” Steve asked as Loomis closed the door behind them.
“Hopefully, chasing fluffy sheep through dreamland,” he said. He handed the wine back to Maggie. “Abby’s slaving over a hot stove in the kitchen. I’ve got a new video game to show Steve. Do you mind if I steal your boyfriend a minute?”
“So long as you give him back when you’re done.”
Maggie found Abby peering through the glass of the oven door, her ash-blonde hair hanging in a side ponytail. She glanced over her shoulder as Maggie entered the kitchen. “Oh, hey, Maggie,” she said with a big smile. “You made it.”
“Sorry we’re late.” She waved the Grenache. “If it’s any consolation, I brought pain relief.”
“You’re a lifesaver.”
“Wine glasses?”
“Corner cupboard.”
Maggie retrieved a pair of glasses and poured the wine. “You know, you didn’t need to go to all this trouble on our account,” she said. “We could’ve called for takeout on the way over.”
Abby pulled on a pair of fish-shaped oven mitts. “And renege on a Sunday tradition? Have you met my husband?” She nodded toward a baby monitor standing at the corner of the counter, its blue LEDs flashing. “Do you mind checking the rug rats for me? I really need to take this out, as in now.”
“Sure.”
Glass in hand, Maggie made her way upstairs, stepping around plush toys as she went. In the semidarkness of the children’s bedroom, she could make out the shapes of animal decals on the walls and a huge rainbow print connecting a pair of white cribs together.
Maggie inspected the blond-haired babies sprawled on their backs.
Harper, the baby girl, was fast asleep, her little mouth forming a perfect oval and her little hands rolled into chubby fists. Logan, the baby boy, a tiny version of Loomis, was wriggling on the mattress, whining softly, eyes screwed shut while his little legs pedaled the air.
Maggie sipped her wine.
“Did you ever want one of your own?”
She turned to see Steve silhouetted in the doorway, leaning against the jamb.
He came to her, sliding an arm around her waist from behind.
“I thought you were drooling over Loomis’s latest video game?” she said.
“The console crashed. It’s rebooting.” He nuzzled his mouth into the curve of her neck and nibbled her skin.
“Careful,” she said. “You’ll spill my wine.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Maggie turned around in his embrace. “Me and babies, you mean? Just stop for one second and look at this picture.” She raised an eyebrow. “What’s the odd thing out here?”
“For starters, you’re not your mother.”
“I’ll take that as a backhanded compliment.” She screwed a finger under his ribs. “Besides. Don’t make any plans. I don’t have a maternal bone in my body, and you know it.”
“I’m just saying. Your biological clock is ticking, Maggie. If you were considering having children . . .”
“You’ll be the first to hear about it,” she said, pecking him on the lips.
Logan began to cry. Steve reached around her. Gently, he rolled Logan onto his side, and the baby stopped crying.
“Someone’s got the knack,” she said.
“Got to practice when you can. You never know when it might be useful.”
They made their way back downstairs, Maggie wondering just how serious Steve was about the whole parenting thing.
They hadn’t discussed it in depth; they were barely six months into their relationship and had yet to broach a lot of subjects. Whenever it came up, Maggie tended to reroute the conversation, expertly avoiding most situations that could lead into the topic of her and babies. It wasn’t that she was anti-children. She loved her nieces and nephews. It was that she’d never factored kids of her own into her life plan.
The dinner was good and the company great. They ate too much pot roast and drank too much wine, talking through a variety of topics. Inevitably, the conversation rolled around to the reason why Maggie and Loomis had been distracted from their loved ones for a chunk of the weekend. The Halloween Homicide Case. And Loomis proceeded to give a detailed overview of their case. By default, Maggie was always reluctant to talk shop outside of the office. She believed that most civilians found police work uninspiring, and rarely was casework conducive to cordial conversation. But Steve was inquisitive, and Loomis seemed bent on discussing it, leaving Maggie little room for maneuver.
She listened, happy to let Loomis do most of the talking. Every now and then interrupting with bits he missed, or supplementing his recap with details relevant to the story.
Eventually, the conversation took a welcome detour into new territory, and the overall atmosphere lightened.
It warmed her heart to see her favorite people getting on like this. No awkward silences. No one pretending to be anything they weren’t. Just friends being friendly.
But her dead friend was never far from her thoughts.
Embrace the good times when you can—as her father used to say.
As they were clearing the dishes off the table, making room for dessert, Maggie’s phone vibrated in her pocket.
It was a text message from dispatch. She read it with a frown.
&nb
sp; “What’s up?” Loomis asked, picking up on her change in mood.
“Patrol found Dana’s car,” she said. “We have to go. Now.”
Chapter Sixteen
PRESSURE COOKER
Where’s the fire?” Loomis said as he rushed down the hallway after Maggie.
“Dana’s car could hold vital clues,” she said as he caught up.
“Which will still be there in the morning.”
“Except we’re not working tomorrow. Remember?” She reached the front door, pausing to face him. “We need to check it for evidence. Don’t give things time to spoil.”
She went to open the door. Loomis put a hand out, preventing her. “It’s immaterial either way,” he said. “Smits has all he needs.”
“Only if Cullen is guilty.”
“Wait. Now you’re thinking he’s not?”
“I think it’s possible somebody is trying to frame him. And I don’t think any of this is as cut-and-dried as it seems. I know murderers often behave irrationally, and they do some pretty strange things, but I’ve never come across one who did such a bad job of hiding the murder weapon, and then allowing us to find it. It was like Cullen was dished up to us on a plate.”
“And I totally agree. But how many times have we scratched our heads over a killer’s flimsy motive? People kill people for the weakest excuses. Someone looks at somebody the wrong way. Somebody takes exception to another person’s status. You name it. Sometimes people are just wired wrong upstairs and they do crazy stuff. You can’t decode crazy.”
“And I can’t ignore my gut instinct.” She ducked under his arm and squeezed through the gap in the doorway.
Loomis followed her outside, darting around in front of her and blocking her path.
“Novak, please,” he said. “Hold up. We’re having dinner here. We’re being chatty and sociable and having a nice time. It’s fun. We don’t get to do this kind of thing often enough. What you’re doing here, right now, this can wait.”
“Abby and Steve agreed we should go.”
“Only because they were being polite and they know what you’re like.”
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