The Girl Buried in the Woods

by Robert Ellis

  PRAISE FOR ROBERT ELLIS

  (The Detective Matt Jones Thriller Series)

  “Ellis keeps everything in focus while building a staggering momentum.”

  —Booklist, Starred Review, City of Echoes

  “City of Echoes is a dark, gritty, one-sit read. Ellis’ trademark plotting is on full display here.”

  —Bookreporter.com

  “Only really good writers can make you feel so strongly. City of Echoes is another bravura effort from the talented Robert Ellis.”

  —Mystery Scene magazine

  “City of Echoes is an absorbing and entertaining read from first page to last and documents novelist Robert Ellis as a master of the genre.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “City of Echoes is a Best Book of the Month.”

  —Amazon.com

  C I T Y O F F I R E

  (The Lena Gamble Novels, Book 1)

  “Los Angeles under a cloud of acrid smoke . . . Robert Ellis’s City of Fire is a gripping, spooky crime novel.”

  —New York Times Hot List Pick

  “City of Fire is my kind of crime novel. Gritty, tight and assured. Riding with Detective Lena Gamble through the hills of Los Angeles is something I could get used to. She’s tough, smart, and most of all, she’s real.”

  —Michael Connelly

  “City of Fire features a tough but deeply flawed protagonist, a tantalizingly complex plot, fully realized—and realistic—characters, and most of all, a palpable intensity. And if that weren’t enough, the bombshell plot twist at the novel’s conclusion makes this an absolute must read for thriller aficionados.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  T H E L O S T W I T N E S S

  (The Lena Gamble Novels, Book 2)

  “Scorching. Deliciously twisted. Nothing is what it appears to be. Ellis succeeds masterfully in both playing fair and pulling surprise after surprise in a story that feels like a runaway car plunging down a mountain road full of switchbacks.”

  —Publishers Weekly, Starred Review

  “Ellis serves up a killer crime tale with riveting characters and relentless twists.”

  —Booklist, Starred Review

  M U R D E R S E A S O N

  (The Lena Gamble Novels, Book 3)

  “Murder Season: a terrific sick-soul-of-LA thriller. Before you can say Chinatown we are immersed in a tale of mind-boggling corruption where virtually every character in the book—with the exception of Lena—has a hidden agenda. Ellis is a master plotter. Along the way we meet wonderful characters.”

  —Connecticut Post, Hearst Media New Group

  “Within the space of a few books, Ellis has demonstrated that rare ability to skillfully navigate his readers through a complex plot filled with interesting, dangerous and surprising characters.”

  —Bookreporter.com

  Also by

  R O B E R T E L L I S

  The Love Killings

  City of Echoes

  Murder Season

  The Lost Witness

  City of Fire

  The Dead Room

  Access to Power

  T H E G I R L

  B U R I E D

  I N T H E

  W O O D S

  R o b e r t E l l i s

  A Detective Matt Jones Thriller

  Book 3

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THE GIRL BURIED IN THE WOODS

  Copyright © 2019 by Robert Ellis

  New York City

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without express written permission from the author or his legal representatives, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  For more information, visit

  https://www.robertellis.net

  Cover design by Elderlemon Design

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Nelson C. Rising, the man who changed the face of downtown Los Angeles, and my good friend.

  We shall find peace. We shall hear angels, we shall see the sky sparkling with diamonds.

  —Anton Chekhov

  ONE

  NEWS BRIEF (Los Angeles Times Staff Writer)

  Detective Matthew Trevor Jones, the LAPD homicide detective out of the Hollywood Division who appeared to have nine lives, is deceased. The young detective was gunned down by an unknown assailant atop Mount Hollywood. On loan to the FBI from Los Angeles, Jones’s body was fished out of the frigid waters in Long Island Sound off Greenwich, Connecticut during a Nor’easter this past December . . .

  Matt could almost see the words in the newspaper as he rolled over in bed and tried to shake what had become yet another nightmare. Another lost night in a long line of lost nights. Flashbacks. Night sweats. Ghouls and ghosts visiting his bed. The Grim Reaper checking on him every so often to see if he was ready, or was the word done. And what about the pain in his chest and shoulder from the four gunshot wounds that were real. The pain that his doctor had said would someday disappear. Someday fade and be nothing more than a memory.

  Matt rolled his head across the pillow. Someday he’d forget the four muzzle flashes that had been pointed directly his way. Someday that spike of fear, that jolt of jolts, would take flight like a flock of blackbirds heading for cooler air in the north sky. And with that flock of birds, the sounds of the shots, one after another, the unreal feeling that he’d been hit, and hit hard, maybe even hit forever—maybe those blackbirds could take all of that with them as well.

  Someday all those memories might vanish in a hard wind.

  Someday his world would become bright and steady, and he could live life the same way normal people live their lives. The people sunning themselves on Venice Beach. Walking along the waterline barefoot. Laughing and talking and rollerblading up and down the bike path. Eating at the cafés with old friends or feeling that certain promise and joy in meeting someone new.

  Happiness wasn’t an illusion, was it? Happiness was attainable, even for him, right?

  He heard something in his dream. It wasn’t an answer, or even the Grim Reaper standing over his bed. It was an irritating tapping sound in the darkness. It seemed so out of place. So annoying.

  He let it go and rolled over again, seeking drier sheets and hoping for one last cool spot in his bed. As he settled in, the words came back, and he realized that he was reading his own obituary. Dreaming about it as he tried to swim through those ice-cold December waters in Connecticut and make it back to shore. It didn’t look like he was going to pull it off. His arms and legs had gone numb almost instantly. The water was as black as the sky, the stormy chop playing with him. He could feel the undertow reaching out for his ankles and feet and trying to pull him to the bottom. He thought he could see a ship burning in the distance; thought he could hear the deafening sound of an explosion as he coughed and choked on the salt water, gasping for air and reaching for—

  He wondered why this wasn’t enough to wake him up.

  Bad dreams were supposed to work like alarm clocks. At least they had in the past—as a boy and even more so since his return from Afghanistan as a soldier. Once he got a feel for the trouble he was in, once he hit the big moment, ten times out of ten he would be jolted back to the real world. Why not this time?

  He heard that tapping noise again. Was it tapping, or was it a banging sound that just kept going on and on without end?

  His body shuddered and he opened his eyes. He found himself staring at the clock radio on the bedside table. It was almost 4:00 a.m., and it sounded like some idiot was throwing punches at his front door. He n
oticed his cell phone docked to the clock radio for an all-night charge. The phone was vibrating, the name of the caller blinking on and off the screen to the beat of the fool working over his front door.

  It was his supervisor, Lt. Howard McKensie.

  Matt grabbed the phone. McKensie didn’t wait for him to say hello.

  “What the hell are you doing in there, Jones? Open the goddamn door.”

  “Right,” he managed, his throat bone dry.

  Matt switched off the phone and checked the time again. The sun wouldn’t be up for three or four hours. Maybe he was still dreaming. Still in the nightmare.

  He got out of bed, adjusted his boxer shorts, crossed through the kitchen and into the living room. He could see McKensie through the window in the street light. The big man with the shock of white hair was shaking his head and looked all amped up, but at least the racket had stopped.

  He threw the locks and swung the door open. McKensie brushed past him and marched into the living room.

  “Turn on the lights, Jones. I’ve been out there for ten minutes.”

  Matt switched on a table lamp and found McKensie sizing him up with those sharp green eyes of his. His supervisor was standing by the slider—the deck behind him still lit up because Matt, for whatever reason, had stopped turning off the outdoor lights before bed.

  “You’re sweating, Jones. Why are you sweating?”

  Matt shrugged. “It’s four in the morning, Lieutenant. Why are you here?”

  McKensie didn’t blink. He was a tough man and, despite his age, still strong and built like a street fighter.

  “You saw the department shrink yesterday. You were in Julie May’s office in Chinatown. How’d you make out, Jones?”

  McKensie’s 4:00 a.m. visit wasn’t about Matt’s first session with Dr. May in Chinatown. The first of what he’d been told when he returned from Philadelphia would be weekly appointments until when? No one would answer the question. No one would even give him an estimate. When Matt pressed Dr. May a second time, her eyes flicked down to her notes and she became quiet. After several moments, she changed the subject and said she wanted to hear him talk about what happened when he’d entered his father’s house in Greenwich just two weeks ago. What it had been like to find the father who had abandoned him as a child, dying with his second wife and their two sons before his eyes.

  All of them shot. All of them dead or dying. All of them murdered.

  McKensie cleared his throat, his voice booming. “You with me, Jones? Or are you sleepwalking tonight? Hey, you’re not juiced, are you?”

  The memory of his father’s death vanished, and Matt looked back at his supervisor. “I’m good.”

  “Good enough to work another murder case?”

  It hung there. Matt had been placed on medical leave. He guessed that rather than make a simple phone call, McKensie had driven out here because he wanted to see for himself—some sort of eyeball confirmation that what he was about to do would be okay. And he had a strange look in those eyes of his. A hard, worried look—more human than Matt had ever seen before.

  Matt tried to ignore the man’s stare as he thought things over. Someone new was dead in Los Angeles. Someone new was always dead in Los Angeles. Murder had become an epidemic this year, the coroner’s office a factory for the City of Angels.

  “I’m good,” Matt said. “I’m ready.”

  McKensie laughed and cocked his head. “You’re ready? That’s not what your shrink said.”

  “When did you talk to Dr. May?”

  McKensie smiled like the devil, his bright green eyes drilling him again. “About an hour ago. I woke her up. She didn’t seem too happy about it.”

  “What did she say?”

  The big man laughed again. “She said that you’re not good, and you’re not right. You’re not ready for prime time, Jones. She said you’ve still got those monsters swimming in your head.”

  “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

  “Sure she does. Don’t you think I can see it, too? You think I haven’t been there? You think I’m blind?”

  “She’s a witch doctor.”

  McKensie cracked open the slider, his eyes brightening. “I heard she’s hot, possibly wicked hot, but smart and true.”

  Matt shrugged, spotted his T-shirt on the couch, and slipped it on. “Okay, if I’m not ready for prime time, then why did you drive all the way out here and wake me up in the middle of the night? I had a good sleep going.”

  “I’ll bet you did.”

  McKensie paused a moment, then crossed the room to Matt’s reading chair by the window and sat down on the arm. When he spoke, his raspy voice was quieter, like he was thinking the words through.

  “A body was just discovered partially buried near Dodger Stadium and the Elysian Reservoir in the Buena Vista Meadow picnic area.”

  “That’s not our turf.”

  “It is tonight. Central needs a favor. Besides, it’s just over the line.”

  “But you and the witch doctor said I’m not ready.”

  A moment passed. More looking. More thinking.

  McKensie got up finally, started to pace, then stopped. “You’re not ready for prime time, Jones, but you might be ready for this one. The witch doctor thinks so, too. It’s murder lite. The body’s buried in the dirt. You get to play archaeologist and dig him out, low and slow, like a rack of baby backs done just right.”

  Matt thought it over. Other than his inability to shake his nightmares and get a decent night’s sleep, he felt reasonably close to normal. Not rock-steady stable, but not in the deep weeds either. That feeling in his stomach wasn’t as bad as it used to be, and his headaches seemed less brutal. It had been two weeks since the love killings, right? And he was back from Philly. He was home. His surroundings were familiar. Working a new case might get his mind off things, maybe even speed up his recovery.

  “Any idea who’s dead?” he asked.

  McKensie shook his head. “Not even a guess. First responders just called it in to confirm the corpse. I’m sorry, Jones. I know you could have used some time off. It’s just that we’re stretched thin right now. I drove out here to see for myself. All you need to do is take it easy—one step at a time. For all we know the body’s been in the ground for thirty years. Once you guys dig it out, let the lab make the ID and close the case. Then you can go back on leave and get some rest.”

  Matt met the big man’s eyes. “Murder lite,” he said.

  McKensie shrugged, his voice peppered with worry and concern again as he stepped toward the front door and opened it to leave.

  “Murder lite,” he said. “Just be careful, Matt. Do you know where the picnic area is?”

  Matt nodded. “Yeah.”

  “You need anything at all, call me.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Matt took a deep breath and exhaled, watching McKensie close the door and vanish in the night.

  TWO

  Murder lite . . .

  Pretend you’re an archaeologist and dig him out low and slow, like a rack of baby backs done just right . . .

  Matt shook it off and took fifteen minutes to shower, dress, and make a fresh pot of coffee. Then he filled his travel mug with the hot brew, added sugar, checked his laptop case for meds, slipped his .45 into his belt holster, and headed for the front door. As he crossed the lawn to the carport, he couldn’t help but notice the vista. The winds had pushed the marine layer out over the ocean, his view of what was left of Potrero Canyon crystal clear in the moonlight.

  The rich vegetation that used to line the basin and steep slopes had been completely burned out by the wildfire. None of the homes on the south rim had survived, and he counted fifteen black spots—fifteen families who had lost everything. He knew that there were five more, but he couldn’t see them from this side of the house. He also knew that the wind had carried the flames over to the north side and that his luck had held out. Only two houses burned down, and they were a block and a h
alf up the street.

  He felt a chill crawl up his spine—the strong, rank scent of the charred rubble wafting in the way-too-warm-for-January air. It was a smell he couldn’t get used to. A foul odor in the breeze that wouldn’t go away.

  Matt let it go and climbed into the car. Pulling onto the narrow street, he eased his way around the curves and down the hill, making a left turn at the light onto the Pacific Coast Highway. Traffic was thin to none, and he could blow through red lights without slowing down. Once he reached the Santa Monica Freeway, he brought the car up to a cool eighty miles an hour, switched on the radio to KNX News for traffic updates, and cracked open the lid on his travel mug. He felt the steam rising into his face and took a quick first sip. The jolt of hot caffeine seemed to clear his mind some, and he settled into the driver’s seat. The announcer on the radio was reading a weather forecast that called for a break in the oppressive heat, but Matt wasn’t really listening. He was thinking about the park and the body that was buried there. He was trying to keep his imagination in check. Trying to push away all the unknowns that might color his first impression of the crime scene.

  He glanced at the navigation system, then took another sip of coffee. There would be no need to enter an address. Matt had worked narcotics before his promotion to homicide last fall. Despite its proximity to the LA Police Academy, the Buena Vista Meadow picnic area, also known as Elysian Park, had been the location of choice for more than a few drug deals on the east side of the city. It was a big space, more than six hundred acres, with tree-lined roads and walking paths carved into the side of the ridge. The picnic area sat on top offering close-up views of downtown Los Angeles to the south and the burgeoning city of Glendale just a few miles north.

  Matt checked the time as he picked up the 110 Freeway, exiting quickly onto Solano Avenue and gunning it through a neighborhood of what looked like small homes and apartment buildings. He made a left on North Broadway, and then another on Elysian Park Drive.