by Robert Ellis
Gainer nodded. “With a low-caliber pistol. Most likely a twenty-two. A bullet small enough to go in, bounce around, and not bother the shooter or anybody else by coming back out.”
“But now the money is really lost,” McKensie said. “The only one who could possibly know where it’s stashed will never talk.”
Matt slipped on a pair of vinyl gloves. Then he spread Gambini’s wet hair away from the entrance wound and leaned in. “You mean Joseph Gambini?”
McKensie nodded. “He’ll never talk.”
Matt shrugged as he chewed it over. He was thinking about the three rough-looking guys driving the Lincoln Continentals and guessing that they were in the wind never to be found as well. But he was also thinking about the “mean Gambini gene”—who had it, and who didn’t. He could imagine the look on Joseph Gambini’s face when he was tried for the four murders Mitch Burton committed on his behalf, plus the executions of his nephew and Ryan Moore, which Matt bet he’d ordered on his own. While it was true that Joseph Gambini would be leaving Terminal Island soon, he probably didn’t understand that he would be moving into a maximum-security penitentiary until the trial was over and the state decided when to end his miserable life. Matt wondered if it was worth a drive down to Terminal Island to let him know that they knew he had the money, and that in the end, it didn’t matter anymore. All Matt really wanted was to see the wicked glint in Gambini’s eyes when he realized that his life as a man of great wealth would be short and sweet, and that in all his days he would never see a single dollar.
Chump change. That’s all he’d be left with. All he’d ever have.
Matt pulled the flap away and stepped out of the tent into the sunlight. He was spent. Weary. Tired of all the blood and all the dead bodies. Tired of all the questions that kept surfacing in his head.
SIXTY-FIVE
Matt pulled into the carport, killed the engine, and strained to lift himself out of the front seat. It was just past noon. Before heading home, he’d driven down to the USC Medical Center to see his partner. Once he arrived, the front desk had told him that Cabrera was in surgery and wouldn’t be out of recovery until early evening. Disappointed that it didn’t work out, Matt had stopped by Burton’s house to check on Val. He’d seen the evidence collection truck parked in the drive, the guys from the lab still processing the crime scene. When he looked in the garage, Val’s car was gone.
And so he ended up here. Home in the middle of the day.
He unlocked the front door and stepped inside. He was having balance issues and feeling dizzy. Chills were running up and down his back and working their way through his spine. When he caught a glimpse of his banged-up face in the mirror, he turned away quickly because he didn’t want to remember it.
He walked into the kitchen, opened the freezer, and poured a glass of chilled Tito’s vodka over ice. Setting the bottle on the counter, he took a first sip and felt his stomach begin to glow. Then he topped off the glass, walked through the living room, and went out the slider onto the deck. It was chilly, but the sun was out and the breeze off the ocean had pushed the foul odor from the wildfire deeper into the basin. The cool salty air actually smelled clean today.
He sat down on the chaise longue, put his feet up, and rested his head against the cushion. After a few moments, he could feel his body beginning to let go. He wasn’t sure how much time had gone by. But when he opened his eyes, his glass was empty, and he saw a man standing at the other end of the deck with a drink of his own. The man was leaning on the rail and seemed to be taking in the view of the charred canyon and all the burned-up homes.
Matt blinked his eyes, wondering who the man was and thinking that he might not even be there because this whole thing could be a dream. But then the man turned, and Matt’s eyes hit his face and stopped.
It was his uncle. It was Dr. Baylor. A serial killer who had murdered two more people in a cheap motel outside of Pittsburgh on the same night Sophia Ramirez had been killed.
“What are you doing here?” Matt said.
“Taking you away.”
“Where?”
“To a place I know not far from here.”
“You came to kill me?”
The doctor laughed. “Why would I want to do that, Matthew?”
Matt shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m not well.”
Baylor smoothed his hand over Matt’s hair, the way an uncle might do to his beloved nephew. Matt looked up at him and wasn’t afraid.
“Why are you here?”
Baylor’s eyes sparkled in the sunlight. “You need a plastic surgeon, Matthew. And I’m still the best there is.”
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The Love Killings
City of Echoes
Murder Season
The Lost Witness
City of Fire
The Dead Room
Access to Power
Author’s Note
The Girl Buried in the Woods was inspired by a true story—the murder of Connie Evans on her fifteenth birthday in the suburbs outside Philadelphia. Her body was found in a shallow grave beneath a grove of pine trees on a country road about a mile from my home. At the time Berkley Road was a desolate street between empty fields of grass that I used to ride my bicycle on every day. I was only a boy at the time of the murder, only ten years old. It took me a year to find the courage to get off my bike and step underneath those pine trees for a look at her grave. In my mind, my imagination, I can still see her hair strewn through the soil, just as it was described by the man who discovered her body with his dog. This is an image that I have carried with me ever since. While this novel isn’t the story of Connie Evans’s life and death, her murder shook me to the bone and changed my life forever.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks go to John Truby, author of The Anatomy of Story and my good friend, for his in-depth take on the first draft of this work. The Girl Buried in the Woods is a better story and a better novel because of him. I’d also like to thank Michael Conway, whose notes were more than helpful from page one to the end. This novel wouldn’t feel authentic without the help from many professionals working in forensic labs and law enforcement agencies across the country. I’d been holding back on some of the most fascinating forensic details and waiting for the right moment to bring them out and let them shine. The Girl Buried in the Woods seemed to be that time. But even so, readers should keep in mind that this is a work of fiction. Any technical deviation from facts or procedures is my responsibility alone, and almost always, a matter of choice for the sake of story.
About the Author
Robert Ellis is the international bestselling author of Access to Power, The Dead Room, the critically acclaimed Lena Gamble novels, City of Fire, The Lost Witness, and Murder Season—and the bestselling Detective Matt Jones Thriller Series, which includes City of Echoes, The Love Killings, and The Girl Buried in the Woods. His books have been translated into more than ten languages and selected as top reads by Booklist, Publishers Weekly, National Public Radio, the Chicago Tribune, the Toronto Sun, the Guardian (UK), People magazine, USA Today, and the New York Times. Born in Philadelphia, Ellis moved to Los Angeles to work as a writer, producer, and director in film, television, and advertising. For more information about Robert Ellis, visit him online at:
https://www.robertellis.net