by Linda Berry
“Read us the lab report, Darnell.” Sidney needed to refresh her knowledge of the case as well as allow her officers to get up to speed.
Darnell clicked off the projector, brightened the lights, and turned his gaze back to his laptop. “Confirmed cause of death was blood loss from lacerations to her wrists. The wounds were clean, made in one swipe by a thin, razor-sharp blade. Tox screen found no alcohol or drugs in her system besides a trace of a neurotoxin injected behind her left shoulder.”
“What kind of neurotoxin?” Amanda asked.
He shrugged. “A blood sample was sent to the best research lab in D.C., but they couldn’t identify it. Might be venom from a spider or reptile.”
Darnell’s eyes darted back and forth as he scanned his screen. “Mimi was forty-three, five-foot-four, one-hundred five pounds, Caucasian. No police record. She was active in her church and a couple charities.”
“Was she sexually assaulted?” Amanda asked.
“No sign of forced penetration,” Darnell said, his eyes returning to his screen. “Seminal fluid was not found in the vaginal canal but there was condom lubricant. When questioned, her husband said he had relations with his wife the morning of her disappearance.”
“Where was she last seen?” Granger asked.
“St. Mary’s Episcopal Church. She and a few other women stayed late preparing for a rummage sale the next morning. Mimi stayed behind to paint a couple of signs. The church was locked, and the keys were in her purse in her car, still parked in the church lot. No prints or trace evidence were found in the car other than by family members. Dozens of people at her church and around town were questioned. No suspect was singled out during the investigation.”
“I remember two men were brought in for questioning,” Sidney said. “But neither was held or arrested.”
“Who were the two men?” Granger asked.
Darnell scanned his notes. “Derek Brent and Tom Sevinski. Both active in Mimi’s church. Tom worked closely with Mimi on fundraisers. Derek played keyboards. Mimi was a soloist in the choir. They practiced together quite a bit.”
“Let’s give these two men another look,” Sidney said, fingers busy on her keyboard.
“Any relatives have a beef with Mimi?” Granger asked.
“No motive surfaced. She had been married to Miko Matsui for six years. Aside from Miko, now fifty-years-old, she was survived by a daughter, Tracy, twenty-seven, who lives out of state, and her stepson, Noah, age thirty.”
“Do they have any priors?” Amanda asked.
“Miko and Tracy are clean.” Darnell scanned his notes. “Noah was busted for sales of narcotics. Released from prison two months ago. Served thirty-six months.”
“What kind of narcotics?” Amanda asked.
“Prescription opioids and heroin.”
“Same drugs as Samantha,” Granger said. “Possible connection.”
“Needs to be checked out,” Sidney said. “We have to find a link between the two victims. Why were these two women targeted? What did they have in common? Hobbies, friends, church, gym. Right now, the only common denominator is they were both exceptionally attractive.”
While fingers tapped keypads, Sidney refilled her coffee mug.
When heads bobbed up, she continued. “These were not random murders. They were carefully planned. This perp stalked these women, found the right time to abduct them, and acted. What’s clear is that he wanted them to suffer. If they died instantly, it missed the point.”
“Motive, Chief?” Granger asked.
“My take, this was punishment.” She looked around the table, letting the gravity of her words sink in. “Revenge. Payback. This killer targeted these women to relieve a simmering hatred bottled up inside him. He expressed his hatred in a slow, methodical manner over a period of many hours.”
The faces around the table looked grim, postures tense.
“This case takes priority over all else,” Sidney said. “We’re spread thin with a lot of ground to cover, so we need to work fast and smart. Keep the county deputies informed and let them help anyway they can.”
Sidney shifted her weight in her chair, drained her coffee mug. “Amanda, head over to Samantha’s apartment. Go through each room with a fine-tooth comb. Canvass her neighborhood. See if anyone saw visitors at her place since she’s been out of rehab, any suspicious behavior. Darnell, secure Samantha’s computer, get into her social media accounts, her phone records, credit card purchases. Look for any communication that might appear threatening. Hit up Samantha’s coworkers at Hogan’s.” Sidney tapped her fingers on her armrest, thinking. “Let’s put together a comprehensive profile of this woman—her activities and the people she associated with. See if we can map out a timeline.”
All hands in the room were busy typing, then heads looked up one by one.
“Winnie needs to get a press release to the Daily Buzz,” Sidney said.
“I’ll fill her in, Chief,” Amanda said.
“Great. Bare facts only.”
“Got it.”
“Granger, you and I need to notify the Ferguson’s of their daughter’s death.”
He nodded, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.
She understood. They were about to deliver news to a family that would shatter their world and from which they would never recover. Sidney reflected on the many times she had been placed in this excruciating position back in Oakland. Worst part of the job. The messenger always walked away from the fallout riddled with shrapnel.
Sidney dismissed her officers. As they filed out, she felt a swell of pride. They were acting as a cohesive unit, handling the demands and long hours of their first homicide with enthusiasm, diligence, and no complaint.
Winnie buzzed her. “Don’t come through the lobby. Jeff Norcross is out here, watching my every move.”
“Thanks for the warning.” To avoid the pesky reporter, Sidney and Granger exited out the back door.
CHAPTER SIX
“TAKE A LONG, DEEP BREATH. Hold it. Slowly release. Repeat.”
Barefoot, Selena quietly wove her way between the bodies sitting in the Sukasana pose in her yoga studio. She lightly touched random students between the shoulder blades to remind them of their posture. All eyes were closed. Faces relaxed. Soothing music quieted their minds, and Selena’s organic candles brought the fragrance of a flower garden into the room. Within these walls, a healthy challenge to the body and a sense of peaceful mindfulness could be found. That combination brought Selena a loyal clientele. Five classes a week filled to capacity.
She returned to the front of the room and ended the class with her usual parting. “Open your eyes. Smile. Go out into the world and have a beautiful day. Be kind to all you meet.”
Twenty students got to their feet, some stretching, some rolling up their mats and heading out the door, some idling in the gift section by the cashier counter, a few crowding around Selena to ask questions about meditation and yoga. When the last curious student had departed, and only one browsing customer remained, Selena blew out the candles and turned off the music, hinting she wanted to close up shop. Thoughts of murder had crept back into her mind, and she was anxious to get to Ann’s farm to comfort her traumatized friend.
She studied the man who lingered. Derek Brent. A student for three months, three times a week. Seemingly planted to the floor, Derek lifted products one-by-one and leisurely read the labels and ingredients. He had always been friendly, and he made a point of talking to her for a few minutes after every class. From past conversations, she learned Derek had returned to Garnerville after a two-and-a-half-year absence. He had made a slow recovery in a sunny beach town after a devastating car accident nearly killed him. She vaguely remembered him from his prior life when the choir from the Episcopalian Church gave public performances in the park. He had been their pianist. Her eyes traced his profile—a tall, handsome man with thick, dark hair and a strong jaw.
He turned toward her, and she tried not to stare at the
left half of his face, a maze of burn scars stretched tightly over the skull bones. She focused on the products he was juggling; two vanilla scented candles, a jar of lavender honey, pomegranate vinegar.
He placed them on the counter, and she met his one good eye, warm brown, arched by a fine, dark brow. The other was embedded in a tilted seam of skin, the white of the eye permanently red, the iris milky blue. Despite his physical imperfection, Derek exuded an aura of confidence, and she found it admirable that he never acted like a victim. His persona was charming and appealing, and over time, she found the disfigured half of his face had become easy to overlook. “How’s it going, Derek?”
“No complaints.”
He had a nice mouth and sexy smile.
“Excellent class, as usual,” he said.
She smiled back. “You’re improving. More limber.” She rang up his purchases as she spoke. “Stronger, too.”
“No wonder. That three-minute plank pose is a killer.”
“You’re holding it without a problem.”
“You obviously haven’t noticed my grimace.”
“I took it for a smile.”
“That’s me, the happy yogi.”
Derek always covered his body in baggy pants and long-sleeved shirts. She sometimes wondered how extensive his burns were. Visible scars traveled down the left side of his neck and the back of his left hand, up his wrist. The crash, he once told her, had left him mangled, burned, and in an induced coma for days. Suffering from a brain injury, broken collarbone, a broken arm and shattered ankle on the left side, and a series of painful skin grafts, he’d made an intensely painful but miraculous recovery.
She placed his purchases in a bag, took his money, and dropped his change into the palm of his scarred hand. When he hugged the bag to his chest, his sleeve rode up a bit, revealing a Daytona Rolex watch, made famous by Paul Newman, and crazy expensive. She smiled up at him. “Thank you.”
He didn’t leave. “Nice to come here and take my mind off the world’s problems.”
“Overwhelming sometimes.”
“Too often.” He swayed on the balls of his feet for a moment. “Look, I hope I’m not being too forward, but I notice you wear your wedding ring on your right hand.”
Selena felt a little twist in her stomach. She smiled out of politeness. “My husband and I are taking a break.”
“So, you’re separated.”
“Yes.”
“Are you dating?” His good eye studied her face closely, as though looking for vulnerability, or a lie.
“No. Not dating.” Her smile felt pasted on. She did not want to be having this conversation. Too sensitive. “I’m very much married. Randy and I are giving each other space while we work things out.”
“I see.” He smiled his sexy smile. The eye lost its laser stare, softened. “Well, I hope things work out for you.”
“Thanks, Derek. I appreciate that.”
“See you next week.”
“Best place in town to be.” She followed him to the door and locked it behind him, a faint residue of unease lingering. She hoped Derek would take the hint and not trespass into her personal life again. No doubt, he felt encouraged by her friendliness. Selena was gregarious by nature, but with Derek, she saw she needed to tone down the wattage a bit. She felt a piercing ache when she thought of her husband. Randy had been the one true love of her life since she was sixteen, and she wasn’t close to being ready to give up on him. After ten years, their marriage was in limbo—a precarious balancing act that could sway either way with the slightest zephyr. Hopefully, back to terra firma.
She watched Derek climb into his silver Mercedes sedan, pull into the traffic lane, and head north on Main Street. He was a man of means. The luxury car put him back six figures, and at forty-two, he was retired and made no mention of going back to work. At another time, in a different world, she might be interested in Derek, but for now, the concept of romance with a stranger seemed as cold and remote as Siberia.
Selena turned out the lights and left through the side door. It opened onto the driveway that led back to the house. Turning to lock the door, she heard a sudden scuffing of feet. Pulse racing, she turned to face the tall man standing directly behind her, boxing her in against the door.
Christ. Jeff Norcross from the Daily Buzz. The gangly reporter was dressed in his normal uniform; khaki Dockers and a polo shirt, and a ball cap shading the top half of his face.
Selena huffed out a sigh of relief. “You should never creep up behind a woman in an alley, Jeff. You scared the holy hell out of me.”
“Sorry.” He pushed up his cap, revealing pale blue eyes behind wire rim glasses. He didn’t look sorry. His features were sharpened with expectancy, and his eyes contained an eager gleam. Jeff had no doubt caught the scent of the murder and was going to try to shake her down. His phone was out, ready to tape their conversation.
“Just want to ask a few questions. Can you tell me anything about the murdered woman found in the woods? Do you know her name?”
“I don’t know anything.” Selena pushed against his shoulder, steered around him, and walked briskly up the driveway to the house.
“Your sister’s police chief.” He kept pace behind her shoulder. “She must have mentioned something.”
“Nothing.”
“How was she killed?”
She climbed the porch, opened the front door, and gazed back at him. He had followed to the bottom of the stairs. “Jeff, please go. I have nothing for you.”
Selena stood watching him tuck his phone into his pocket, shoot her a frustrated smile, and walk hurriedly back down the driveway to Main Street. He turned the corner and disappeared.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WHILE Granger drove, Sidney pulled her hair into a ponytail and read Samantha’s file thoroughly. When she finished, she turned her attention to Granger, wanting some personal conversation to get her mind off the case. “How’s life at the ranch?”
“Busy.” He glanced at her, his hands relaxed on the wheel, his blue eyes reading her mood. “Just harvested our last crop of hay for the season.”
“You mentioned a while back you were selling off part of your land.”
“We did. A third of the property, and half the livestock. With Dad’s health declining, my brother and I are phasing him out of ranching. Conner’s a forest ranger. I’m a cop. We have great pension plans. Neither of us want the ranching life anymore.”
“Why’s that?”
“Full-time job, Chief. Twenty-four seven. No vacations. You ever pull a calf out of a cow in freezing weather at three in the morning?”
“Not lately.” She grinned. “Builds character, right?”
“If you say so.” He smiled back.
The last time Sidney saw Granger’s father, at the Fourth of July parade, he and his wife rode beautiful Palominos and were decked out in classy western wear and white Stetsons, reminding her of Roy Rogers and Dale Evans. A casual observer would never have guessed Jeb suffered from Parkinson’s. “Your dad looked great at the parade.”
Granger shrugged. “He has good days and bad.”
“How’s it feel to be living back at home after being a Marine?”
“Beats sleeping in a ditch. Food’s better. I’m not getting shot at every day.”
“Always a plus.”
“I’ve got the bunkhouse, so I have my privacy.”
Third-generation ranchers, the Wyatts were well liked and respected in town. Good people who held American values close to heart. The brothers grew up in 4-H, scouting, and rodeo, and when they came of age, they didn’t hesitate to enlist in the Marines to fulfill their duty to country. Both were promptly sent to the Mideast. Conner to Iraq, Granger to Afghanistan. Now back home, they were helping their parents through a difficult transition. Granger never talked about the grim details of life in a combat zone and the buddies he’d lost—only the good memories, the camaraderie with fellow Marines. Sidney hired him because of his outstanding servi
ce record and leadership abilities. They threaded their way into the hills through a forest blazing with color. Scarlet, gold, persimmon. Shoals of clouds swam through a sea of deep blue sky.
Granger parked on a leafy street in the town’s most upscale neighborhood, Maple Grove. Sidney gazed across a long stretch of manicured lawn at the Ferguson’s Victorian-style mansion, one of a dozen built at the turn of the century that overlooked the lake and valley. Giant maples shaded the house and a tennis court was visible behind the garage. While growing up, Sidney knew all the folks who lived up here, but over time, kids left home, and parents wanted to downsize. Wealthy families moved in from out of town, several using the estates as second homes.
A dull dread had been growing in Sidney’s chest on the ride over, and she sensed Granger’s growing tension.
“How does a woman from a family like this end up on drugs, viciously murdered?” Granger asked, his eyes searching hers.
“Murder doesn’t discriminate,” she said quietly, quoting a dictum her father often used.
“When I was in Afghanistan, my job was fueled by anger at atrocities by terrorists, but always in another country. When a killing happens right in my own backyard…” His voice drifted into silence.
“It’s more personal,” Sidney finished for him.
He nodded.
“Ready?”
“Never ready.”
They got out of the car and started up the paving stone walkway.
CHAPTER EIGHT
AFTER TUGGING a dozen red tomatoes and two plump eggplants from their vines, Ann snipped sprigs of basil, oregano, and thyme for the pasta sauce she would make for Selena. Everything in her garden was fragrant and thriving. Butterflies, hummingbirds, and bees darted in and out of flowers, feasting on pollen and nectar. On a good day, there was something infinitely soothing about pulling weeds, deadheading wasted blossoms, and feeling the sun warm on her back. On a good day, the pain and suffering she had endured during her fifteen-year marriage could be pushed to the back of her consciousness, a dull throbbing ache, localized behind the modest screen she showed to the world.