Save Her Soul: An absolutely unputdownable crime thriller and mystery novel (Detective Josie Quinn Book 9)

by Lisa Regan

  Josie stepped aside and let them in. They congregated in the living room, eating the pizza right from the box. Josie sat on the couch with Dr. Feist beside her. Gretchen disappeared momentarily and returned with napkins and three bottles of water, which she set on the coffee table next to the pizza and Dr. Feist’s laptop. “I couldn’t stay at home. Too antsy.” She sat cross-legged on the floor facing them.

  Dr. Feist wiped a splotch of sauce from the corner of her mouth with a napkin and said, “She showed up at the morgue asking if I’d finished Vera’s autopsy.”

  Josie laughed but it came out sounding nervous. She should have been the one showing up unannounced at the morgue looking for information about Vera Urban. Instead, all she could think about was Wild Turkey. If Gretchen noticed anything off, she didn’t point it out. Instead, she said, “Then I thought you would want to hear whatever Dr. Feist had to say, so I convinced her to come over here with me.”

  “And we figured you’d be starving,” Dr. Feist added. “So here we are.”

  Somehow, Josie didn’t feel hungry at all, but she took a slice of pizza anyway. “Thank you,” she said. “What can you tell us about Vera Urban?”

  The doctor opened her laptop, clicked a few times, and then began to read off some of her findings. “I estimate her age to be between fifty and sixty.”

  “That tracks,” Josie said. “She was fifty-eight.”

  Dr. Feist nodded. “The cause of death was the gunshot wound to her abdomen. Her lungs weighed more than expected and when I opened her up, they were somewhat overinflated, indicating that she had taken in some water before she died, but based on the damage in her abdominal cavity, I believe she died before she had a chance to drown.”

  Josie put her half-finished pizza back into the box and leaned back into the couch. Trout jumped up and crawled into her lap, whining. Absently, she stroked the back of his neck. Gretchen said, “We did everything we could, boss.”

  “Did we?” Josie asked. “We should have brought some kind of backup. Going there alone was stupid.”

  Gretchen said, “To meet one person with information about a sixteen-year-old murder? There was nothing to indicate we needed to bring in an army to meet with Vera Urban. We didn’t even know it was her when we went there. We only knew we were meeting a woman named Alice.”

  “She told us—she told me—that it wasn’t safe, and I didn’t take her seriously enough. She was right, and now she’s dead.”

  “That’s not your fault,” Gretchen told her.

  Dr. Feist said, “Josie, if it helps, I don’t believe she would have survived long enough to make it to the hospital. Even if you had been able to move her to safety and wait for an ambulance, she would have died before she made it to the ER, and Denton Memorial is not a trauma center.”

  Josie shook her head, fighting tears. “I should never have put any of us in a position where someone was shooting at us—she was shot because of me.”

  “She was shot because she’s mixed up in something she shouldn’t be,” Gretchen argued. “She knew her daughter was murdered, and she hid that for sixteen years, boss. If she didn’t get shot before our eyes, she might have been killed some other way at some other time by whoever was after her.”

  Silence descended over the room as the full weight of the violence of Vera Urban’s death and the gravity of what she’d been hiding from set in. Then Dr. Feist cleared her throat and said, “There were some other incidental findings you might be interested in: her liver was extremely diseased, either from long-term alcohol use or some other underlying condition.”

  “Opiates,” Josie supplied. “We believe she was addicted to opiates.”

  Dr. Feist nodded. “That would certainly do it. Also, in her lower back I found evidence of an old lumbar surgery. A tri-level lumbar fusion.”

  “Yes,” Gretchen said. “Several people who knew her reported she had had back surgery.”

  “Lastly, she had a bicornuate uterus.”

  Gretchen’s pizza slice froze halfway to her mouth.

  Josie said, “What is that?”

  “Vera Urban’s uterus was heart-shaped. Bicornuate uterus is a congenital defect. I’ll spare you the scientific details. Basically, the uterus forms with two separate cavities. A deep indentation forms at the top of the uterus, essentially splitting it in the middle. It can be surgically corrected these days—and perhaps even when Vera Urban was a young woman—but hers was not corrected. It doesn’t affect fertility, but it makes it very difficult to carry a baby to term.”

  “But we know she had a baby,” Josie said. “Was there dorsal pitting on her pubic bone?”

  Dr. Feist said, “No, but not every woman develops scarring in her pubic bone after childbirth. I’ve seen plenty of women who have given birth without parturition scarring on autopsy. I usually only use that as an indicator that a woman has given birth.”

  Josie said, “Meaning if it’s there, then she likely had a baby.”

  “Right. But its absence is not an indicator that the woman never gave birth. As I said, Vera’s condition wouldn’t have prevented her from having a baby; it just made the odds of a successful pregnancy much lower. She was very lucky to have carried Beverly to term.”

  Gretchen said, “That might explain why she was on bedrest for so long and why she had to deliver at Geisinger and not here in Denton.”

  The weight of the Urban women’s tragedy hung heavy on Josie’s shoulders. Poor Vera. According to her former boss, she’d badly wanted a baby and had been thrilled when Beverly came along even though the father wasn’t in the picture. But somewhere along the line, things had gone wrong. Beverly had developed behavioral issues. Josie knew firsthand how Beverly’s penchant for acting out could cause not just emotional drama but physical harm. What had Beverly and Vera gotten themselves into that was so dangerous it had ended up with Beverly pregnant and murdered at seventeen years old and Vera forced into hiding for almost two decades? What had Vera been hiding from? Where had she been all these years? Who had killed her and why?

  Josie said, “She was worried that someone had followed us when we went to meet her—not that someone was following her. In fact, the whole reason that she wanted to meet in private in an out-of-the-way place was because she didn’t think the police station was safe.”

  “Who is left in the Denton PD that would have been involved in Beverly’s murder sixteen years ago?” Dr. Feist asked. “I thought you cleaned house five years ago after the missing girls’ case.”

  Gretchen said, “Amber Watts.”

  For Dr. Feist’s benefit, Josie shared her suspicions about their new press liaison.

  “How old is this woman?” Dr. Feist asked.

  Gretchen said, “Young. She would have been in elementary school when Beverly was murdered.”

  “Not necessarily her,” Josie said. “Mayor Charleston. Amber knew we were going to meet the mysterious Alice this morning, but she didn’t know where. She could have told the Mayor.”

  “So you think she is a spy?” Gretchen asked.

  “I don’t know. But someone knew we were going to meet Vera Urban. Someone wanted her dead. Someone shot her so she couldn’t tell us what she knew.”

  “I know Mayor Charleston is well versed in lying and covering things up,” Dr. Feist said. “She’s not that well liked here anymore, with this Quail Hollow thing—although Kurt Dutton is involved in that, too, I believe—but I’m not sure she’s capable of murder.”

  “Me either,” Josie conceded. “But maybe she’s not directly involved in whatever is going on here. I’m just saying that it’s a pretty odd coincidence that Amber gets hired by the Mayor this week, and shows up right after we recover a body from beneath the house on Hempstead. She’s been at all the briefings, and knew we were going to meet someone who knew what happened to Beverly, and suddenly we’re getting shot at and Vera Urban is dead. Maybe I’m reading too much into things, but what’s the alternative?”

  “That someone’s been
following Vera Urban this whole time—since she returned to Denton from wherever she’s been—and she just didn’t realize it,” Gretchen said.

  Josie gestured to Dr. Feist’s open laptop. “Do you mind?”

  She pushed it across the coffee table to Josie. Then she and Gretchen sat on either side of Josie on the couch, peering at the computer screen as Josie did an extensive background check on Amber Watts, finding nothing amiss and no red flags. “The ad,” Josie mumbled. “The Chief wanted me to see if the Mayor put the ad up for a press liaison several months ago. Amber says that was when she answered it.” Sure enough, Josie found the ad posted on several job search sites two months earlier.

  Dr. Feist sighed. “Looks like your Amber/Mayor Charleston lead is a dead end.”

  Gretchen said, “Let’s just focus on Vera for now. Hopefully we’ll find something that leads to her killer—and Beverly’s as well.”

  Twenty-Nine

  There was no opportunity to sneak off to the liquor store for the rest of the evening. Misty and Harris showed up before Gretchen and Dr. Feist left and shortly after that, Noah came home. Josie went through the motions, passing the rest of the night in a daze and giving an unconvincing, “I’m fine” every time Misty or Noah asked if she was all right. Sleep eluded her, especially given the pain in her leg, which ibuprofen did little to relieve. The moment the gray of morning began filtering through their bedroom windows, she got up, showered, and took Trout for a run. She stopped at the Spur Mobile store to get a new phone before picking up Gretchen in the parking lot of the stationhouse.

  Warrants ready, they headed to the Patio Motel. It had been around as long as Josie could remember, a scar on the community. The city police made more drug and prostitution arrests there than anywhere else in the area. It was a sagging, two-story building with eight rooms on each floor. Most of the room numbers were now marked in Sharpie on the doors. Beat-up vehicles sat in the parking spaces just out front of the rooms. Josie knew from asking Noah the evening before that none of the vehicles found in the lot were registered to anyone named Alice. However Vera had gotten to Denton, she hadn’t driven a vehicle of her own.

  Between the parking lot and the tiny motel office was an in-ground pool that had long been filled with garbage. At one point, someone had attempted to grow a small garden at one end of the pool, but now all that was left was a bright red tulip jutting out of soil littered with broken glass and fast food wrappers.

  A sullen woman with black hair and narrowed eyes greeted them at the motel office. Even with a warrant, it took a great deal of negotiating for her to admit to them that a woman matching Vera Urban’s description had, in fact, checked in two days before. Vera hadn’t given the Patio staff any name, and the Patio staff hadn’t asked for it. That wasn’t how things worked at the Patio Motel. Its only appeal was its protection of the guests’ anonymity. Only after Josie and Gretchen outlined the penalties for not complying with a search warrant and assured the woman that Vera Urban was deceased did she agree to show them to her room. “Take her stuff,” she told them after unlocking room two. “I need this room if she ain’t coming back.”

  Like all the rooms at the Patio, the one Vera Urban had occupied was small, dated, and stank of cigarettes, stale body odor, and spoiled food. A full-sized bed took up most of the room. Its ratty floral comforter was undisturbed. Across from it, a television sat on top of a small, nicked dresser. Near the window just inside the door was an orange armchair with stains on its cushions. The room looked unoccupied.

  Josie stepped past the bed and into the bathroom, which was a glorified closet, the toilet and sink practically touching. No tub, only a shower with a rusted out drain and mildewed shower curtain. Still, there was no evidence that anyone was staying in the room. Gretchen was poking around beneath the bed when Josie emerged. “There’s nothing here,” Gretchen told her.

  “There has to be something,” Josie insisted. “She had to bring at least a change of clothes.”

  She walked back over to the chair and studied it. Pulling a pair of gloves from her jacket pocket, Josie snapped them on and lifted the seat cushion. “Here,” she said, lifting a small blue backpack into the air. Gretchen, too, snapped on gloves and they emptied the backpack onto the bed. There were some undergarments, two pairs of jeans, two shirts, a nightshirt featuring several cartoon cats that read “Cat Nap”, a hairbrush, several make-up items, and some toiletries. Josie lined up a toothbrush and tube of toothpaste, deodorant, and some small bottles of shampoo and conditioner.

  Gretchen said, “There’s no wallet or phone.”

  “Right,” Josie agreed. “We know she had her phone with her yesterday, and if she had a wallet, that was probably with her too. It’s in the river now.”

  “What’s that?” Gretchen said, pointing to a small, orange plastic bottle.

  Josie turned it over, a small thrill of excitement running through her like an electric shock. “A prescription pill bottle,” she said. “For a woman named Alice Adams. Looks like it’s for lorazepam.”

  “Ativan,” Gretchen said. “It’s an anti-anxiety drug. Does it list a pharmacy and doctor on the bottle?”

  Josie took out her phone and snapped some photos of the label. Then she Googled the pharmacy. “It’s a locally-owned shop in Colbert.”

  Gretchen said, “That’s about ninety minutes from here.”

  “We’ll need warrants,” Josie said. “For the pharmacy records and then for whatever address we find for this Alice Adams. We’ll need to call the local PD there too and let them know what we’re doing.”

  “Let’s go,” Gretchen said.

  Thirty

  At the stationhouse, Gretchen prepared the warrants while Josie called the Colbert PD to coordinate efforts. Within a half hour, Josie was informed that the address that Alice Adams had been residing at was a rental. The Colbert officer gave her the name and phone number of the landlord. He offered to pay the landlord a visit and explain what was going on to pave the way for Josie and Gretchen to execute their search warrant at Alice’s apartment later that day, if possible. “Now we just have to wait for a return call,” she told Gretchen.

  Amber, who had been sitting several desks away the entire time, walked over. “I was hoping you could bring me up to speed on all the developments,” she said. “Seems like a lot has happened since yesterday. I know that ‘Alice’ was really Vera Urban and now she’s dead—the Chief told me that—but that’s all he would say. He wouldn’t give me any details. But I heard some of the patrol officers talking about a shoot-out. They said you and Gretchen were there. They said Vera Urban was shot. Can you tell me what happened? Did she have any information for you?”

  Gretchen said, “No one else told you anything? The Chief? Lieutenant Fraley? Mett?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to talk with anyone. Everyone’s so busy.”

  Josie looked up and met her eyes. “How about the Mayor? Have you had a chance to talk with her?”

  “No, I— Why would I need to talk with the Mayor?”

  Josie went back to typing up a report on her computer. After several awkward moments, Amber plunged in again. “I just have a few questions.”

  Josie pushed her chair away from her desk and headed for the stairwell. The stitches in her leg tugged with each step. Amber followed, calling out questions, holding her tablet in one hand and tapping away at it with her other hand as she followed Josie from the great room to the break room. Josie gave monosyllabic answers whenever possible or referred Amber to the Chief. She was more focused on getting coffee than telling Amber a damn thing. She poured herself a mug and went to the refrigerator for the half and half, but Amber stepped in front of her, blocking Josie’s way. “Detective Quinn,” she said, her trademark smile replaced by a look so earnest it bordered on desperation. “If I’m going to do my job, I need to know what you know.”

  Josie said, “Please move.”

  Amber straightened her posture, standing at least two inches taller tha
n Josie in her four-inch heels. “What is your problem with me?” she blurted out.

  Josie squeezed the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. She could feel a headache forming behind her eyes. Folding her arms across her chest, she met Amber’s eyes. “Look, I really don’t have time for this, and you’re standing between me and the half and half. If you want to get along well here, you won’t do that.”

  Amber’s chin jutted out stubbornly as she glared at Josie. Her lips formed a straight line, and her blue eyes blinked frenetically, giving away her nervousness. Josie couldn’t help it. She laughed. Amber deflated before her, slinking away from the refrigerator in defeat. “Just a minute,” Josie said before she left the room. Amber stopped in the doorway.

  Retrieving the half and half, Josie returned to the table in the center of the room and fixed her coffee. “I understand you have a job to do, but the fact is that the Mayor put you here.”

  “I told you,” Amber groused. “I’m not the Mayor’s plant.”

  Josie sipped her hot coffee, relishing the taste of it. There was no point in confronting Amber with her suspicions. If Amber was in league with the Mayor, she’d never admit it. If Amber was completely innocent and had been inadvertently feeding the Mayor information, she certainly couldn’t control what the Mayor did with that information. Josie said, “You liaise with the Mayor’s office. That makes you not trustworthy at this particular time. Between the Quail Hollow scandal and—” she stopped herself from saying the words “Vera’s murder,” instead concluding, “It’s a problem. So yes, we’re playing things a little close to our vests on this one.”