Who She Was
Braylee Parkinson
Copyright © 2019 Braylee Parkinson All rights reserved.
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Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Prologue
Detroit, Michigan: “Poor Brightmoor” - July 2011
A stench rose from the rusty dumpster behind the liquor store. The smell was evidence enough for Ali Mansu to know that there was a dead body nearby. The store owner mumbled prayers to Allah as he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. The hot, putrid smell of rotting flesh filled his nostrils, causing him to drop the bag of garbage and peer into the dumpster. A fearful glance revealed only bags of trash, but behind the dumpster, in a thicket of overgrown weeds, a pale, leathery hand lay outstretched, reaching towards the sky.
The fingers, stiff with rigor mortis, were curved into a claw. Between overgrowth and debris, a pool of blood, blackened by the passage of hours, had formed beneath the perforated skull. Strands of wayward blonde hair drenched in blood were stuck to the cement. Even in the body’s diminished condition, it was clear that this woman did not belong to Detroit. The degraded hand showed signs of a recent manicure, and the large diamond dangling from her finger told a story that went beyond robbery. Five bullets had been used. The first one would have done the job, but whoever had murdered this woman had been angry. Money hadn’t been the motive. Ali’s heart raced as he scampered towards the back door.
Police from the 8th Precinct arrived within the hour. The overworked and underpaid detectives examined the scene and talked to Ali, but he had very little information to share. The store had only been open a couple of weeks, and he didn’t know much about the neighborhood yet. The detectives headed back to the alley and waited for the medical examiner to show up.
This was homicide number 292 for Detroit.
Chapter One
This is what you get for being in the office on Christmas Eve, I thought, as I watched a car parallel park in front of my office. It was my fourth year of widowhood, but I still hadn’t figured out how to have a successful holiday season at home. After spending the past few Christmases out of town, I’d convinced myself to stay home this year. Unfortunately, I’d overestimated the amount of business that would present itself in December, and most of my days had been spent organizing and filing paperwork. Now that it was Christmas Eve, a specific pang of loneliness throbbed in my throat. My husband, Derek, had been a Christmas fanatic: he’d start streaming lights around the edge of our house the day after Halloween. Every time I closed my eyes, memories of the warm, refreshing scent of pine, or the aroma of a huge, hot, bubbly piece of apple pie slipped into my thoughts. The sights, sounds, and smells of the season permeated my senses, even though I hadn’t participated in any festivities since Derek’s death. I had wonderful memories, but now, being at home during the holidays meant facing a silent, empty homestead. That was why I was at the office organizing receipts for tax season.
To drive away the pangs of loneliness, I’d started the day with a shot of vodka. Normally, I stayed away from alcohol, but there were days when the bitter poison slowed my thoughts and helped me to forget. By 10:00 a.m., I was combing through mounds of receipts. After about an hour, I took a break and paced the office, noticing how loudly Martin, my brother-in-law/assistant, was snoring at the adjacent desk. I poured myself another shot. Even though we had nothing on the books, Martin had decided to come to work. We were both there for unspoken comfort. I walked over to the picture window, drank the vodka down in one swig, and sat on the ledge. Michigan was playing its usual bipolar weather game. The previous week, a foot of snow had fallen, but now temperatures were in the low forties, and a cold, unforgiving rain had been beating against the window for the better part of three days. I was staring at Michigan Avenue, admiring the stillness of the town below, when the car came whipping into view. I watched the sporty, black Mazda 3 squeeze itself into the tiny space between Martin’s Camry and an old, rusted Bonneville.
I smacked the bottom of Martin’s hiking boot.
“Look alive! Someone’s coming up.”
“Huh?”
“We have a client.”
“Where?”
“On his way up.”
“How’d ya know it’s for us?” Martin asked, leaning back in the chair and attempting to return to his nap.
“Because no one else in this building is stupid enough to be open. Get up,” I said, pushing the back of his chair to an upright position.
“Geez, Syl," he said, scratching his head before sitting up straight.
I tossed the bottle of vodka into the bottom desk drawer, pushed the receipts aside, and opened my laptop. A few seconds later, I buzzed the man into the office.
He was drenched from head to toe.
“Hello,” I said, before holding out my hand and waiting as he pulled off his rain-soaked parka. He waved my hand away and gingerly hung the parka on the coat rack. When he looked up, I immediately recognized his face.
“My name is Sylvia Wilcox. How may I help you?”
Carson Stark was his name, and he’d been on the nightly news for months following his wife’s untimely demise. He was just as lanky as he’d looked on television. About six foot four and bald, with huge, haunting blue eyes, and he had a long, sharp nose that was slightly off kilter, indicating that he had probably broken it at some point. The crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes told me that he was older than he seemed, but his body was sleek and trim, like that of a long-distance runner.
When he failed to respond, or move, I decided to prompt him a second time.
“Hello, I’m Sylvia Wilcox. What can I do for you?” I asked, stretching out my arm once again for a handshake. He gave my hand a gentle shake, headed towards the desk, and dropped into the chair next to Martin without any explanation.
I took a quick mental inventory of the man. Carson Stark reeked of old money. The sporty but economical Mazda 3 reinforced the fact that he had nothing to prove to anyone. He’d always had money, and always would have it, so there was no need to be flashy. His creased brow was a direct result of his wife’s murder, because this was a man who had been able to fix just about any problem that had come into his life. Losing his wife and not having answers was killing him.
“You need a private investigator.”
He nodded but didn’t elaborate. After a long, uncomfortable pause, I said, “Start from the beginning.”
I sat down in front of my laptop, opened a new document, and cast a sideways glance at Martin, signaling that he should leave. Martin introduced himself and quickly disappeared into the tiny room next to the office, shutting the door behind him. During my brief stint as a private detective, I’d learned that it was better to do an initial consultation one-on-
one. Clients were more apt to be candid if they were spilling their guts to a single person.
“My wife…” began Carson Stark, only to have emotion choke his throat closed. He dropped his head, his eyes shut tight. “My wife was murdered. I want to know what happened to her. The police have no leads, and they’ve interrogated me to the point of harassment. Now, they aren’t even really investigating the case. I have to know what happened.” Tears welled in his eyes. I pulled out a box of tissues and pushed it towards him.
“How long has it been?” I asked.
“Seventeen months.”
“Who do you think would do this?”
“That’s the thing—I don’t know. She was a beautiful person and I can’t think of anyone who disliked her. She was a great mother, wife, and friend. The world was better when she was here.”
He couldn’t think of anyone who would hurt his wife, but the reality was that someone had done more than hurt her. Someone had taken her life, and life-taking, although sometimes the random endeavor of a stranger, was more often a passion-riddled deed carried out by an acquaintance.
“I will need more information before I decide if I can help. What angles did the police share with you?” I asked.
“The police think it was me, only they have no proof because it wasn’t me. She was murdered on the west side of Detroit, and I have no idea why she would be there. Without GPS, I personally don’t even know how to get to the spot where her body was found.”
“Any other suspects?”
“None that I know of…although there was speculation that she was having an affair.”
I remembered the story well. Carson Stark, a Northville Township doctor, had lost his wife to murder. She’d been shot in Brightmoor, an incredibly poor section of Detroit on the edge of Redford Township. I’d worked in the area patrolled by 8th Precinct—where the murder had taken place—before becoming a private detective. Most of my old colleagues thought that she had been having an affair with a drug dealer.
“I remember the story from the news. She was shot, right?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think she was having an affair?”
“No.”
“Do you have a photo of her?”
“Of course.” He dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small stack of pictures. He gazed lovingly at the photograph on top before handing it to me. Liza Stark had been almost perfect. Five foot six, about thirty-five years old, with soft aqua eyes that stared into the camera, and a well-practiced smile featuring her straight, white teeth. Her strawberry blonde hair was pulled into a ponytail that cascaded down her back. She was posing next to a petite woman with dark, chocolate-colored skin. They stood arm in arm, wide smiles on their faces. Both women were striking, but there was a hardness in Liza’s otherwise pretty smile—something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
“Liza is the blonde, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Who is the other woman?”
“Madelyn Price. I thought it would be good for you to know what she looks like as well.”
“Why is that?”
“She was the last person to talk to Liza before she… They were supposed to meet for a coffee date, but Liza never showed up. Madelyn waited for a while, but eventually left and called to let me know that Liza had stood her up.”
“Do you suspect that Madelyn Price had something to do with the murder?”
“Oh, no. It’s just…I just thought you might want to talk to her. She and Liza were best friends.”
“Yes. I will definitely need to talk with her. I’m very sorry you lost your wife,” I said, handing the photo back to Mr. Stark. He didn’t reach out to take it.
“Can you help me?”
Good question. Murder is hard to solve even when you have an organized police force on your side. I was a one-woman agency with a law-school-dropout assistant. The case was too big for me, and I’d promised myself that homicide was off the list for my agency.
“Mr. Stark, I want to help, but I have a small operation here and I don’t really take homicide cases. I have—”
“You’ve lost a spouse and it changed your life. You know what it’s like.”
I pushed the laptop aside and stared at Carson Stark. He had investigated me. That was common, but people usually wanted to know about my credentials, not my personal life.
“Don’t be alarmed. You come highly recommended. An officer in Detroit greatly admires you. He told me your story and why you left the police force. Said you couldn’t take not knowing. That you fought and fought until you solved cases. Made you unpopular amongst the other officers. He also told me you have a master’s degree in criminology—near the top of your class.”
I didn’t know whether to be impressed, or if I needed to contemplate filing a Personal Protection Order.
“Well, I guess you’ve done your homework. I assume that means you also know that all those highfalutin tricks that fictitious PIs use will land me in jail. Once I turned in the badge, I turned back into a citizen. Private investigating isn’t as glamorous or as fun as it looks. Intuition, feelings, and what people say guide the way. Sometimes the police are helpful, but other times they’re offended by the intrusion of an outside entity.”
“That’s the thing: whatever happened to Liza won’t be discovered through a traditional police investigation. I need someone who can feel and discern the small details. You have to be able to see things that aren’t seen by the typical police officer’s eye.”
I had lost a spouse under mysterious circumstances. The truth had been hard to find, but I hadn’t stopped searching until I knew exactly what had happened. I’d worked diligently to uncover the truth. It was an ugly truth, but it’s always better to know what happened. Even when it’s a dirty secret you never speak of to anyone else, you feel better knowing. But…this case was too much for me. The reminder that spouses are sometimes unjustly taken away, the idea that there was a selfish killer out there that needed to be caught…It would be too much for me. I would get caught up in the case, and lose myself.
But…I had a yearning for justice, and Carson Stark deserved that. The case had fallen away from the active roster at the precinct. Liza Stark had been written off as a cheater who had gotten what she deserved. But she deserved better; her husband deserved better.
“Okay, Mr. Stark. I’ll do my best.”
“Please find the person who did this to her. They left my children motherless, and me…”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said again, before giving him a few moments to regain his composure. Once the lines in his brow eased, I began a battery of questions.
“Let’s start with that morning. Did anything out of the ordinary happen?”
“She was herself—nothing out of the ordinary. A bit flustered with the kids perhaps, but that had been the case for a while. Isabel was two and Shane was three at the time. We’d just hired a housekeeper and part-time nanny to help.”
“Was this something new?”
“It had been going on for a few weeks. The kids are seventeen months apart. I think Liza was just exhausted from the stress of the previous four years. It was hard for me to be there as much as I wanted to be. I had only been at the hospital a few months, and the workload was much heavier than it was at my previous assignment. That’s why I suggested that we get her some help.”
“When was the nanny scheduled to leave that day?”
“Seven p.m. Neither of our kids have ever napped much, so they go to bed early. The nanny was originally scheduled to work a few hours a day, but by that time, she was working from one to seven p.m., five days a week.”
“Tell me about the hours that led up to your departure for work. Any details, regardless of how small, might be helpful.”
“We bathed and played with the kids. After that, we headed for lunch and spent time at a park. Liza told me she was going to run errands, get a manicure, and meet a friend for coffee.”
“So, the na
nny was there to watch the kids while Liza ran errands?”
“Yes. She was originally just going to do housekeeping for us, but she really clicked with the kids. And Liza needed more time to herself.”
Having two toddlers is stressful, so it made sense that Liza needed a break, but it also brought up questions about what she did during those breaks.
“Do you think Liza ended up in Brightmoor of her own accord?”
“I don’t think so, but she was driving and her car was found unscathed. That makes me think she had to have driven there herself, which leaves me with more questions. I don’t know…Maybe she got lost or something, but there really is no excuse for her to have been there.”
Interesting way to phrase the explanation. A good reason didn’t have to be present. Sometimes people are irrational and sometimes, people have secrets. Brightmoor was a wasteland of firebombed houses, drug houses, and party stores. There wasn’t really a good reason for nonresidents to be in the area.
“Liza was meeting a friend…Madelyn, correct?”
“Yes, Madelyn Price—her best friend. The other woman in the photo.”
“Did Liza make it for coffee?”
“No, but she called Madelyn and told her she was running late. That was around three p.m. She sent another text message around twenty past four. That was the last activity on her cell phone.”
“Is Madelyn in Northville too?”
“No. She lives in Ann Arbor, not too far from here.”
“Do you know where they were meeting?”
“No. At the time it didn’t seem important.”
“I’ll need her information.”
Carson nodded and an awkward pause filled the office. I wasn’t sure where to start with this case. I hoped it wasn’t an infidelity case gone wrong, but from what I was hearing, the possibility was there. Most of my work came from former trophy wives turned soccer moms who wanted proof of infidelity so that they could get a sizable divorce settlement. Men are notoriously bad cheaters, so those cases were always simple and fast. But women who cheated on their husbands…Those cases could be tough, and solving a murder that took place in a city that vies for the murder capital of the country on a yearly basis was an entirely different story.
Who She Was Page 1
