by S W Vaughn
Operator: [long pause] Sir, can you give me your name and address, please?
Caller: Help me. SOMEBODY HELP ME! [screaming]
Operator: I’m sorry, sir. We’re going to send help. Can you please give me your name and address?
Caller: [whispers] Derrick. Please … help me …
Kratt stabbed a finger at the phone and ended the awful playback. The caller’s tone had regressed quickly from panicked despair to sheer anguish, and even the dispatcher had started to sound rough toward the end, like she was barely maintaining her professionalism. Preston was willing to bet Kratt had stopped the recording before the dispatcher broke down, too.
When the recorded voices ceased, the whole station was so silent that the ticking of the second hand on the bullpen wall clock sounded like drumsticks clacking together at the beginning of a rock song, counting off time until the frantic music of activity kicked in.
They all knew what the call meant. The still-unknown killer had struck again.
Just like the expert that the chief had recruited said he would.
“All right, people.” Chief Palmer’s firm, no-nonsense voice broke the silence, but Preston detected a slight tremor in the words. She turned along with everyone else as the chief addressed the troops. “The body was discovered less than twenty minutes ago,” Palmer said. “Dispatch sent some county mounties to secure the scene, but we need to get out there quickly. It’s our case. Address is 250 Greenleaf Lane in Hynesdale. I want two pairs of officers headed there now — Farnsworth, you make the call for who’s coming. You’re with me, Kratt. And somebody get Brand, send him out.”
Preston swallowed back the panicked question that floated to the tip of her tongue: What about me? She should’ve been the first one called out to the scene, since she was the lead detective. The only detective. Had she screwed up so badly that the chief had already lost faith in her? Or maybe it was just expected that she’d head out immediately, and she shouldn’t have to be told.
Before she could formulate a question that wouldn’t sound desperate, the chief came toward her and acknowledged her with a nod. “Clarke. I want you to head over to Whispering Pines and pick up our expert. Bring him to the scene.”
She gave an owlish blink. “He’s not supposed to be here until tomorrow.”
“Well, he showed up early,” Palmer said. “Didn’t your sister tell you? She’s apparently told everyone else in town.”
Preston grimaced inwardly. Of course Bethy hadn’t told her. Her little sister was the only person she’d talked to about her frustration with getting the job she’d wanted since middle school, only to be almost immediately saddled with some hotshot out-of-towner when it appeared that she couldn’t do the job alone.
This wasn’t supposed to happen yet. She should’ve had another day without being relegated to second wheel. She could do this. She just needed more time.
“Chief,” she said lamely. “I don’t need…”
“I’m sorry to put you on pickup detail,” Palmer interrupted. “I tried to call, but he’s not picking up his cell and the front desk can’t get through to his room. Listen, I really want you working with him on this. I think you can learn a lot. It’s a great opportunity.”
Somehow, Preston managed not to roll her eyes. “All right. I’ll bring him.”
“Great, thanks. See you out there.”
The chief grabbed Kratt by the elbow, and they both headed out of the station. August had already taken off with his chosen officers. Preston was going to be the last one on the scene, when she should’ve been the first.
She passed Henderson on the way out, slumped sullenly against a wall — looked like August hadn’t asked him to work this one. He watched her the whole time, his expression sour.
But there was cold, mocking laughter in his eyes.
Chapter Seven
Marco
When the banging on the door started, I shoved a hand under the pillow without opening my eyes. But my gun wasn’t there. I snapped fully awake, worry edging my nerves for a split second before I remembered that I wasn’t hiding in some filthy back room or skeevy by-the-hour motel.
I still wasn’t sure if my present situation was better or worse.
More banging sounded, though it wasn’t quite as loud as I’d thought when it woke me up. It was closer to polite but urgent knocking. I groaned and glanced at the bedside clock to see that it was ten-thirty in the morning, which meant I’d gotten about five hours of sleep. Not even close to enough. The person at the door was probably cleaning services or something. If check-in was normally at noon, this would be about the time they’d come around.
Damn it, I should’ve taken an extra minute last night to find a Do Not Disturb sign for the door.
I wanted to lie here and hope they’d just go away, but they’d already knocked twice. I’d just have to tell them I didn’t need my room cleaned — and then I’d hang the damned sign out and sleep until tomorrow.
As I hauled myself out of bed and grabbed a fresh t-shirt from the suitcase I’d brought in, the knocking came again. “Just a minute!” I growled through the open bedroom door in the direction of the main room.
Whoever it was stopped banging. Thank God for small favors.
I headed for the suite entrance, still half-asleep, pulling the shirt on as I went. My hand was already on the twist-knob to open the lock when I glanced through the peephole. There was a woman out there. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed, a natural beauty with just the barest hint of makeup. And from what little I could see of her, incredibly annoyed.
Wondering how I’d managed to piss off the hotel staff while I was asleep, I twisted the lock and pulled the door open. My muzzy brain took in the rest of her. Pastel blouse, sharp navy jacket, pressed slacks, folded arms, short-clipped and unpolished nails, no rings.
Holstered gun. Shield clipped to her waist.
Not hotel cleaning.
A cop.
Shit, I could be in a lot of trouble here.
Mentally kicking myself for opening the door in the first place, I cleared my throat awkwardly. “Can I help you?” I said in my best I-have-no-idea-what’s-wrong-Officer tone.
“North.” She did not smile, but her gaze traveled down until it reached my lack of pants, and then snapped back up suddenly, focusing somewhere past my shoulder. “I realize you got into town earlier than expected, and you may not be … prepared for this, but we have a situation. The chief’s been trying to call you.”
The chief. Of police? Why the hell would the chief of police want to talk to me — I mean, to Donovan North? He’d said he was going on vacation. My head pounded sickly and my throat went dry.
I decided to hedge, hoping I could tease something out of her that would give me a clue what this was about. “Have we met?”
“Funny.” This time she smiled, but it was dry and unimpressed. “Listen, I’m sure you’re a big deal where you come from, but as I mentioned, we have a situation. The chief wants you to come out to the scene with me … that is, if you don’t mind.”
I swallowed a gasp. If there was a ‘scene,’ then the ‘situation’ was some kind of crime. I had no idea what Donnie was supposed to be involved in here, but my choices were limited. One, punch her and make a run for it — not happening, since she was both a woman and a cop. Two, jump out the window and make a run for it. Also not happening, since I was on the third floor.
Three, pretend I knew exactly what was going on and accompany the not-so-friendly officer, until I got the opportunity to vacate this town.
It looked like I was going with option three.
“Okay, sure,” I finally blurted. “I just need a minute to … well, you know. Put some pants on,” I said with a look down at my boxers. “Sorry I missed the call. I didn’t get in until around five this morning.”
The cop’s stern features softened a little. “Guess I woke you up, then?”
“Yeah, no big deal,” I said with a shrug. “I didn’t catch your name, by the w
ay.”
“Detective Preston Clarke.” She failed to offer a hand. “And you’re Donovan North.”
At the moment, I really wished I wasn’t.
This must’ve been the Preston that Bethy had mentioned last night. I doubted anyone had ever shoved her head in a toilet. She wasn’t just gorgeous — she also looked capable of kicking some serious ass.
I leveled a grim smile by way of acknowledging her non-introduction and started to close the door, but she gestured at me. “Wait a second.” She bent down, grabbed a briefcase that had been leaning against the wall outside, and handed it to me. “Your badge, shield, and sidearm are all in there,” she said, and her gaze flicked down briefly again. “I’ll just wait out here while you … you know.”
Badge, shield, and sidearm? Oh, fuck me.
Donnie-boy had grown up to become a cop.
My expression wavered, and it was all I could do not to slam the door in her face. “Right. Thanks,” I coughed out. “I won’t be long.”
“Okay.” There was another touch of softness, but not much. “I am sorry for waking you, Detective.”
And the hits just kept on coming.
Not just a cop. A detective.
“It’s fine,” I said with a little wave as I shut the door and didn’t bother locking it.
But it wasn’t fine.
This was about a million light years from fine.
Gritting my teeth, I marched back to the bedroom, tossed the briefcase on the bed, and glared at it. Unbelievable. I’d managed to switch identities with an off-duty cop, who was headed to Vermont to work with the local police. And there was absolutely no way I could get out of going with Detective Clarke to whatever it was she — excuse me, the chief of frigging police — wanted me to see. Clarke was clearly not a fan of my doppelganger.
If I screwed this up now — whether I did it by running away, or not being convincing enough as North — I was a dead man. I’d definitely get busted, and the moment word got out that I was behind bars instead of in the ground, Nicky Franzella would start making arrangements for my funeral. The real one this time.
Somehow, I had to go through with this.
I didn’t want to look in that briefcase until I had to, so I opened the suitcase I’d brought in last night and grabbed jeans and socks. North’s phone and wallet were still in the jacket I’d left on the bathroom floor with the rest of what I’d been wearing. I got that and my boots, put them on. I glanced at the room phone I’d knocked off the table last night and shook my head. A quick check of Donnie’s cell phone showed it was dead as a brick, no charge at all. That explained why they hadn’t been able to call, anyway.
If I’d thought about it and charged the damned thing last night, or bothered to put the phone back on the hook, this wouldn’t be happening. I would’ve answered, and I’d have been long gone from Landstaff Junction once I knew who Donnie was supposed to be.
Finally, there was nothing left to do but open the case.
Inside it was a .45 Colt semi-automatic in a glossy black leather holster, a gold shield mounted on a belt clip, and a small bifold. I flipped the credentials open to find almost-but-not-quite my face staring back at me from an ID that read Detective Donovan North, Landstaff Junction Communal Police Department.
Why the hell had the real Donovan North said he was going on vacation? They’d obviously been expecting him.
I managed not to groan as I rummaged around in the suitcase for a belt and threaded the holstered Colt in place. I could get through this. North already had experience, or he wouldn’t be a detective. So he must’ve worked for the cops in New York. I’d play along, keep my mouth shut as much as possible while I accompanied Clarke to the mystery scene, and then get the hell out of Dodge before things got really complicated. It couldn’t be that hard to fool a bunch of small-town cops. I’d just do whatever they did.
Thankfully, I was a fast learner.
Chapter Eight
Preston
If Detective Donovan North was a seasoned expert on serial killers, then Preston was a world champion professional wrestler.
Okay, maybe she hadn’t really given him a chance yet. She had just met him fifteen minutes ago. And she wanted to trust the chief’s opinion, believe that she could learn something from this man.
A man who hadn’t said a word since he’d gotten into her car. Just sat there with his eyes closed and his forehead resting on a hand.
She slowed as she entered downtown Landstaff Junction, where the speed limit was thirty through the heart of the town. It’d still take at least ten minutes to reach Hynesdale — one of the two unincorporated rural areas that the department covered in addition to the Junction proper, the other being Kern Valley — once they passed out of the slow zone. Everyone else would already be at the scene by now.
Annoyed as she was that she’d had to divert and pick up the new hotshot detective, that was a lesser concern than the fact that there’d been another murder, which had to have been committed by the same killer. She’d failed to stop this bastard, and now he’d killed again.
Maybe they really did need North here. Honestly, she’d never expected it would happen twice in one lifetime, let alone one month, despite knowing that the detective from the city had told the chief it was a strong possibility.
She’d try to keep an open mind about him.
As she came to a stop at the first of the three traffic lights along Main Street, she glanced over at him and cleared her throat. “I think we got off on the wrong foot,” she said, attempting to sound friendly. “Want to start over?”
“Coffee,” he groaned without opening his eyes. “I want coffee. Please.”
Irritation sizzled through her, but she pushed it down. If she’d gotten five hours of sleep, only to be dragged out of bed and hurried into a car, she’d be cranky without coffee too. Plus, he did say please.
“All right. There’s a place we can stop up here,” she said as the light turned green.
He nodded. “Great.” Still hadn’t looked up or opened his eyes.
She was starting to wonder if he was hung over.
Daisy Donuts was on the next block. The place was a local fixture, first opened sixty years ago as a roadside stand in front of Miss Daisy Granger’s stately Colonial home on Main Street. The whole Granger family had kept it going, eventually expanding into the semi-circular, window-lined building that it occupied today. Miss Daisy’s granddaughter, Julie Granger, was the current owner and operator.
Though there’d been a Dunkin franchise store erected in town four years ago, most of the older generation — and a good portion of the younger set — still patronized Daisy.
And of course, the police were frequent customers.
It was a donut shop, after all.
Preston slowed and turned into the lot. It wasn’t too busy at the moment, since it was during the lull between breakfast and lunch. Only three cars parked outside, and the place didn’t have a drive-thru.
She parked close to the entrance, put the car in park, and turned to North. “Coffee’s on me,” she said, feeling just a little bad for dragging him out of bed. “What’ll you have?”
He finally lifted his head, and then smiled at the sight of the donut shop as though she’d driven them up to the gates of heaven. “Black, two sugars,” he said. “Thanks.”
That was mildly surprising. She’d half expected some mile-long fancy request for a tall skinny half-caff mocha venti organic double-shot latte, or whatever strange things they ordered in the city instead of coffee. But, she supposed, that was profiling. And a cop was a cop — big city or out in the sticks, most of them preferred coffee in their coffee.
She told him she’d be right back and headed inside, not bothering to ask whether he wanted to come. He was clearly a don’t-talk-to-me-before-coffee kind of person.
The bells over the door jingled, and Preston glanced at the tables in front of the windows on her way to place her order. Only two were occupied. One held th
ree older teenage girls having an animated conversation over coffees and pastries that involved a lot of gesturing and passing cell phones around. The lone, middle-aged man in a plaid shirt and stained baseball cap seated three tables away from the girls was Oren Beauford — as much a local fixture as Daisy Donuts, at least for the past fifteen years since he’d drifted into town. He was a self-employed handyman who’d done odd jobs for just about everyone in the area, but he always kept pretty fiercely to himself when he wasn’t working.
Right now, Mr. Beauford was glaring out the window at Preston’s car — and at the man sitting in it.
He must’ve smelled ‘city’ on North.
Julie Granger herself was behind the cash register when Preston walked up to the counter. The thirty-something brunette smiled and inclined her head slightly. “Morning, Detective,” she said as she tried to look past her at the car outside. “I hear the man from the city got in last night. Is that him out there, in the car?”
Preston smirked and shook her head. Apparently, her sister really had told everyone about Donovan North’s early arrival. Everyone but her. She appreciated Bethy’s attempt to spare her feelings, but she’d have to tell her later that she would’ve rather had the heads-up.
Her smile faded as she realized that the ‘new guy in town’ buzz wouldn’t last long — because soon enough, everyone would be talking about the second murder instead.
“Yes, that’s him,” she said to Julie. “Sorry I didn’t bring him in for introductions, but we’re on the way out to Hynesdale right now. Can I get two large coffees to go?”
Julie nodded and punched buttons on the cash register, unbothered by the excuse. “That’s fine. I’m sure I’ll meet him sooner or later. Probably sooner, going by the rate you all drink coffee.” She smiled and looked up. “That’ll be three fifty-eight.”
“Still the best deal in town.” Preston pulled her wallet out and handed her a five. She waited while Julie made change efficiently, and then she dropped the coins in the tip jar beside the register as the owner went to the back counter to pour the coffees.
