Hard Press'd

by Linda Rae Blair

  How Andrews being the one to solve it had gotten out, Trace still wondered. Andrews would never have leaked it. He was also infamous for his willingness and ability to work well with others—especially the FBI. All that mattered to Preston Andrews was getting the bad guys—not who got the credit for doing it.

  Detective Andrews had told him—as Lesson #1—that he should learn the value of sharing with the Feds—it was usually a one-sided deal. The time would come when he could call in some well-placed markers.

  He’d never worked side-by-side with Andrews before this assignment, but he’d been involved peripherally on a couple of Andrews’ cases during his own five years on the force. He wondered, Would any perp ever shake in his boots just being on the receiving end of a stare from Trace Evans? Trace caught himself and swallowed the laugh before it could escape his lips.

  There’d been rumors that the FBI had courted Andrews before he joined the VBPD—no one could understand Andrews’ decision. The Feds had made another try at him just recently—so the grapevine said.

  “Coming, Evans?”

  “Yes, sir! Sorry, s-s-sir!” He snapped to attention and moved quickly to catch up with Andrews, now standing over the body very carefully taking in all the details of the scene.

  5

  Norfolk, VA

  Day 1

  2:30 AM

  The car pulled into the garage of an old house in Norfolk rented for just such an emergency. Paid for with cash every six months, the access to ready cash kept the rental agent quiet. Who knew what the owner was clearing, but the agent was certainly content. Well-disguised, the renter would never be identified by the agent.

  The run-down neighborhood was now sparsely populated, and the renter never came to it after making the rental arrangement—until tonight—and never would again. Rental would continue for a few months longer and then would lapse. Nothing belonging to the killer had ever been here, except the hybrid, stolen from the Norfolk International Airport’s long-term parking lot after an emergency call to a trusted colleague. They hadn’t had to worry about switching plates, since they planned to return the car to the lot before its owner could even miss it. The killer’s own vehicle was already on its way to the lot for pick up later.

  A mental note was made that there really should be a special reward to the thief for a job very well done.

  The killer had parked the hybrid in the garage, donned another pair of latex gloves and entered the apartment. The coat, gun, plastic sheeting, towel and the latex gloves used for the drive to the beach and back to the apartment were inside the large, cloth duffel bag carried for just such an occasion. A hot shower took care of the rest.

  The killer was feeling very certain that there had been no mistakes made. They had very thoroughly planned for this contingency, and they carried it out just as carefully. If the killer had had any empathy whatsoever…but no, sleep would come easily tonight. The biggest threat had been put to rest, so-to-speak.

  6

  Crime Scene

  Day 1

  2:30 AM

  The kid is stammering. Press decided to have a little fun. It might just brighten his mood a little.

  “Dead bodies make you nervous, Evans?”

  “N-no, sir!”

  Andrews had spotted the case of nerves the first time they’d worked together—he’d decided it wasn’t the work, but Press himself that unnerved the kid. He’d been there himself…though it seemed like a lifetime ago. He’d been a big admirer of his now-retired partner when they first got paired. They’d become so tight that, by the time old Finnegan retired, they could finish each other’s sentences.

  If we’re going to spend the next who-knows-how-many-years together, I’ll have to break Evans of that little case of “hero worship” quickly!

  Despite his mood and the hour, he found the youth and inexperience of this young cop had him trying to hide a smile as he snapped on a pair of latex gloves.

  It was rumored that Evans had an IQ that would knock the socks off any Ivy League college dean, but he’d decided to be a cop. It seemed they had a little something in common—disappointing those who meant the most to them. Well, if the powers-that-be wanted him to hone the kid's detective skills, by God he’d make him the best damned detective they’d ever seen.

  Glancing at Evans, Press suppressed his grin once more. The kid would probably have to find a dark corner to deposit last night’s dinner before the morning was over.

  He’d have to admit, if asked, that the kid was a pleasant young guy—but he also was a constant reminder of how much Press himself had changed in the mere six years he had on the kid. Homicide does that to you, he supposed.

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Evans said and cringed, obviously remembering that. Andrews hated that “sir” stuff.

  The ME, a rotund, little fireball named Gladys Williams, arrived in her big black van. She watched the Crime Scene team take photographs of the body and surrounding area before approaching the body.

  The crime scene crew acknowledged the detectives’ arrival. Flash bulbs were going off left and right—adding a strange red-carpet atmosphere to an otherwise deadly scene.

  Andrews and Evans stood back waiting for the ME to do a preliminary examination, including the usual liver temp. They had to go through the required steps despite the fact that the cause of death was all too obvious. When Gladys was finished, she nodded to Andrews and stepped back to give him access to the body.

  “Needless to say, she’s got two pretty lethal bullet wounds. I’ll do a complete work-up as soon as I get her back to the morgue,” the ME said, before turning to return to her van to get a gurney. Everyone on the site could hear her grumbling to herself while moving as quickly as her short, plump legs would let her.

  “Hum,” Andrews said, as he squatted down beside what was left of a pretty blonde in a sexy, low-cut blue silk dress, one of its thin spaghetti straps—left shoulder—was snapped in two. Her pricey handbag lay beside her.

  Her dainty feet were strapped into silver sandals with five-inch heels, Manolo Blahniks, unless his eyes failed him. His sister would be proud of him for recognizing them, if she ever spoke to him again. Undoubtedly, the ankle straps had kept them on when she went down.

  The victim’s jewelry was still in place. Sapphires and diamonds twinkled from the ring and bracelet. Her pendant—the ring’s mate in design—was hanging around her neck from a white gold chain so thin it was a mere whisper.

  All this luxury accompanied two small, neat, round gunshot wounds. One sat between her pretty green eyes which were now clouding over. Their lids showed the first signs of rigor—no doubt due to the cool night air. The other wound was right in the center of her throat.

  Other than those two rather obvious flaws, their accompanying powder burns and a small, bubbling trail of brain blood on her forehead, she looked like she had just collapsed backwards and gone to sleep. The pool of blood beneath her head was small for a head wound—already dead before that shot—and brain matter on the wall behind her proved that the appearance of sleep was just a fantasy.

  Her blonde curls weren’t even mussed, neither was that expensive dress—despite the snapped strap. Death had been quick and unexpected. Evans’ dinner was probably safe after all. It was one of the neatest, cleanest yet most destructive shootings he’d ever seen—but with the same result as too many. A beautiful young woman was dead. Something about her is vaguely familiar, he thought as he straightened up and stood next to his partner.

  “Tell me what you see, Evans.”

  “Young female, sir—approximately twenty to twenty-five years old—probably out partying from the outfit she’s wearing—maybe a party girl or a pro, sir. Two gunshot wounds up close. First shot probably killed her. Looks like a nine-mil. Maybe a trick gone bad?”

  “You’re right on the nine-mil and the ME will tell us which shot killed her.” He watched Evans’s complexion turn a wee bit green, but the kid was hanging in there. Despite the lack of the usua
lly messy scene, his regard for Evans moved up a notch. Your first few dead bodies and all the unpleasantness that accompanied them were difficult to handle.

  His own lack of reaction—other than those tingling nerve endings—was proof that, with enough exposure, you grew less affected by the sight alone. Other matters could shake you though. That much he had learned the hard way.

  “Throw up on me or my crime scene, Evans, and you’ll ride your desk for the next week,” Press growled in his deep voice. “Lesson #2, Evans—never, ever throw up on my crime scene.”

  “Yes, sir—I mean, no sir!”

  “Make up your mind, Evans! See anything else?”

  Evans took a deep, cleansing breath. “Strange the way she’s laying there. The first shot should have knocked her off her feet. Usually there’s an odd position of the body—she looks like she just lay down to take a nap.”

  “Yeah, or maybe somebody laid her down.”

  Another notch for the kid.

  “But the girl’s very probably not a pro, Evans—at least not a street pro—there’s real money here and lots of it. Could be a high-priced pro, but I don’t think so. The clothes are too pricey. Dress is silk.” He bent over and gave a slight lift to that dress’s skirt, which had never covered more than the top third of those long, slim legs. “Lingerie is French lace.” He carefully put the skirt back in place. “And those sandals were about fifteen-hundred dollars retail.”

  “Whew!”

  The awe in Evans’ voice and the look on his face told Press that the kid couldn’t imagine paying that kind of money for a pair of shoes—let alone shoes that consisted of mere straps with spikes for heels.

  “I’ve got a sister with expensive taste,” Andrews explained.

  “How can you tell that’s French lace, sir?” Trace asked. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen French lace.”

  Press gave the kid a crooked smile and a wink. “Once you’ve seen it up close, kid, you never forget it.” He saw Evans taking one more look, as the kid tried to figure it out.

  “The hair cut is high-end salon, note the fresh manicure and pedicure. Skin is smooth, unblemished and well maintained. She’d been crying—note the smearing of the mascara.”

  Press gently turned over her hands to view the palms. “No calluses. It doesn’t look like she did much in the way of housework—work of any kind. Probably came from a home with at least a housekeeper. Not a blemish or bruise on her.”

  He whiffed the air just above the dead girl. “And unless I’m terribly mistaken, the perfume is French, too.”

  He pointed to the bracelet on her arm. “The diamonds and sapphires—those aren’t paste.”

  He stood up and looked down at what had once been a very beautiful young woman. What was it about her that has my nerves tingling? Something I can’t put my fingers on, at the moment—it’ll come to me later.

  “Killer was up close, but her jewelry and handbag are intact, as are the expensive panties under that equally expensive silk dress. Powder burns on both wounds. He hit her quick and got away,” he said, almost more to himself than to his partner.

  The kid was paying close attention and absorbing everything Press was saying—one more notch.

  7

  Crime Scene

  Day 1

  3:30 AM

  “Any witnesses, Evans?”

  “No, sir—not that saw anything. The uniforms got contact information for everyone inside, just in case we need it later. They’ve kept them all inside until we’re ready for them.”

  “Good.”

  “The elderly couple standing in front of the restaurant door heard the shots from inside the restaurant and called 911. They had just gone in when they heard the shots and stayed tucked into the restaurant and waited there for us to arrive.”

  He dropped his voice slightly, “Didn’t even come over to see if she was still alive—too scared to get involved.” The derision in his young voice was obvious.

  “Well, other than the possibility of seeing the killer’s get-away and possibly getting themselves shot, they couldn’t have done any good, Evans. She was dead before she hit the street. At least we’ll have a very precise TOD. Whether these folks bothered to note the time or not, 911 will have it.”

  “Yes, sir.” Evans looked at his notes. “The 911 call was placed at 1:46 AM, approximately forty-five minutes ago. The uniform was here within three minutes—called dispatch and they called me. The uniform was on beach patrol a couple of blocks over, near the old Post Office.”

  “Damn,” Press let out a huff of air. “That’s quick response. Add on-scene ME and CSI crews and detectives investigating within forty-five minutes of the murder. If the killer had stayed on-scene long enough to hiccup, he’d have been caught red-handed.”

  Press looked over at the nearest CSI and asked, “You about done here?” He motioned down at the girl’s body.

  “Yeah, go ahead.”

  Bending over, Press gently and carefully picked up the victim’s small handbag, taking note that, despite the cool breezes sweeping up from the beach, she was still warm and no additional signs of rigor had set in. Full rigor would set in by the time the ME got her back to the morgue. He stood up and started looking in the handbag for the girl’s ID.

  “Driver’s license.” Damn it to…, he thought as he compared the photo ID to the pretty girl on the ground. On a muttered curse, Press let out the breath he discovered he’d been holding. “It’s our girl. Macy Renee Roberts, twenty-two years old, lived at 1527 Nantucket Cove.” Everything in him wanted to scream.

  “Pricey neighborhood.” Since he lived only blocks from the dead girl’s address, he knew the area well—beachfront property, most of the homes were mansions that had been in place for thirty years or more. Most were from very old money.

  Press also knew the girl—knew of her anyway—he hadn’t seen her in years. God, she’d been just a kid back then. He hadn’t recognized her until he saw the ID. At six years older, he had considered her and her friends to be just kids back then, and caught himself reverting to that frame of reference now. No, they were young women now—this one was never to get any older. God, what will I say to Steffi?

  “Insurance card says she drove a 2008 BMW.” He wrote down the vehicle description and license number and handed the information over to Evans, he said, “Have a uniform see if they can find the car and get it sealed and towed down to impound. Let the Crime Scene unit know when it’s located.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Press observed from a distance as Evans took the vehicle information to the nearest uniform and explained what they needed done.

  Meanwhile, Press found the car keys in the girl’s purse and dropped them back into it along with the insurance card before handing it to the CSI for bag and tag. If he needed to see anything more, he could find it at the State Forensics Lab later.

  Andrews stood, looked around him taking in the entire scene. He soaked up every detail with a memory that others teased him about being photographic, but he knew it was just very well-honed.

  I could close my eyes now and see that young couple’s murder scene like it was…no, I won’t let myself go there again. He found he was absentmindedly rubbing his chest.

  He took a deep breath and then, to the returning Evans, he said, “Wasn’t a robbery, no sign of sexual assault. It appears she felt safe enough to be here at night—although it seems that was a mistake. What’s left, Evans?”

  Suddenly Press drilled those icy blues at Evans and made him sweat, despite the cool pre-dawn air.

  Trace swallowed hard and then responded. “It was personal, sir.”

  “You bet it was, Evans. Up close and very personal. Now just what the hell did a well-to-do twenty-two-year-old woman do to piss somebody off enough to get off’d in the middle of the night, in a public place where anybody might have seen it?”

  “Or did the killer pick this spot because of the poor lighting and low traffic at this hour?” Evans added.


  One more for the kid.

  8

  Norfolk, VA

  Day 1

  3:45 AM

  Locking the door, never to return, all evidence left the rental with the killer.

  Less than an hour later, the hybrid pulled into the parking lot at the deserted mid-way travel stop of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. After assuring no one else was within sight—and hidden from view by a heavy coat’s hood—the killer walked to the far end of the old wooden pier. Another careful look to assure no one was watching and the weighted duffel bag dropped into the deep churning water of the Chesapeake. After watching it slowly disappear, the killer—head lowered against the raging winds that always swept across the pier—returned to the parking area.

  Later, with the car’s seat position, visor and radio settings reset to their original ones, the thoroughly wiped down hybrid was back in the airport’s long-term parking lot. It would be days, perhaps weeks, before the owner retrieved it. With any luck, the owner would never realize his car had moved. In the meanwhile, the killer drove away in the car left for just this purpose—the killer’s own car. No one would ever think to talk to anyone at the airport.

  There was no reason to think this hadn’t been the perfect crime—one of several, the killer smiled.

  9

  Crime Scene

  Day 1

  3:55 AM

  Andrews looked down at the girl as the ME zipped up the body bag. He took off the gloves and stuffed them into his jacket pocket. Then a determined Preston Andrews walked away to talk to the couple who’d called 911.

  His gold detective’s shield now rested against his chest. Suspended from the leather case stuffed down into the breast pocket of his Armani jacket, the shield caught the glimmer of the twinkle lights edging the awning of the restaurant’s entry. He took note of how poorly the lights illuminated anything beyond the entrance itself. Evans was right about the location. It was an excellent spot to hit the girl and get away unseen.