by Mary Burton
Blood stained her gray flannel nightgown, blooming over most of her chest. She stared up at the ceiling, a look of stress and horror on her face.
“This is Edith Scott, age forty-eight,” Gideon said. “She was found about two hours ago by a neighbor who had not seen her in a couple of days. Neighbor said Ms. Scott lives a very predictable life, and suddenly her newspapers were piling up on her porch. He had a spare key and let himself in.”
“Where’s the neighbor now?”
“Back at his house. I have a uniform sitting with him.”
Bryce moved closer to the bed, noting the blood had soaked deep into the mattress. Ms. Scott’s fingers were curled, and her mouth was agape in a silent scream.
“Why’d you call me?” Bryce asked.
“Ms. Scott works at the university, and she served on the jury that convicted Elijah of arson. According to her neighbor, she told everyone that would listen that he didn’t belong here.”
“Has Elijah approached her?”
“Neighbor didn’t know, but Elijah is always cool and calm. He rarely shows his emotions.”
Bryce’s attention shifted back to the source of the blood. “How many times was she stabbed?”
“At least three, but the medical examiner will have to give the final count.”
“The three murders I’m investigating all involve stabbing.”
Gideon nodded slowly. “Thus the call. There’s no arson or facial mutilation, but the knife wounds are very similar, from what Joan told me about the Helena victim.”
Edith Scott did not fit the profile of the other three victims. Not only was she at least twenty years older, but she had been murdered in her home instead of at a scenic mountain overlook.
“I’d like to be present at the autopsy,” Bryce said.
“I’m counting on it.”
“Elijah Weston has had ten years to nurse a grudge,” Bryce said.
“I’ve seen guys like Weston before. Careful not to get caught because he never comes straight at you. He’ll catch you alone and take you out, and you’ll be dead before you even know you’re bleeding.”
The sound of new voices and the rattle of a gurney had him turning to see Joan Mason. She nodded to Gideon and shifted her full attention to the body.
“I’d heard she might be the victim,” Joan said, moving toward the bed, her face a mixture of sadness and clinical curiosity. “Do you have all the pictures you need of the body?”
Gideon looked to the technician, who nodded. “She’s all yours now.”
“Well then, gentlemen, unless you need to see anything else, everyone clear out so my assistant and I can take custody of the body.”
“I’ll call Dr. Christopher about the autopsy,” Gideon said.
“I’ve already spoken to him. It’ll be at nine in the morning,” Joan said.
Bryce and Gideon left the room and walked through the house, looking for the smallest items that could tell them something about an individual. In the kitchen the white refrigerator was covered in magnets featuring pictures of Paris, Rome, and New York City, holding up appointment cards for various doctors. He opened the refrigerator and saw the dozen cans of ginger ale, bread, and yellow American cheese. The pantry was stocked with clear-broth soups. These bits of small data told him she had loved the idea of travel but may not have had the physical stamina to accomplish it.
“Was she ill?” Bryce asked.
“I don’t know. Let me ask Joan if she’s surveyed the medicine cabinet yet.” Gideon disappeared down the hallway.
On the kitchen windowsill were several mason jars filled with water and the leafy stems of plants she was trying to root. Whatever had been going on with her, she’d planned to be around long enough to see the plants grow to maturity.
“There are some heavy-duty pain meds in the cabinet,” Gideon said. “Prescribing doctor is an oncologist.”
“Likely very ill.” They would soon know what type of cancer and her prognosis.
There were personal photos, but judging by the settings and ages of the others in the pictures, they were coworkers. No images of young children, graduation photos, or even the vacation pictures the magnets suggested. There were a few books, a collection of celebrity magazines, and a small but serviceable television.
“What else can you tell me about Elijah Weston?” Bryce asked.
“As you must know, smart as hell. In the last year he’s earned his master’s in psychology and is now a PhD candidate. I wouldn’t be surprised if he has his doctorate in a year.”
“What’s his endgame?”
“I heard yesterday that he’s bought a house close to Ann’s,” Gideon said.
Bryce did not know how honest Ann had been with her brother about the boy. “And Nate.”
Gideon’s eyes narrowed with understanding. “I love that boy like he’s my own, and he’s been through a hell of a lot this last year. This past weekend was the first time I’ve heard him laugh out loud in months.”
“I like the kid. He’s an old soul but needs protecting.” The boy had a devoted uncle, but Bryce knew in that moment he would also protect the boy.
Gideon rubbed his chin, eyeing Bryce less like a cop and more like a big brother. “What’s your deal with Ann?”
“That’s between us.”
Gideon’s stare lingered as if he’d gotten his answer. “Clarke Mead did a lot of damage. He hurt Ann and the boy.”
“And Elijah, because I think he knew they were rivals for her,” Bryce said pointedly, trying to determine what Gideon knew.
Gideon’s eyes narrowed again. “She’s told you?”
“About Nate? Yes.”
“I don’t want Elijah screwing up her life.”
“How can you stop Elijah from claiming his paternal rights? He’s not only smart, but he has a nice chunk of change to hire lawyers.”
Gideon rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “I’d like to prove that he had something to do with this. Hell, I’d like to link him to the recent murders. But I won’t frame him.”
“We have determined that two of the victims were Elijah’s Fireflies.”
“Really?”
“Dana Riley, who was killed near Helena, and Sarah Cameron from Knoxville, Tennessee.”
“What about the body found near Missoula earlier this week?”
“I don’t have an identity on Jane Doe yet, but Dr. Christopher is hoping a metal plate in her ankle will supply a name. We also have a list of the Fireflies, and we’re trying to track them down.”
“I’ve got a couple of uniforms canvassing the houses,” Gideon said. “Hoping there are enough security cameras that might catch a glimpse of whoever killed Edith.”
Bryce’s mind kept tripping back to Ann. She had been the first hint of sunshine in what had been his otherwise dark and closed world. He was a master at putting one foot in front of the other and getting the job done. But he could never really claim any kind of true happiness. At the rate his life had been going, he could picture himself on the ranch with his brother, caring for broken and unwanted dogs. Not the worst of fates, but making love to Ann proved there could be more.
“As much as I’d like to confront Elijah,” Gideon said, “I need to have more evidence. I’d bet the farm that he’s got solid alibis for every murder. If I can’t slide a tight noose of evidence around his neck, he’ll slip free.”
“He won’t,” Bryce said. “Been my experience that the smartest guys make the dumbest mistakes. See you at the autopsy.”
I see the cops at Edith Scott’s house. They don’t see me because I am careful. Hide in plain sight is my motto. I knew it would not be long before Edith was found, but I was hoping it would take a day or two longer. Never underestimate the power of the nosy neighbor.
All my talk about not hurting people is true. I really did not hurt Edith. She went quick, and after getting a look at the pills in her bathroom, I did her a favor. Cancer is a shitty way to die. What I did was akin to ripping a
Band-Aid off. Hurts for only a minute, and then it’s over. Lights out, pain gone. Yeah, the knife is better than cancer. I did her a favor.
As I watch the cops, I know that Gideon Bailey and Bryce McCabe could be a problem. They both have potential to screw it all up.
I do not plan on being here forever. I just need a few more days, and then I can wrap up the last of my loose ends and blow this Popsicle stand for good.
My phone chimes with a text, and it scares the hell out of me. Like the universe is looking over my shoulder and whispering to me, I see what you are doing.
But the text is not from the universe. It’s from someone I know. Maybe a new partner in crime. And it makes me smile.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Missoula, Montana
Tuesday, August 24
4:00 p.m.
Ann arrived at school to pick up the boys and on the way home took them out for pizza and ice cream. She had been eating out a lot lately, as if food would solve all Nate’s and her worries. Thankfully, he was a growing boy and, like his cousin, was a bottomless pit with two hollow legs. She was not so lucky, and if this kept up, she would have to invest heavily in sweatpants.
After they dropped Kyle off, they headed home, and when they arrived, they discovered Maura’s truck parked in the driveway.
“Is that the lady cleaning out the Beech Street house?” Nate asked.
“Yes.”
His knotted brow signaled he still was not comfortable with letting the Beech Street house go.
“Head on inside,” she said. “Get started on your homework.”
“Okay.”
Ann held the pizza box containing two leftover pieces and moved toward Maura’s truck.
Maura rolled down the window. “Just wanted to thank you for the work. I also wondered if you’d be a reference for me.”
“Of course. You did a good job of cleaning out the house.”
“Thanks—a word from you will go a long way in this community.”
“Would you like me to write a letter?” Ann asked.
“That would be great.”
“I’ll write it out now, and then you can take it with you.”
“Terrific.”
“Come inside. It should just take a minute.”
“Sure.” Maura followed her into the house.
Ann stepped around the boxes and hurried down to her office to get a yellow legal pad and a pen. As she came out, she found Maura surveying the unpacked containers.
“As you can see,” Ann said, “I’m still getting moved in. It’s taking a lot longer than I anticipated.”
“I can help you get this house set up,” Maura said. “Free of charge. As you have seen, I’m good at this kind of thing.”
“That’s not necessary. There’s no reason why I can’t find the time to get it done.” She jotted a quick note proclaiming Maura a wonderful contractor and signed it.
Maura held up a thick book on forensic psychology. “I can have you unpacked and set up in a day.”
The idea dangled like a carrot on a stick. But letting Maura into the Beech Street house versus the home Ann shared with Nate now was different. Ann folded her handwritten job reference and handed it to Maura. “No, but thank you.”
“I get it. It’s weird. This is your home. I know. But if you want to work side by side with me, we’ll be done in half the time. I’m a hurricane when it comes to cleaning.”
The idea of facing endless boxes and shelves to assemble felt like a weight on her shoulders. And the sooner she made this house a real home, the better it would be for Nate. “I’ll be here for four hours tomorrow. And I’ll pay you.”
“Just name the time.”
“Ten a.m.” That would give Ann a little time to meet the Realtor at the Beech Street house and maybe straighten up some of the piles here.
Maura grinned broadly. “You’ll be thanking yourself by the weekend.”
“Okay.” Ann raised the pizza box. “Are you hungry?”
“Kind of starving.”
“There’s a couple of slices left.”
“Oh God no. You don’t have to feed me.”
“Take it. Please. If Nate and I eat any more, we’ll pop. Take the pizza, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Maura accepted the pizza box. “Thank you, Ann. You won’t be sorry.”
Bryce received the phone records for Dana Riley and noted immediately that the last text she’d made was in mid-July, at least a week after her death.
He dialed the last number, landed in the voicemail of Jeff Reynolds. He left a detailed message that identified him and explained he had questions about Dana. Fifteen minutes later, Reynolds returned his call.
“Mr. Reynolds. Thank you for calling me back,” Bryce said.
“Yeah, sure. I’m not sure why Montana Highway Patrol is calling me about Dana. Is she all right?”
“What’s your relationship to Ms. Riley?” Bryce asked.
“We dated for three years.”
“When is the last time you saw her?”
“Five or six months ago.” He hesitated. “We broke up. She and I weren’t getting along, so I decided to end it.”
“Can I ask why you were having trouble?”
“It’s kind of personal.”
Bryce had hoped to converse a little longer before revealing his news, but he decided candor might shake loose information. He leaned forward at his desk, trying to imagine the other man’s expression. “Mr. Reynolds, I’m sorry to inform you, but Dana is dead.”
Reynolds went silent. In the background a door closed. “What? When?”
“Her body was found in July near Helena. We only just identified the remains.”
“Remains? Jesus. What happened to her?” His tone crashed to a hoarse whisper.
“Her body was burned, making visual identification impossible. We were able to identify her with DNA. She had a prison record from Maryland.”
“Yeah,” Reynolds said more to himself. “She was arrested when she was about nineteen for theft. She went through a rough patch in her life, but when she got out of prison, she sobered up.”
“Why did you break up?”
Reynolds cleared his throat. “We grew apart. I wanted to get married and start a family, and she wanted to go . . .”
“Go where?”
“To Montana. She had an obsession about the place.”
“Why?”
“Look, I don’t want to speak ill of the dead.”
“I’m not here to judge her, but I need to figure out who killed her.”
“How did she die?”
“For now, let’s focus on why she wanted to come to Montana. That’s a long way from Maryland.”
“She had an obsession with a guy out there. He was in prison, if you can believe it.”
“Elijah Weston?”
“Yeah, how did you know?”
“Mr. Weston had a solid following of women while he was in prison. He maintained an extensive correspondence with Ms. Riley.”
“When I found out about it, I was pissed. But she swore that it was all over and she wasn’t writing him anymore. I saw a picture of the guy. Good looking in a movie-star kind of way. Didn’t look like he would set fires.”
“He didn’t, as it turns out. The charges were dropped against him. Many of the women who followed him lost interest once he was released from prison.”
“Women like the bad boys.” Reynolds’s tone signaled bitterness. “Plain old working stiffs like me just aren’t exciting enough.”
“Did you hear from Dana at all after you two broke up?”
“She texted me a few times. She sent me pictures while she was driving west. When did you say she died?”
“Early July.”
“That can’t be right. We must have exchanged a dozen texts on the thirteenth. I remember because it was my birthday. She was actually really nice and seemed interested in me.”
“What did she ask you?” Bryce asked.
&nbs
p; “She wanted to know how I was doing. It was nice. Normal. I can send you screenshots.”
“Do that. Did she say where she was?”
“Anaconda, I think. She said she was on her way to Missoula.”
Dana had not sent those texts. The killer, who clearly had a sick sense of humor, had decided to engage in a conversation with Reynolds.
“Did she mention if she was traveling alone or with someone?” Bryce asked.
“I got the impression she was alone. After the thirteenth I never heard from her again.” He sighed. “If Dana was dead, then who texted me?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Bryce said.
“Was it whoever killed her?” Reynolds asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“Where’s Dana now?” he asked.
“She’s with the medical examiner in Missoula.”
“Sergeant McCabe, how did she die?”
“She was stabbed. And as I said, her body was burned and also mutilated, which is why it took us so long to identify her.”
“I want her sent home.” His voice faltered. “She doesn’t belong out there. She was working out some kind of fantasy, but sooner or later real life takes over.” He exhaled heavily, as if a weight were pressing against his chest. “I thought she’d return to me after she realized this was her home.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
He spoke to Reynolds a few more minutes. The man’s voice cracked several times, and by the time they ended the call, he could barely speak.
Five minutes after they hung up, screenshots of Dana’s July 13 texts to Reynolds appeared on his phone.
Dana: Hey, babe. Missing you.
Reynolds: Where are you?
Dana: Living the dream. But I’m lonely. Thinking about you.
Reynolds: Since when?
Dana: Always at night, when I’m lying in bed. Alone. Naked.
Reynolds: What do you do when you’re naked?
Dana: What’s the best nude memory you have of me?
Reynolds: You know.
Dana: I want you to say it.
Reynolds: In the red pickup.
Dana: Have you slept with anyone else?
