As she teetered somewhere between a walk and a trot, she heard the distinct sound of footsteps on pavement. That couldn’t have been her imagination, could it? Just because every other time it had ended up being her own fears didn’t mean it would every time, right? And honestly, who was she afraid of seeing her panic? It’s not like there was anyone there to laugh at her.
Except the one who was actually following her.
Screw it. She was running.
Picking up speed fueled by fear and adrenaline, she rounded a corner, then ducked into an alley, hoping to lose her pursuer with a few twists and turns. Maybe a serious chase would deter her pursuer.
But with every step she took, it seemed, her shadow gained ground. The footsteps were clearer, more resonant. She could hear every footfall, every echo ringing back from the walls on either side. There was something unusual about the sound, but she couldn’t put her finger on exactly what it was.
The almost absolute darkness of this area was pierced as she rounded yet another corner. The warm yellow glow of an open business beckoned. What kind of business would be open at 1:30 in the morning gave her very little pause. Right now, an open door and light was just the kind of safe haven she was looking for.
She whipped through the door, pushing the swinging glass in front of her, heedless of the force she put into it. The door slammed into the wall, ricocheting closed with the combined momentum of the spring-loaded action and the reversed inertia of her initial push.
Safely inside, Abby took a deep, shuddering breath. Whether or not she had imagined the whole episode, that had been one of the scariest things she had ever experienced. She lifted her head to see where it was that she had landed.
It was a Laundromat. The ambient warmth from the never-ceasing action of the industrial-sized driers against one wall mingled with the moisture of the Seattle air to create a muggy swamp of an atmosphere. She dropped her heels to the floor and slipped them back onto her feet.
Several of the dryers spun with clothes inside, but there was no one around, as far as Abby could see. Probably left to grab a coffee at some 24-hour café. Or just a coffee shop. It was Seattle. There shouldn’t be a lack of coffee shops.
Abby would’ve preferred some company at this point, but the heat and light were doing wonders to slow her beating pulse down to non-life-threatening levels. She wandered up one of the aisles of washing machines, playing with the old quarter feeder slots on the tops of the machines. This Laundromat was old.
As she was about to get to the end of the aisle she was moving down, Abby heard the front door open. Her pulse ratcheted up once more, even though she tried to convince herself that no would-be rapist would try anything in a public place. Especially one so well lit. With glass doors, for crying out loud.
She continued telling herself that until the lights went off.
In spite of herself, she let out a muffled whimper of terror. This was so much worse than any horror film she’d ever seen. There was someone in here with her. And that someone had flipped off the lights. That was not the act of a person who was just here to pick up his dry clothes.
She stifled the sound of her breath as best she could, wishing that she hadn’t put her heels back on. Moving as silently as possible, Abby groped along the tops of the machines, looking for anything she might be able to use to defend herself. Nothing. She guided herself by the dim glow of the indicator lights on the tops of the machines, the only lights that shone here, in this death trap.
Was there a back exit? She had no idea. But she sure as hell wasn’t going back up to the front of the store, with whomever it was lurking there.
Stepping carefully, doing everything she could to keep her heels from clacking on the cracked tile floor, Abby made her way to the back of the Laundromat, trying in vain to remember the brief glimpse she had had of the layout of the place before the lights went out. Just when she was about to collapse from the overwhelming tension, she saw one of the most welcome sights of her life.
As she moved beyond the end of the aisle, there, just beyond the old wooden folding table in front of her, was a dimly glowing EXIT sign. There was a back door. Abby could slip out quietly and get to a more public place. She wasn’t out of the woods yet, but she could see the way there.
She moved around the table, running her finger along the tabletop as she went. Her hand came into contact with what felt like a box of powder detergent, a theory confirmed in the low light from the sign. As she rounded the corner, she discerned duct tape holding up one of the legs of the dilapidated table.
Hurrying toward the beckoning light, Abby was completely unprepared for the elbow that seemed to come from out of nowhere to land squarely against her jaw.
White lights starred in front of her vision. Her perception rocked back and forth, spinning with the force of the blow. She clawed upward blindly with her nails, scoring a track along what felt like the person’s forearm. There was a low grunt in response.
Her attacker was somehow in front of her, blocking her access to the door. Abby scrabbled her way backward, coming up against the folding table. Her grappling hands found the box of detergent. She swung the box around, spreading the powder in a large arc where she guessed the assailant was.
A muttered curse confirmed at least partial contact.
It wasn’t enough. She knew it wasn’t enough. Abby moved back around the table, feeling the tape under her hands. Wait. She grabbed beneath the table, gripping the leg in both hands as she twisted.
Luckily, whoever had done the jury-rigging on the table leg hadn’t done a very thorough job. The leg came free, the tape parting and tearing from the force of her desperation. The table wobbled for a moment before stabilizing itself on its remaining three legs.
Feeling along the length of the wooden leg, Abby could feel the jutting nails at its top. She couldn’t have asked for a better weapon with which to fight off her attacker.
She watched as a dark lump separated itself from the darker corner of the folding area, where the light from the sign couldn’t reach. There was something strange about the shape. Something about the way the form moved…
There was no time for assessment. The shape was moving fast. Abby swung her table leg as hard and as fast as she could, landing a blow on the shadow’s shoulder. Another grunt and a slight ripping sound as she pulled her makeshift club back proved the efficacy of her weapon.
But before Abby could land another blow, her assailant closed the gap between them and landed another blow to the other side of her face, snapping her head to the side. A hand scrabbled for the table leg, ripping it out of Abby’s hand as if she weren’t gripping it at all. Abby was left defenseless.
“Please,” she begged, looking into the shadows of the person’s face. The head lifted slightly at her plea, the faint glow from the EXIT sign limning the harsh lines and angles of the nose and cheekbones.
Abby gasped at what she saw, but the gasp was hampered by the cloth her attacker had placed over her mouth and nose. The cloth that smelled of chemicals.
Nothingness reached up to embrace Abby and dragged her down into its fuzzy embrace.
CHAPTER 1
The leg was sticking out of the dryer, leaving the foot, ankle and part of the calf exposed. Well, the foot wasn’t exposed. It had a shoe covering it. A shoe with a three-and-a-half-inch heel, along with a slight platform at the toe. Fuchsia. The leg formed a forty-seven degree angle with the rest of the machine, that angle drifting up from the picture in front of him and entering Detective Robi Darcmel’s mind as a glowing cipher of information that joined with the others already arranging themselves in a shimmering line.
Shining a penlight into the dark recesses of the dryer’s drum, Darc attempted to catch a glimpse of the head. If it were shaved… But the angle of the body obscured his view. There was nothing further to be gained by using the flashlight.
Darc had been on the scene for seven minutes and twenty-one seconds already. He had gleaned all the facts from th
e rest of the Laundromat and was now at an impasse. Not an impasse of logic, which would have made sense to him, but an impasse of rules.
According to the Code of Criminal Procedure, Darc was not allowed to move the body. Only the ME could do so. By Darc’s calculations, the coroner would not be at the crime scene for another eight minutes, at a minimum. That was eight minutes of wasted time in Darc’s investigation.
Debating the merits of disregarding the regulations, Darc attempted to peer into the inside of the dryer through the crack in the door held open by the angled limb. As he suspected, there was not enough light for him to be able to see much of anything. One more reason that was tipping the scale in favor of him moving the body.
As Darc moved his hand up to the dryer door, a voice rang out in the Laundromat. A deep, booming voice. Darc’s superior officer, Captain Merle.
“Don’t even think about it, Darc.”
“It has already been thought of, Captain. The thought was also processed and fully reasoned out. I was in the implementation phase when you arrived.” The captain had a penchant for non-specific language that Darc found troubling in one who was meant to be his superior officer. Darc did what he could to correct the failing, although his efforts did not seem to be fully appreciated.
The captain wiped his hand across his face, pulling his skin down in a way that exaggerated his jowls. From an aesthetic viewpoint, that was less than pleasing. It was not personally troubling to Darc, but it might be worth mentioning to him at some future point in time. Captain Merle heaved a big sigh, then looked around the Laundromat.
“Where’s your partner?”
“McGarren is headed to New Mexico. I need to move the body. Now.” The urgency here was plain, if Captain Merle would simply think things through completely. With every minute that passed without gleaning the information that only the body could tell them, the killer put more and more distance between them.
“Wait. What?” The captain seemed confused. Perhaps Darc had spoken too quickly. That often happened when he was communicating with other members of the department. “McGarren’s in New Mexico? When did that happen?”
“Yesterday at lunch. He had the pastrami on rye and a Diet Coke. And he is not in New Mexico. He is traveling to New Mexico.” Darc spoke slowly and enunciated carefully. Perhaps that would help with the evident communication issue with which the captain was struggling. McGarren had often told Darc that he went too quickly. Well, what he had actually said contained multiple expletives, but that had been the salient point he had taken from the conversation.
The captain had not said anything in response, so Darc inferred from his silence that the topic had concluded. He moved closer to the dryer. “Once again, it is imperative that I move the body.”
“So, let me get this straight. McGarren up and left yesterday at lunch. For New Mexico. For no reason?”
This process of communication was inefficient. Speaking more slowly had not seemed to help. Perhaps Darc had not taken the exercise far enough. Another attempt seemed to be in order. Using all of his articulators and resonators to their fullest effect, Darc continued at half the speed of the last time.
“McGarren had a reason. He said, ‘I can’t take this any more. I’m moving to New Mexico.’ Now, in regards to the body—”
“Where is he now?” The captain seemed to be fixated upon McGarren’s location. It might be that if Darc could clarify that with more detail, he could then remain focused on the important matter of Darc moving the body before the M.E. arrived.
The logic streams of information inside Darc’s mind glowed the blue-green that indicated near certainty. “It is 1,437 miles from Seattle to Albuquerque. Accounting for standard speed limits along Interstate 5, it would take 22.1 hours total. Readjusting for McGarren’s innate indolence, that would put him somewhere close to the border between Idaho and Utah.”
Captain Merle shook his head while rubbing his palm against his forehead. “McGarren gone. This is a nightmare. I’m having a nightmare.”
“With all due respect, Captain, McGarren was not of much help during the vast majority of our investigations. He was very skilled at ordering coffee, but had little to offer at a crime scene.” Seeing that the issue now finally seemed to be resolved, Darc made another attempt at redirecting the distracted captain back to the matter at hand. “Captain. I need to move the body.”
The captain waved his hand vaguely. “No. You can’t move the body until the M.E. gets here. You know that.”
That response was… troubling. “Captain, without moving the body, I cannot ascertain enough about this murder to proceed. Every moment that passes increases the percentage of possibility that the perpetrator will escape my reach.”
“Please, Darc. No perp is beyond your reach. You’ll just have to wait for the M.E. like everyone else does.” The captain moved closer to the foot that was sticking out of the dryer, apparently examining the shoe.
“The regulation stating that the body must not be moved until the medical examiner is present is outdated,” Darc explained. “It comes from a time when the local Sheriff was more than likely also the town butcher. I have the training and knowledge base to be able to move the body without tampering with or destroying any forensic evidence.”
“You do?” Captain Merle raised one thick eyebrow, an expression that could be interpreted as questioning, disdain or a nervous twitch. This was the gray area of non-logical emotions, and Darc had no frame of reference for this particular instance.
“I have memorized the manual.”
“Well, memorized or not, you aren’t touching the body.” The captain held up a finger as Darc began to protest. “Ah, ah! No. I said ‘no’.”
“Perhaps if I were to obtain permission from the M.E.?” At this juncture, the examiner should arrive within five-and-a-half minutes, so that, when combined with the captain’s clear intransigence, made the point largely moot for this particular crime scene. However, Darc wanted to assure himself that this never occurred again.
The captain stifled a laugh. “Fine. If you can convince Dr. Murray to give you permission, then go for it.”
Darc could see nothing amusing about this situation at all, but he now had a clear pathway toward his goal of better efficiency at a crime scene. That was the salient fact at this particular moment.
A disturbance at the entrance to the Laundromat pulled Darc’s attention away from the body for a moment. A scruffy-looking man in a hoodie ducked under the police tape and flashed a badge at the uniformed policeman manning the entrance. Interesting. The man did not look like a police officer. If Darc had to guess, he would have said drug dealer. Or pimp.
As the man approached, Captain Merle spoke to Darc in a low voice, “This is Officer Trey Keane from vice. I called him down to see if the victim was a prostitute and this was just a date gone bad. It’s the right area for it. Otherwise…”
Otherwise, the strong possibility was that this was one of Hairless Harry’s victims. Seattle had suffered a string of bizarre killings, all with the same M.O.—the hair of the bodies was completely shaved, with the Roman numeral “XIII” carved into their sternums.
Of course, if the captain would simply allow for the body’s removal, they would know immediately whether or not this was one of their serial killer’s victims. One more reason why logic should take precedence over regulations.
As the vice cop ambled his way down the aisle toward the row of dryers where Darc and Merle awaited, he checked each of the machines, seemingly checking for quarters. He waved at the two of them, a grin plastered on his face. Nodding at the corpse’s leg, Keane clapped his hands together and rubbed them in mock enthusiasm.
“So, we got a 187, extra fluffy?”
CHAPTER 2
Trey wasn’t normally up this early. One of the nice things about working vice was that the hours were a little more… flexible, shall we say? But if he had to be up at dawn, he was going to make the most of it. Like by attempting to get this crusty
captain and his frowning sidekick to crack a grin.
It looked like a challenge, but Trey was pretty sure he was up for it—although his best smile hadn’t even made a dent in the serious faces he saw in front of him.
The detective at the captain’s side stepped forward, his eyes two diamond-tipped awls ready to punch holes in Trey’s leather. He was tall, with a shaved head and a close-cropped beard, his eyes heavily lidded but with an intensity to them that was off-putting.
“The code for homicide is 010 in Seattle. One-eighty-seven is for California.”
Okay, so maybe this was going to be a tougher nut to crack than Trey had originally thought. “Dude. Not cool.”
The detective’s face registered almost nothing, but his tone was quizzical. “Cool? What does correcting your error have to do with the temperature?”
“Wow.” Trey glanced at the captain, a large man with a heavy brow, who was currently rubbing with vigor at a spot on his forehead. “So that… that is a response.”
“Officer Keane.” The captain reached out a large hand to shake Trey’s. “Thank you for coming in.” He gestured to the bald detective at this side. “This is Officer Darcmel. You can call him Darc; everyone does. We wanted you to take a look at our Vic to see if it was someone you recognized from your beat.”
“Oh, I can tell you right now that this one isn’t one of mine. She’s not a working girl. At least not one who works the streets. High-end escort, possibly.”
“That is impossible to tell without moving the body,” Darc replied, his tone flat. “All we can see is part of her leg and one shoe… a Jimmy Choo knock-off. That fits with what we might expect in terms of a prostitute’s typical attire.”
“Oh, those aren’t knock-offs,” Trey corrected the detective. As he spoke, he watched the man’s spine stiffen. Whatever this guy’s deal was, he didn’t like to be contradicted. “Check out the soles. It says JIMMY CHOO in all caps along the length of the sole, with “London” right underneath. It has “MADE IN ITALY” stamped right above the shoe size. Now, this sole looks like real leather. It should have the words “VERO CUOIO” stamped there, as well. Go ahead. Take a peek. If those are knock-offs, I’ll buy a round of drinks for everyone here.”
2nd Cycle of the Harbinger Series: The continuation of the #1 Hard-boiled/Police Procedural smash Plain Jane Page 37
