Contents
Title
Copyright
Acknowledgments
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
EPILOGUE
Devil's Pasture is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Copyright © Richard Bannister 2019.
All rights reserved.
Devil's Pasture
Some Secrets are Deadly
1.0R2
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to Joyce Scott, Lindy Schasiepen, and Paula Gleicher Greenstreet for their much appreciated time and effort in reading an advance draft and giving valuable feedback.
Much gratitude to my wife Judi, for her love, for her unwavering support and wisdom, for tirelessly re-reading the manuscript, and for her patience during my long hours of writing. This book is dedicated to her.
Cover photography:
Tyler Nix
Roberto Nickson
PROLOGUE
I WAS TRAPPED. A few boxes of cleaning products stacked against a wall told me I was in a storeroom. The only light came from a long narrow window set close to the ceiling. Even if I found a way to climb up there and break the wire-reinforced glass, I couldn't squeeze through—and I'm a slim woman. I'd thrown my weight against the locked door until my shoulder was bruised, but it was sturdy and unyielding.
My memories were fragmented and missing, and my thoughts kept falling out of sequence. Only an elusive picture of leaving the maintenance lockup behind the Brockway Apartments hovered at the fringes of my mind.
I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to soothe my throbbing head. My hand came away covered with streaks of bright red blood.
It explained my amnesia. How long was I out?
My mouth felt parched and sour, and my clothing looked dirty and wrinkled but still intact—a relief—however, my trusty Sig Sauer pistol was missing. My captors had every opportunity to do whatever they wanted with me, but it appeared I hadn't suffered the humiliation.
I had walked into a trap despite my training. It should have been enough: four years in the military police, serving in Afghanistan, four years as a police officer in the LAPD, five years as a detective, here in Stockbridge. Until Townsend suspended me—for bucking the system when it got in the way of me doing my job.
For getting too close to the truth, more likely. Whatever good, it would do him. He'd been riding me ever since I got back from medical leave. Lieutenant Townsend was a misogynist, who once called me a mouthy bitch inflicted on him by Chief Kane as part of his social experiment into twenty-first-century policing. He often used unflattering phrases to insult my mixed-race heritage. One look at his wife was enough to tell me the lieutenant was a bully at home as well as work. He didn't leave marks, at least not physical ones you could see. But when his wife came to the office, he'd speak to her in his overbearing voice, and I would see her flinch as if preparing to get out of the way of his hand.
My suspension had not stopped me investigating the murders, even though I knew Townsend would fire me if he found out. But after pursuing Beth and Ashley's killers for nine days, I was no closer to discovering their identity. I had no doubt they were responsible for imprisoning me here and leaving me to die.
Someone must be tracking my movements. It's the only way they could have kept such close tabs on me and thwarted my investigation so successfully. Could it be the reporter, Kayla Ellis, who had sources everywhere, and published inside information about my case? Scott Prentiss, my partner, was giving details of our inquiry to his new girlfriend. Chris Andrews and Mark Davies had both helped me. Was it for show, until I got too close for comfort?
Was there anyone I could trust? I felt a white-hot surge of anger at the men who'd put me there. My memory was recovering because I remembered two of them coming out of the shadows, then pain, bright and sharp bursting through my body.
If I were about to die there, my biggest regret would be my failure in bringing those responsible for the recent deaths to justice. Did Jake Kennedy have time to feel a similar regret right before he died?
Four months had passed since Dispatch sent Jake and me to a robbery in progress at the Highdale Bank on Broad Street. I absently fingered the scars where the pellets hit my arm. Only five, fortunately. Procedure would have had us take cover behind the cruiser as soon as we arrived at the bank. But civilians were everywhere, and we didn't want them caught in the crossfire. One of the robbers, Kidd Hildegard, came out of the bank and pointed a pump-action shotgun in our direction. Most of the first blast hit me squarely in the vest and knocked me off my feet.
Instead of returning fire, Jake paused a moment to look how badly I was hurt. He wasn't wearing a vest and caught the second blast in his chest, pulverizing his heart and lungs. I put Hildegard down with two shots from my weapon, then rolled over to tend to Jake. I thought I caught a flicker of recognition in his eyes, then nothing.
I was out on medical leave for two of the four months since Jake Kennedy's death. I have asked myself a thousand times why he ran toward the bank so unprotected and took his eyes off the bandit to check on me.
I know he loved me, but what the hell was he thinking?
I couldn't say if Jake were my soul mate. But for the time we were together, I was happier than I can ever remember.
Self-pity wasn't helping me escape. The odor of hot wood assailed my nostrils. Smoke was seeping around the locked door and filling the room.
My captors had torched the building.
I had barely enough time to come up with a plan.
CHAPTER 1
9 Days Earlier
THE MORNING SUNLIGHT slanted through the trees, casting dappled light on the patchwork of abandoned appliances, car tires and human detritus filling the wasteland behind the Brockway Apartments. I pa
rked inside the police tape and shivered as I hurried toward the north side of the three-story building. I'd been hot after my morning run and shower, but I now wished I'd picked up my windbreaker. My white cotton shirt and gray slacks offered little protection against the chilly September morning air.
When the apartments were built some two decades ago, the tenants were working families, appreciative of somewhere clean and modern to live. Now, after years of neglect, the buildings looked dilapidated, and uncollected trash stood in piles. In the last few years, they had appeared on our radar as reports of criminal activity had escalated, and the perpetrators of two arson attacks remained at large.
A sinking feeling of guilt was lodged in my stomach for not returning the dead reporter's calls. It's unusual to identify a murder victim so quickly, but her purse was found near her body. One of the responders corroborated her ID as Elizabeth 'Beth' Gervais, a journalist for the Daily Examiner. The very same person who had left me numerous phone messages over the past week saying she had detailed evidence of crimes. But I had let a spate of robberies distract me.
Or so I told myself. But what if my neglect had put Beth in danger, caused her death?
I rounded the end of the building and pulled up short, my heart racing, my mouth dry with expectation. Beth was lying on her back near the base of a tree, one arm above her head. A bloody gash across her neck, the deep red of raw meat, left her head at an impossible angle. Her eyes were fixed, staring skyward but seeing nothing, her face oddly relaxed. But even in death, she was beautiful. Beth always had a trim athletic build. I hadn't heard from her in sixteen years beyond seeing her byline in the local paper online, but it was difficult to imagine that the friend who had been such a tumultuous influence on my life was now deceased.
We were bound together through grade school, liked the same classes, the same food, the same movies. Our families were not wealthy, but our parents would alternate, taking us on vacations together—often to a cottage at the coast. Life was good until our senior year when Beth lied about my Dad, saying he'd raped her on a trip together. She stuck to her story for three weeks before recanting. It was long enough for the dirt to stick to him permanently.
I never saw her again after the day she confessed to making the whole sordid story up. She disappeared with the police, her head bowed, and a day later, my dad was released. It didn't help much. People assumed there was no smoke without fire. Dad lost his job, the house, then Mom left. Our lives were never the same again.
"You okay, Detective?" A stocky man in white overalls was crouched over Beth's body. Though his mask obscured most of his face, I recognized him instantly as Cliff Jackson, the medical examiner. He was in his late fifties, and old enough to be my father. While the younger members of the force thought he was past his sell-by date, I always appreciated his experience and wisdom. Next to Jackson and similarly attired was the lanky Chris Andrews, our senior crime scene tech.
I needed to focus on the job at hand; to stop thinking of the deceased as Beth, and instead, regard her as another anonymous victim of senseless violence.
Could I?
For the first time, I noticed her blue jeans were pulled down to her knees and rucked around her lower legs. But I was relieved to see Beth's white lacy panties were still in place, as was her yellow T-shirt. Nevertheless, I asked:
"Was it a sexual attack?" I tried to keep my voice even to hide the emotions churning inside.
"Difficult to know at this point," Jackson opined in a commanding voice. "Maybe the doer just wanted it to look like rape." He shrugged.
"Take a look at this, Riley." Andrews pulled up Beth's shirt and pointed his pen at a small piece of black plastic clipped to the center of her matching white bra.
I squatted and leaned over the pale, lifeless body to see what it was. "A clip-on microphone? Where's the photographer?"
"Late—as usual."
I pulled out my phone and snapped a picture.
"Looks like she had one of the older units with a microphone wired into a separate digital recorder," Andrews continued. "Someone took the recorder, tearing the wire from the mic."
"A reporter would only be wired if they were meeting someone. What if the killer pulled her pants down looking for the recorder?" I suggested, trying to convince myself Beth hadn't been raped.
"It's a workable theory. But you'll need to wait until I get her back to the morgue for confirmation," Jackson asserted.
"I don't see any defensive wounds on her arms."
I wasn't ready for Beth's head flopping unnaturally as Jackson rolled her onto her side and pointed to two small marks on the back of her neck. "He used a stungun on her before cutting her throat."
Victim, not Beth, I told myself. "Who found her?"
"The apartment manager," Jackson flicked his head toward two uniformed officers, Michael Smith and Emma McAdams, known as Mickey and Minnie, standing over a bald man seated on a concrete step. "But you'll have to wait until he stops puking. The victim has been here two hours, give or take, so death was around 7 a.m. She was killed here, in case you needed to know."
I ignored the sarcasm and moved on to the apartment manager. He looked docile enough, so I dismissed the uniforms who were watching him.
"I'm Detective Riley, and you are?"
"Danny Ellis." His face was drawn, his skin leathery from too much time in the California sun. His gray mustache was streaked yellow from cigarette smoke. "Look, I need to get home. You can't keep me here like this."
"Have you seen the dead woman before?"
"No, never. Alright, maybe once. She doesn't look too good, so it's hard to tell. Seeing her like that shook me up something fierce." He rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a bent cigarette, started to light it with a disposable lighter, then changed his mind.
"Did you see anyone with her?"
"No. I think she was just nosing around. Maybe it was last week. Probably writing a story about how bad it is here."
"How do you know she was a reporter?" I stared into his watery blue eyes.
"Because right after I saw her, I heard people talking about the press coming around. I don't know anything else, lady, and I need to get home. I don't feel so good." Danny's yellow face was turning green.
"Where is home? I asked.
"Right here in one of these apartments." He nodded his head toward the building behind. "So many are empty now, that I have my pick of them. With all that's going on here, people are leaving in droves. Now, to top it all, a gal goes and gets herself murdered on our doorstep."
I gave him my card after he promised to call me if he thought of anything further. Not that I expected to hear from the apartment manager, but I knew where to find him.
I walked back to the scene and asked, "Find anything else?"
"No, but look at the wound in her neck." Jackson pulled Beth's head back, making the cut open wide and releasing the coppery tang of blood. I've seen much worse in Afghanistan, but I wished he wouldn't do things like that without warning. "See the depth of the wound," he continued. "And no hesitation or repeat cuts. One quick slice and she's dead. Our guy was strong and likely has done this before. He might have served in the military."
"I've had a team looking for the murder weapon, but there's no sign of it," Andrews said. "We've collected garbage bags full of food wrappers and other trash. Lieutenant Townsend is going to need some justification before we test any of it."
"Have you found any car keys?" I asked. "Or else how did she get here?"
The three of us searched Beth's pockets and the surrounding area. When we came up short, I told officers Mickey and Minnie to go through the parking lot and run the plates of the cars. We needed to find Beth's ride. I didn't know who to notify about the death. Beth was an only child. I had heard a house fire took her parents a couple of years after I last saw her. There were no rings or marks where they'd been on her fingers, but she may still be married, or have a partner.
"Hey, Riley."
I reco
gnized the voice behind me and turned to see Detective Scott Prentiss.
"Good of you to finally show up," I said.
Prentiss was in his mid-twenties, tall and broad-shouldered, which made up for my deficiency in both departments. He was boy-band handsome and always wore aviator-style sunglasses when he was outside, no matter the time of day. The one time I asked him about it, he said it was to protect his eyes. No shit. He had been destined to be an attorney like his two older brothers, but right after he graduated with a pre-law degree, his parents were killed in a car accident for which they were judged responsible. The money for Prentiss's continued education disappeared in lawsuits, and he was forced to attend the police academy, something he never entirely accepted.
Prentiss had mellowed in the eight months he'd been a detective and was more accepting of his situation, and of me, a mixed-race woman. Lieutenant Townsend had paired us on earlier cases, so it was no surprise to see him assigned to this one.
I filled him in on what we'd found so far, omitting any reference to my history with Beth. No one needed to know about that, especially Townsend, who would use it to undermine me. Maybe put someone else on the case.
Prentiss said, "Beth Gervais—I've read her column in The Examiner, once or twice. They were oddball if I remember."
"How do you mean?"
"Conspiracy theories about mind control and health hazards. That sort of thing."
"The missing voice recorder would indicate she was here on business. We need to ascertain what stories she was working on."
"We can get Micky and Minnie to do the death notification."
"At this point, I don't know who to notify. Her parents are dead." I bit my tongue, as soon as I had spoken.
"And you know that how?"
"I must have read it in her column. Anyway, I want you to canvas the apartments with uniformed officers looking for witnesses." I ignored the look Prentiss gave me. "The killer and the victim could have been seen from the front apartment windows. If someone was looking out at the right time, we might be able to bring this to a quick conclusion."
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