“Please do,” she swallowed eagerly, wanting the same with a passion.
Grant slipped on the condom and planted himself squarely between Beverly’s outstretched legs. When he entered her body, she was wet and ready, immediately wrapping her thighs around his upper back and riding the wave of desire with him.
They made love to each other as though there were no more tomorrows, each yielding to the demands of their bodies.
Grant yelled out when the moment of impact erupted. Beverly screamed a moment later, hurling her groin at his as a second wave of orgasm electrified her.
When it was over they clung to each other and kissed the waning sensations away. Beverly admired the seemingly tireless ability Grant had to go as long as she could. Even longer. She’d once thought such men only existed in romance novels. He had proven her wrong, for which she thanked her lucky stars.
Following the sex, they had a late lunch, talked shop, and went back to work.
Amidst their sharing of bodies and food, Beverly was surprised that Grant had remained mute on his impending appointment to the bench.
Could it be that the appointment was not going to be made after all? Or had he not considered the most important news in his career worthy of sharing with her?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The nude body was swollen and discolored. It had been discovered by a jet skier who noticed something “funny” stuck in some vines on the south shore of the lake. Turned out to be the decomposing body of a young woman. Before ever viewing the corpse, Stone had a bad feeling as to who it likely was. This was confirmed by the time he arrived at the scene.
It was Adrienne Murray. Or what had once been her. This pale, bloated, bruised, and cut up object was no longer a human being.
He recognized her from the photos provided by her husband, Chuck Murray. For further clarification Stone checked the dead woman’s inner left thigh. A dime sized mole was there, seemingly undisturbed by the trauma her body had taken. Another was found on her back, just where Chuck had indicated.
Stone noted, however, that there were no rings on her fingers and no watch on her wrist. But the white spots where they had been were clearly visible.
“You think she was dumped here?” asked a somber Detective Chang.
Stone shook his head. “I’d say it was more likely she floated south from the park. Probably would have gone all the way down to the other end of the lake had it not been for those damned vines.”
“So what are we looking at here—a serial killer?”
“I don’t think so.” Stone looked around. “My guess is the victim either knew the killer or the killer knew her. This was personal,” he decided.
Chang lifted a brow. “You think the husband did it?”
“Probably not—at least not by his own hand.” This was another conclusion Stone had just reached. “He seemed too genuinely affected by her disappearance to be her murderer, per se.” Stone believed nonetheless that Chuck Murray may have loved his wife irrationally and therefore dangerously. Which meant it was too early to remove him as a suspect. “Let’s get this place sealed off! And I want that park combed to see if anyone saw or heard anything during the time Adrienne Murray disappeared.”
“I’ll get right on it,” Chang said to the lead detective.
The two had barely parted up when a thirty-something, tall and slender woman with a strawberry blonde perm approached Stone. She was wearing a trench coat and high-heeled shoes that made her look like a secret agent.
“Detective Palmer?”
“Yes...” he said while studying her.
“My name is Lydia Wesley,” she announced. “I’m a reporter for the Eagles Landing Dispatch. I was told I could find you here—”
By whom? Stone wondered, irritated. Inquiring reporters were not supposed to be guided to crime scenes by anyone from the department. Yet he knew it happened all the time, usually due to the reporter’s unwavering determination.
He supposed she wanted to talk about the body recovered, trying to get a jump on the rest of the news hounds.
“Well now that you found me, Ms. Wesley,” he informed her, “I’m afraid I have no comment on this investigation—”
“Actually, Detective, I wanted to talk to you about another case you worked on.” She batted blue eyes at him, almost in desperation. “I’m writing a book about Suzanne Landon. I understand you worked on the case that led to her arrest and conviction for killing her lover, James Wright.”
Stone remembered the case well—how could he not?—even if the reporter’s facts were somewhat off the mark insofar as his involvement. Or maybe that was deliberate to induce a reaction. As much as he was a sucker for a pretty face, frankly, he had neither the time nor inclination to talk with her.
But he was a gentleman about it. “Listen, Lydia, I’d love to help you,” he said nicely, “but right now I’m in the middle of an investigation. I suggest you contact Beverly Mendoza of the Wilameta County D.A.’s office. She would know a lot more about the specifics of the case than I would.”
“But Detective Palmer,” she persisted with a sense of desperation, “if I could just—”
“You can’t!” he cut her off tersely. “Goodbye, Ms. Wesley—”
Stone left her standing there, regretting not being more helpful for some reason, but knowing he had to draw the line sometimes. This was one of them.
Before Adrienne Murray’s corpse was taken away, Stone took a closer look under the covering. He wanted to see the victim as she was a final time before the medical examiner worked on her and took away even more of the essence of what she once represented as a woman and wife. She appeared to be at peace. Yet he knew her permanent slumber was anything but peaceful.
And would not be until Adrienne Murray could have the spiritual solace of knowing that whoever did this was apprehended and punished appropriately.
Stone honed in on her neck. Judging by its discoloration he’d say she had been strangled. There were also enough bruises to go around. Someone not only wanted to make sure the victim was good and dead, but also defiled her as if for the hell of it. Or hatred of her.
After he made sure that the ball was rolling in the right direction in securing the scene and collecting evidence, Stone headed back over to Chuck Murray’s house to deliver the bad news in person.
* * *
Adrienne Murray’s husband said nothing at first, as if he had not heard the words that his wife was dead. When he finally did speak it was a slate of profanities, followed by open weeping. Stone was moved somewhat, while managing some proper perspective. This type of emotion was hardly unexpected, if not overdoing it somewhat, the detective believed. It was the type of performance of either a very good actor or a man who was truly devastated that he had lost forever the one person most important to him.
Stone chose to believe the latter for now, but would reserve his overall judgment till the final facts of the case were in.
“I’ll need you to come down to the morgue to identify the body,” he stated straightforwardly.
Chuck wiped his eyes. “I can’t, not now—”
“Are there other family members who can do it?”
He sighed. “It was just the two of us. There’s no one else.”
Stone stepped around him. Though the I.D. could technically come from anyone who knew Adrienne Murray, including friends and coworkers, it was always preferable that it came from an intimate acquaintance.
“We need that identification, Chuck,” he pressed, “so we can concentrate on investigating your wife’s death.”
Chuck narrowed his eyes, bloodshot from crying. “If I find the son of a bitch who did this to her, I’ll kill him—!”
Stone did not doubt that he could, probably with his bare hands. The same way his wife was killed perhaps? Interesting parallel.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Stone warned. “Let’s leave finding the perpetrator to the authorities.”
Chuck rubbed his nose and stewed i
n silence.
“We’re going to need all the help we can get from you, Chuck.” Stone gazed at him.
“I’ll tell you whatever I know,” he snorted.
Yes, you will, Stone promised himself. But what exactly do you know?
“Good. I can drive you to the morgue if you like.”
Chuck sucked in breath. “I’ll drive myself, if that’s all right? I need to deal with my grief alone.”
“I understand.” Stone left it at that. There would be time for questions and answers later.
* * *
At home that evening Stone sat at the formal dining room table with his wife, Joyce, and two of their kids, Carla and Paco. They were eating his favorite meal of spaghetti and meatballs with garlic bread.
Stone stared absentmindedly at his wife. Native American, she was still as beautiful as when he first fell for her in high school with a defined facial bone structure and ebony hair that went down to the middle of her back. He was a senior and star wide receiver for the school team; she was a junior and the reigning student council president.
“What is it, Stone?” Joyce asked, her big black eyes favoring him perceptively.
Stone met her gaze. He didn’t particularly like discussing his work in front of the kids. But at the same time, he didn’t want to hide from them the very real dangers in the world they lived in. Including right there in Eagles Landing.
“A woman’s body was found today by the lake,” he said sadly. “And it looks like she was strangled.” Stone chose to spare his family the further horrors the victim had clearly been put through. “Her husband reported her missing when she didn’t come home from work two days ago.”
“How awful.” Joyce furrowed her brow, the fork full of spaghetti frozen in her hand.
“Eww,” Carla moaned, flipping back her flaxen hair in the way fourteen-year-old girls liked to do.
“Yeah, eww,” twelve-year-old Paco mimicked, including flipping back his shaggy brown hair.
Stone tried to imagine losing Joyce or his kids to violence. The thought made him wonder if the city was becoming too violent for them to live in. But where would they be any safer? Perhaps in Alaska, where Joyce had spent her younger years before the family relocated to Northern California.
They lived in a violent world. There was no getting around that. No matter where they went.
“Do you know who did it?” Joyce asked.
“No—not yet.” Stone stuck a meatball on his fork and ate it.
Joyce wanted more. He could read the hunger for details in her eyes. “Where did it happen?”
“Belle Park.”
Joyce reacted with alarm. “We’ve taken the kids there!” she said, as if having never considered such a place could be dangerous. Or that their children could have just as easily been murder victims.
“I know,” Stone said, painfully aware that there were no guarantees that their kids would always stay out of harm’s way. No matter his desire to protect them and Joyce at all costs.
“May I be excused?” Carla said to no one in particular.
“You’ve hardly eaten any of your food, honey.” Joyce set her fork down, as if for effect.
Carla sneered. “I’ve eaten too much! I have to keep my weight down to make the cheerleading squad next semester.”
“You will be too weak to do any cheerleading if you don’t eat more,” argued Joyce.
Stone looked at his slender daughter and wondered if she was becoming anorexic. He saw no such problem with his son who was bigger than most boys his age.
“They’re never gonna pick you to be a cheerleader!” Paco said cruelly, enjoying needling his older sister every chance he got. “Cheerleaders have to be nice to look at, even if they are super skinny!”
“Mom! Dad!” Carla’s mouth hung open disgustedly. “Will you tell that stupid twit to keep his silly opinions to himself?”
“Apologize to your sister, Paco!” Stone ordered, if only to try to keep the peace for one meal.
Paco wrinkled his nose. “Why should I? It’s true! And she knows it—”
“It is not!” Carla sprang from the table and ran towards the stairs. “And I do not!” She added as a parting shot.
“Carla—” Joyce called out angrily.
“Let her go,” Stone said on a breath. He turned on his youngest son. His first thought was to verbally assault him just as he had his sister. But he knew full well that Paco really loved Carla and was merely having fun at her expense. It was up to her to get past it. “Eat the rest of your food,” he told him simply. “Then it’s off to bed.”
Stone put one more load of spaghetti in his mouth and got to his feet, suddenly having lost his appetite, albeit for very different reasons. Joyce gave him a scathing look as if he were suddenly the bad guy.
“I’ll talk to her,” he promised, wondering how they made it through the first two kids in one piece and would someday have to deal with a house full of grandkids.
At least their children were all still healthy and alive. That was more than Adrienne Murray could say.
Someone had seen to that.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Suncrest Nursing Home was located in an upscale retirement community in Wilameta County, just seven miles from Eagles Landing. Beverly had chosen this facility after a long search for a place that could properly care for her father, without breaking the bank or being too far away to visit. It was a hard decision to put him away, but a practical one. She was ill equipped to take care of her nearly teenaged son and a father with Alzheimer’s disease, while working full time as a prosecuting attorney.
Beverly’s father, Alberto Elizondo, was in the courtyard when she and Jaime arrived. A nurse was supervising them and seemed content to allow the patients to wander around in the huge yard surrounded by geraniums and daisies, as if trying to find themselves.
“What should I say to him?” asked Jaime, uncertainty creasing his brow.
“Just talk to him as your grandfather,” Beverly responded. “Even if he seems lost, he’ll appreciate it.”
Or so she hoped.
They walked up to him. Alberto was staring into space, as if waiting to be picked up by aliens. Beverly noted that where once her father had been a large man and strong as a bull, he was now quite frail and seemed to be getting thinner by the visit. At seventy-four, he still had much of his hair. It was a fine layer of wintry white and combed to the side and backwards.
“Hello, Papa,” she said to him, mindful that on her last visit he had responded as if he remembered she was his progeny.
Alberto stared at her with blank eyes, green-gray in color.
“It’s me, Beverly.” She felt like she was talking to a stranger rather than her own father.
“Beverly...” He narrowed his gaze at her, straining for recognition. “Have we met?”
“She’s your daughter,” Jaime blared out. “And I’m your grandson, Jaime. Don’t you remember us, Grandpa, even a little bit?”
Beverly could hear the irritation yet sincere hope in his voice.
Alberto painted a smile on his weathered face. “Sure I do. You’re my grandson, Jaime.” He looked at Beverly, straining for recognition. “And you’re...”
“Beverly, Papa,” she repeated gingerly, as if talking to a child. She tried to help him along with hand gestures, like using sign language.
“Maria?” He scratched his head vigorously. “You look like my Maria.”
Maria was Beverly’s mother. She had always been told she favored her. Except by her father, who had always claimed her features were similar to his side of the family. Beverly preferred to think she inherited the best of both parents.
It was all she could do to hold back the tears. She knew she had to stay strong, especially in front of Jaime. It was hard enough on him trying to come to grips with his grandfather’s memory loss. She didn’t want him to see her break down, causing him further distress.
“I’m not Maria, Papa,” Beverly said gently
to him. “Maria was my mother...and your wife.”
“My wife?” Alberto looked confused. “Maria...”
“Mama’s dead now, Papa.” It pained her to have to say this, still shaken by the reality herself. “She’s been dead for five years now.”
“Dead...for...five...years—” Some form of understanding seemed to register. “No, not Maria,” Alberto croaked. “She would never leave me. She promised me she’d never leave me—” He began bawling like a baby.
Beverly hugged her father, wanting to comfort him, just as she needed to be comforted.
“Mama didn’t leave you, Papa,” she promised him. “She’s never left any of us. She’s in heaven now, but will always be with us in spirit.”
“She will?” Alberto pulled back and with watery eyes, held her gaze.
“I promise, Papa.”
“Yeah, Gramps, Mom’s right,” seconded Jaime.
Alberto smiled momentarily, as if he had forgotten the entire heart wrenching conversation, before turning his mouth downwards into a pout. He eyed Jaime, and asked, befuddled, “Why are you here? I don’t know you!”
“Yes, you do!” shouted Jaime, fresh tears staining his cheeks. “I’m your grandson, Jaime!”
With that he ran off, ignoring Beverly’s cries to come back.
The nurse, alerted to the activity, came over. She was heavyset and in her early thirties. “I think it’s time for Mr. Elizondo to take his medicine and then a nap,” she told Beverly curtly. “You can visit again—”
Beverly might have objected—after all, this was their time with her father, no matter how much of him they had lost forever—had she not known she had to go find her son. She had to try and make him understand and learn to deal with it.
“I have to go now, Papa,” she told him, forcing a cheery smile, even as tears streamed down her face. “I promise we’ll come back again soon.”
There was no response from him as the nurse led him back inside.
Beverly found Jaime sitting on the hood of the car. “You shouldn’t have left like that, Jaime,” she said tartly. “Can’t you see that only makes matters worse?”
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