Silent
is the
Grave
Candle Sutton
Text copyright © 2018 Candle Sutton
All Rights Reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, dialogue, incidents, and locations are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to events, places, or people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or other – without permission in writing from the author.
Contents
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty One
Twenty Two
Twenty Three
Twenty Four
Epilogue
Dedication & Acknowledgments
A note from the author
Excerpt from Broken is the Grave
Prologue
One
Also Available by Candle Sutton
Prologue
Tuesday was a bad day to die.
Yet, not five feet from Monica, blue eyes stared sightlessly from a face mashed against the cold tile.
Not just any face. Jessie’s face.
Blood pooled under the pale cheek and slightly parted lips seemed to beckon for help. Fragile white-blonde hair splayed across the floor, soaking up the blood like an addict getting her fix.
Monica clenched a shaking fist in front of her mouth as her vision swirled. Tears broke free from her lashes and raced down her face.
It wasn’t fair. Seventeen-year-old girls weren’t supposed to die. Especially not like this.
The tread of heavy shoes trapped oxygen in her throat.
Jessie may be gone, but the killer was still here.
Two blue-clad legs filled her vision, close enough to touch. Some kind of cargo pants. Atop tan suede work boots.
Monica shrank back against the wall.
The man knelt next to Jessie’s body, his back to her.
Short, spiky, light brown hair poked out from beneath a baseball cap.
White biceps as big as Jessie’s neck. Which he probably could’ve snapped one-handed if he hadn’t had the knife.
A navy shirt that perfectly matched the pants covered a back at least twice the size of hers. Some kind of emblem on the sleeve, but the angle was wrong for her to really see it.
A uniform. Who was he? A cop? Firefighter? Paramedic?
Hard to say.
But she knew one thing. She couldn’t trust any of them.
The boots clomped across the kitchen. A door slammed.
Silence.
She had to get outta here! Before the cops showed.
Monica scrambled from beneath the counter. Her shoes slipped twice in the blood invading the floor and she almost fell on Jessie’s body.
Vaulting the body, she raced into the supply closet a few feet away. Boxes were stacked beneath the room’s single window, providing a ladder for her escape.
She scrambled on top of them, felt them sag beneath her weight.
Movement from the kitchen behind her. A gasp. A scream.
She unlatched the window and pushed out the screen.
“Is someone there?” A woman’s voice.
Footsteps in the kitchen. Approaching.
Monica hefted herself onto the narrow windowsill and angled her body through the opening that was barely large enough for her to slide through.
Behind her, the boxes crashed to the floor.
Trash-littered asphalt rushed up to meet her. Pain jolted through her shoulder as she landed hard on her right side. Her arm numbed. She rolled to her stomach and pushed herself up.
Her bag, her bag. Where was her bag?
She glanced around. No sign of it.
She’d left it inside. Under the counter by Jessie’s body.
The air in her chest solidified. Everything she owned was in that bag!
But she couldn’t go back for it. Not now anyway. Maybe not ever.
No one could be trusted.
One
“Hey, kid. Hot call.”
Detective Alejandro Salinas pushed back his chair, holding in the words threatening to spill out of him. How many times did he have to ask Morgan not to call him “kid”? Salinas, Zander… heck, even Alejandro would be better than kid.
And nobody called him Alejandro but his madre.
But if the three years they’d been partners were any indicator, the nickname wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
“What’ve we got?”
Detective Max Morgan slid a glance Zander’s direction as they headed for the exit. “Homicide. Some kid at the youth center.”
A kid. Dang.
It didn’t get much worse than that. Especially one who was already in a pretty bad situation.
“Witnesses?”
“None that have come forward.”
Figured. No one ever saw anything. “Well, the center’s got cameras. Maybe we’ll get lucky and one of ‘em picked up our killer.”
Morgan settled his solid frame behind the wheel of the unmarked sedan and cranked the engine. “You still volunteering at that place?”
“A few times a week.” Zander’s thoughts ricocheted to the youth center and the boys he’d been working with there. He’d built a few solid connections and had even earned a little street cred with some of the boys.
Man, did he hope it wasn’t one of them.
That was a horrible thing to think. A kid was dead either way.
“What do you do there, anyway?” Morgan pressed the accelerator through a yellow light.
“Soccer, basketball, football–”
“A shrimp like you?” Morgan grinned.
“You’ve only got an inch on me, man.” An inch and probably about fifty pounds. Not all of it muscle. “I also help ‘em with homework. You know, show ‘em they’ve got options outside of gangs.”
Didn’t always work, but at least he could say he was trying to do something about the gang problem.
“Well, maybe your connections will help us out on this one.”
“Maybe.” He doubted it, though. Street kids stuck together.
They’d find out soon enough. Lights flashed from the curb up ahead.
Unlike most days, there weren’t any kids hanging out in front of the building. No surprise there. Those kids avoided authority figures like cats avoided water.
Morgan jerked the vehicle to a stop in front of the hotel-turned-youth-center.
They climbed the wide stone steps of the historic building and pushed through the solid double doors.
Hardwood floors in need of a good polish stretched before them. A stairway hugged the wall to their left. At the top of the stairs, several kids watched with guarded expressions.
Zander caught the eye of one of the boys, a fourteen-year-old with good skills on the basketball court, and nodded. The boy returned the nod.
A good sign, especially if the kid saw anything.
“So you know where the kitchen’s at in this place?”
Zander turned at Morgan’s question. “Sure do.”
Ah, for once he got to lead. Didn’t happen often. Morgan was
the senior detective and made sure everyone knew it.
Zander led the way down a wide hallway, stopping outside a set of double doors about halfway down. Yellow police tape blocked the doors, which were closed.
Pushing the doors inward, he ducked beneath the tape. Morgan followed on his heels.
White tile gleamed in front of him. Massive stainless steel appliances gave the room an industrial look. An island dominated the center of the room.
Three uniformed officers clustered on the far side of the island.
Morgan brushed past him and headed for them.
Yeah. Zander figured his taking the lead would be short-lived.
He followed.
The body came into view as he rounded the island.
A girl sprawled on the floor in a lake of blood. Might’ve been as young as fourteen. Certainly no older than eighteen. Light blonde hair, skin that would’ve been pale in life but was ghost-like in death, blue eyes that were almost translucent.
Smears marred the blood around her. Footprints led toward a door. He peeked inside.
A pantry. The room’s one window, small and set high in the wall, hung open.
He turned his attention to the footprints.
Tiny. Most likely a youth or woman. Maybe the perp. Or maybe a witness. Whoever it was, that person hadn’t stuck around to talk to the police.
No sign of a weapon, either. The perp must have taken it.
He scanned the ceiling. Ah, there it was. The room’s one camera, mounted high in a corner, should give them at least some footage to review.
Hopefully enough to identify the killer.
“What’ve we got?” Morgan asked the uniform standing closest to them.
The officer nodded at the body. “Girl’s been identified as Jessie, no last name. No murder weapon. Signs of tampering at the exterior door there,” he pointed to the door set against the far wall that led into an adjacent alley.
“Who ID’d the girl?”
“The lady in charge of this place. That’s her over there.” The officer pointed toward the dining room.
Murmuring reached him. He looked up to find two women outside the kitchen’s second set of doors. Rectangular tables and chairs dotted the room behind them.
He recognized the older woman as Betty Chambers, the woman who ran the center with her husband Bill. Betty shook like the Golden Gate Bridge in an earthquake.
No wonder.
Sure, the kids got in some trouble, but he couldn’t recall a murder ever happening here before.
The other woman was closer to his age. Curls the color of a freshly-minted penny brushed her shoulders and her slim body had curves in all the right places. Even from here he could see her high cheekbones, narrow nose, and pointed chin, all of which gave her face an angular and sharp edge, but somehow fit her perfectly.
He’d never seen her before.
Too bad, too. She was smokin’ hot. Not supermodel material, but more like the girl next door.
He’d always had a thing for the girl next door.
Sick. Here he was standing over a dead girl checking out the hot chick. There was something fundamentally wrong with that.
He forced his attention back to the scene.
Being careful to avoid the blood, he knelt next to the body.
The girl was on her side, her neck twisted at an angle that would’ve been uncomfortable for the living. Blood-streaked arms stretched out in front of her, possibly in a defensive stance, for all the good it had done her. A tight denim skirt barely covered her hips, exposing shockingly white, twig-like legs.
Blood congealed across her chest, but there was too much of it to get a clear visual of the wound.
Marks on her arms drew his attention.
Scars. Most of them looked older. They told the tragic story of bouts of cutting and possible suicide attempts.
Poor kid never had a chance.
One thing was noticeably absent. Track marks. Didn’t mean she wasn’t using, though.
He glanced up at the responding officers. “Prostitute?”
The officer shrugged. “No one’s saying.”
Of course not. Why make this easy? “No witnesses?”
“Nope.” The officer’s gaze followed the bloody smears leading to the pantry. “At least none that we found.”
“That our vic’s?” Morgan’s voice came from behind Zander.
Zander twisted, following Morgan’s gaze. A grimy pink floral backpack rested on the floor a few feet away, a police marker positioned beside it.
The responding officer shrugged. “Not sure. The volunteer who found the body said she saw a girl fleeing the scene.”
“Who found the body?”
The officer’s lips stretched in a wide smile. “The redhead.”
So. The unknown redhead was first on the scene. He allowed his gaze to wander to her again.
Morgan drew himself up to his full six-foot height and puffed out his chest. “Better let me handle this one, kid.”
As expected.
He followed Morgan to the dining room where the women waited.
Betty’s splotchy face turned toward him as they approached.
“Oh, Zander!” Betty’s voice wobbled. “I’m so glad it’s you!”
A liver-spotted hand reached for him. He caught it and gently rubbed the back of her hand. “I’m sorry this happened, Betty.”
“Oh dear.” She sniffled. “It’s just so horrible. I don’t know who could do this.”
“That’s what we’re here to find out, ma’am.” Morgan’s voice drew Betty’s attention. “Detective Morgan. Looks like you already know Salinas.”
At least Morgan hadn’t called him kid.
“Oh, yes. Zander’s such a blessing to us here.”
Oh, yeah. A real saint.
Zander released Betty’s hand and looked at Morgan. “Morgan, this is Betty Chambers. She and her husband manage this place.”
He shifted to look at the redhead who stood silently at Betty’s side. “I’m afraid I don’t know who you are.”
A faint smile worked at the redhead’s lips. “Eliana Levi. I help out around here.”
Unusual accent. Soft, cultured voice.
But it was her eyes that commanded attention. Purple. Seriously purple. Like the color of that Iris plant he’d bought his madre on her birthday.
Must be colored contacts or something. He’d never seen that color before.
“Betty?” A man’s voice echoed in the main hall.
Zander recognized Bill’s rough voice from that single word.
Betty’s head jerked around and her body twitched as if to move toward him. Anxious eyes searched out Zander’s, the question in them evident.
“Go on. We’ll talk to Ms. Levi while you fill him in.”
The smile Betty offered was hesitant. So were her movements as she rose unsteadily to her feet. Eliana supported her elbow until Betty’s legs stabilized.
As Betty dodged tables and chairs on her way toward the main hall, Morgan refocused on Eliana. “Ms. Levi–”
“Please. It’s Elly. I’m not that formal.”
“All right. Elly, I understand you found the body.” Morgan’s voice had the consistency of melted butter. “That must’ve been a shock.”
“It was. Poor Jessie.” Tears flooded her eyes, making them sparkle under the bright dining room lights.
“Walk us through what happened.”
As Morgan asked the questions, Zander studied her face. For someone who had just found a body, she didn’t seem all that shaken. Sure, tears glistened in those violet eyes, but her voice was serene and her movements controlled.
“Betty and I were coming in to get dinner going.” She pushed her curls back from her face, tucking them behind her ears.
Yeah, those curls begged to be touched.
He reigned the thought in.
Not that he’d touch them. Now or ever. Women brought him nothing but trouble.
Women. Trouble. He nee
ded to keep those two words together, no matter how much he wished things were different.
And now he was missing the conversation. He tuned back in.
“…she was already dead. I heard a noise in the pantry and went to check it out. She was in the alley by the time I got there.”
“You know who she was?” In direct conflict with his smooth tone, Morgan’s questions came hard and fast, with an intensity that tended to make people uncomfortable.
Didn’t seem to bother Elly, though. She offered a single nod. “Monica. She and Jessie were always together and it looked like her from the back.”
“Monica got a last name?”
Elly lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. “I’m sure she does, but I don’t know it. I’ve been trying to get close to those girls, but they don’t trust easily. Monica may not even be her real name.”
It was the answer he’d expected, but it didn’t make his job any easier.
Zander shifted his weight, his eyes never leaving her face. “Did you ever see anyone fighting with Jessie? Hear anyone threaten her?”
“No. She didn’t interact much with the other kids. Except Monica. It’s so sad.” Elly shook her head slowly. “At least she went quickly.”
What?
He studied her closely. She was serious. How could she possibly know that? The ME hadn’t even examined the vic to see how she’d died or how long it had taken. A human could bleed out in a matter of minutes, but until the autopsy was complete, they wouldn’t know that for certain.
So how could Elly know her death had come quickly?
Unless she knew more than she was saying.
She was awfully calm. Too calm.
Could she have something to do with whatever happened here today?
Two
“You got medical training?” A bushy, raised eyebrow accompanied Morgan’s question.
Elly shook her head.
“Then what makes you think she died quickly?”
Elly stared at Morgan as though the answer should be obvious. “God told me.”
Why were the pretty ones always crazy?
“God, huh?” Morgan crossed his arms over his burly chest. “How does that work? You got the Big Man on speed dial?”
A small smile touched her lips. “Of course not. God’s always speaking. All we need to do is listen.”
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