The Death of Life (The Little Things That Kill Series, #2)

by Pamela Crane

  Why Giana? Targeting a child to make a point? Coming from a so-called vigilante killer who murdered to avenge the lives of the innocent, this meant one thing: I was getting uncomfortably close and he was now backed into a corner. Fight or flight time. But he was too cowardly to face me himself, so he threatened the weak. A toddler and a young woman. I could find a way to keep Tina safe, but there was no way I could watch over Giana as well. Only Tristan could get me out of this mess I’d made.

  I didn’t want to draw a target on my friend’s back or her daughter’s family, but I could taste the end, touch it with my fingertips. It was possible I was one small clue away from figuring out who was behind Scott’s murder, Jackson’s sin against humanity, maybe even Kat’s disappearance. Should I stop now? More than anything I wanted to keep pushing, but if it risked Tina or Giana’s lives? No, I couldn’t do that to them. But what about the killer’s next targets? If I didn’t figure it out soon, the killer would just keep killing.

  This asshole obviously he didn’t know much about me if he thought I’d roll over and play dead. But I knew I couldn’t keep acting like some sort of comic book vigilante myself. Two heads were better than one, right? Maybe.

  I picked up my cell phone and dialed.

  “Hey, Tristan. I did something you’re not gonna like, and now I need your help.”

  **

  “Damn it, Ari! I told you to stay out of it. You’re dealing with a killer, not some peeping Tom. It’s dangerous. Please listen to me for once.”

  I let Tristan rant and rave across from me on my living room sofa while I waited patiently for him to finish. I had propped my feet up on his lap like I usually did when we sat down to watch a movie together or just talk, but this time he nudged them away. This was a whole new level of anger I hadn’t seen before. Slow burning but scalding hot. So I stayed quiet until I knew he’d finished his tirade. No point cutting him off before he’d had a chance to fully vent it all out.

  “And now you’ve put Tina and Giana in danger because you can’t stop poking around.”

  When it seemed like he’d run out of words, I took my turn to explain.

  “First, I’m sorry. I know I’m not fully trained or whatever, and it’s dangerous and all, but you’ve got to realize this is my passion. This is what I want to do with my life. My whole crappy upbringing shaped me for this kind of work. I’m tougher than I look, honey.”

  I squeezed his forearm, forcing him to feel me, to stay with me while I explained.

  Tristan pulled his arm away, and my heart twinged just a little at the distance. “What about the people you’ve now put in danger?”

  “Can’t you offer police protection for them?”

  “How the hell am I supposed to explain that to the Baxters? Um, hey, family I don’t know, my girlfriend is tracking a serial killer and led them straight to your door. So, I’ll be having you watched until we catch this guy. Cool? You can’t just act like there’s no consequences, Ari.”

  He poured the judgment on thick.

  “So I’m just supposed to work in filing the rest of my life because some jerk wants to make me his puppet? No thanks!”

  “That’s not what I’m saying—”

  But I wasn’t even close to done yet. “I’m not some delicate flower you need to protect. I’ve taken care of myself for years, and I’m good at it. So telling me to stop being who I am—sometimes daring, sometimes hasty, but always me—isn’t going to stop me. It’ll just make me more stubborn.”

  “Is that even possible—you being more stubborn?” It was the first time he looked at me since he arrived at my apartment, and I caught the twinkle. Subtle, that azure spark of humor that cut through the tension.

  “Oh, challenge accepted!” He returned my smile with a slight crease of his lip. I was close to breaking through the ice. “I really am sorry-not-sorry about getting involved, but I’m close, Tristan. I can feel it in my gut, y’know? I don’t know how to explain it, but I must be right if he’s resorting to threats now.”

  “I don’t get it. You talked to all these same people I’ve already spoken to. Why the threat now? It’s a safe assumption it’s the same killer who murdered Scott and Jackson, and attacked your dad. We need to figure out what information you unearthed that caught his attention.”

  “I wish I knew. So you agree—I’m close. Really close. Right?”

  “It would seem that way. But why did he—”

  “Or she,” I interrupted.

  “—or she not threaten me when I questioned the same people two years ago?”

  “He, she, whatever wasn’t a killer back then. Scott was only murdered three months ago. Jackson only last month. I suspect this person is directly tied to Kat’s abduction somehow, but two years ago they were innocent. Now they’re not. This is about self-preservation.”

  “So give me a rundown of what you’ve found out. Let’s compare notes.”

  “I haven’t found out anything that you haven’t, that’s what’s weird. My Spidey-sense tells me Scott had something to do with Kat’s disappearance, since he was the serial killer’s first target. Plus nine times out of ten it’s someone close to the family.” I remembered what Candace had said about Scott’s desire for more kids—a girl in particular. “Scott’s ex-girlfriend baby mama said he desperately wanted a little girl. Maybe he had some twisted affection for girls, Kat rejected his advances, and he freaked out and killed her. He could have easily staged the whole thing to look like a stranger broke in to ensure no one pointed the finger at him. It would explain why Kat never screamed.”

  “It’s not an unheard of scenario. Scott and Cody were my primary suspects too, but without a body, we couldn’t go anywhere with it. Assuming it was Scott, where would he have taken her if he did it? It’d have to be someplace remote—but not too far away. And not a public place, since that would have drawn attention.”

  “There were woods surrounding the trailer park where Scott lived with Helen,” I pointed out. “What about there?”

  “Doubtful. The K9 unit already searched that area and nothing turned up. Plus, those woods around their home were too sparse for a decomposing body to go unnoticed. Plus kids play in there; they would have smelled something. We spread out all over that area with dogs and search teams; had every county and every sheriff’s office up and down the coast looking out for a girl matching her description. If it was Scott, he couldn’t have gone too far because he was back home in bed before Helen woke up. Unless there is some private land around there that he would have access to. I remember looking, though, and we couldn’t find any property records in his name or his family’s in the area.”

  It was hopeless. There were simply too many variables. It would have to be accessible by vehicle but well hidden from the public. Close to Scott’s house. Privately owned land. Most likely a forest, since a large patch of fresh dirt in an open field would have been too obvious a makeshift grave. Considering the acres upon acres of properties that met these criteria, it was a search for a needle in an entire field of haystacks.

  “Unless Scott knew someone with a large piece of private property,” Tristan said, his voice soft and sad, “The reality, Ari, is that most cases like this don’t end well. Most don’t get closure. I don’t think we’re ever going to find Kat or give her family the peace they deserve.”

  “So you’re pretty sure she’s dead?” I didn’t like the reality, but I couldn’t pretend it away when it was staring me in the face.

  “Unfortunately that’s probably what we’re looking at, especially for a girl her age. And in most cases a family member or friend is behind it.”

  That’s when it hit me. Candace’s picture of Scott and her uncle.

  “Or maybe we can. I think I know where she is, Tristan.”

  **

  Two hours later, the department—armed with an emergency search warrant—scoured the rural property owned by Edward Rhoades, Candace’s uncle and Scott’s hunting buddy. With forty acres of dense woods, it so
unded more daunting than it ended up being. An overgrown dirt road cut through the forest, leading to a cabin that hadn’t seen use in years. As the canine unit released the cadaver dogs, I picked my way through some overgrown honeysuckle bushes to a small clearing where I saw something colorful, unnatural, sticking up from the ground. I couldn’t quite tell what it was, so I inched closer.

  Once through the brush, I realized what it was. A grave. With a babydoll, blue eyes staring blankly ahead, placed purposely like a marker on the mound of black earth. Next to the doll was a bouquet of flowers tied together with pink ribbon, the petals wilted and brown, but very likely a couple months old. Old enough for Scott to have placed them here before his death.

  In his secret world he memorialized Kat, left her flowers and adorned her grave with her favorite doll.

  “Tristan!” I yelled. “You’ve got to come see this!”

  Seconds later a German shepherd bounded through the bushes behind him, then whined as it pawed at the earth, picking up the scent of a body. I didn’t want to watch them unearth Kat’s tiny body, or see the remnants of Hello Kitty pajamas found wrapped around the bones. I already knew it was her.

  As I numbly stole away, I seethed with hatred for Scott. I almost wanted to thank his killer, because Scott had deserved to die. No, more than that, I hoped Scott had been tortured. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t ask Scott why; I would never understand it.

  The question wasn’t what happened to Kat Brannigan, or who killed her and why. The big question marks were: who knew what Scott had done, and why did they wait two years to kill him?

  Chapter 29 Ari

  On two black metal folding chairs, Helen and Cody Brannigan sat side by side, hands clasped together and fingers intertwined, in a bare-bones conference room as Tristan delivered the news. On the other side of the wall I played with Tempest, occupying her with a coloring book and crayons I’d found in the waiting area near the reception desk. It would be weeks before the medical examiner could identify Kat with certainty, but the clothing, body size, and location were convincing enough to suggest it was their missing daughter. After Tristan handled the tears and questions, I’d be following up with them to get Kat’s dental records to help verify the body’s identity, a task I dreaded.

  I’d discovered that the bulk of private investigation revolved around the tedium of legwork, with an occasional adrenalin rush when you finally got to connect all the dots. That’s how I got my rocks off. Then there was the human factor, the painfully emotional realization that you’re dealing with people’s lives and losses, not just names, numbers, and statistics. I pretty much sucked at that part.

  A wail cut through the conversation. I stood up, telling Tempest to stay put while I peered through the rectangular glass window that looked into the door of the conference room. I saw a woman whose hope had been shattered. The same hope had haunted and taunted me for years: that I would one day get my family back, that what was lost would be found. It had taken a decade for me to realize hope was a cruel farce.

  The day of my rude awakening hadn’t faded over time. That dark night remained an eidetic image in my mind—the hard and heavy weight crushing my chest, filling my entire being with a dull, throbbing ache. I had thought I was dying at the time. Wasn’t I too young for a heart attack? I nearly begged my foster home roommate to call 9-1-1, until I realized I wouldn’t mind dying right then and there. As a forlorn teenager with no promising future, death felt preferable to me than the perpetual self-hate and loneliness I suffered.

  But I didn’t die. Instead I received something far worse than death. A realization that my family was never coming back for me, they didn’t give a crap about me, I was utterly alone. Forever.

  Helen’s face crumpled into that same sadness I felt all those years ago. The finality of Kat’s death like a knife in the gut. Closure wasn’t always a relief. Sometimes benign false hope was better.

  I stepped away from the window, unable to stomach watching Helen’s pain on display as her face fell into her hands, her palms soaked in her tears, Cody’s arm rubbing comforting circles on her back. I wondered if the tragedy would bring them back together. Sometimes things worked out that way.

  I needed a drink. Preferably something harder than water, but that would do for now. As I walked to the water cooler, the conference room door opened, and Tristan stepped out. Our eyes met, and he headed straight for me.

  “Hey, how are they taking the news?” I asked.

  “Helen’s a mess, but she seemed relieved that Kat isn’t suffering anymore.” Then Tristan leaned in conspiratorially. “Though I think Cody knows more than he’s saying.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “He wasn’t surprised, or emotional. I mean, yeah, he’s a guy and he might have come to terms with the likelihood of his daughter’s death for a while now, but his reaction isn’t ... normal. This was his favorite child. They had a special bond. I would expect at least anger—any kind of emotion. I’ve done this enough times—too many—that I sense when something is off. Especially when it’s a parent losing a child.”

  “You think he’s behind it?”

  He shrugged. Sighed wearily, as if burdened by the weight of truth. “What do I think? I think he already knew Scott did it and killed him. They’re sweeping the cabin for DNA and fingerprints, so hopefully if Cody was there something will turn up.”

  “What about Jackson Jones? That would mean it’s not the same killer ... right?”

  “I dunno. I need to look into it more. I, meaning me. Not you. Got it?”

  “You know I’m gonna do what I’m gonna do, right? I didn’t come this far just to sit on the sidelines watching everyone else.”

  “Okay, I agree,” he said, pulling me into a hug. “You earned it. You found Kat, gave her family peace of mind. Maybe I’ve been a little too hard on you. Just ... promise me you’ll stay out of trouble. I’m only asking because I care about you, and I’m scared to death something might ... happen to you.”

  “Is it because you luuuurve me?” I teased, playfully poking his ribs.

  “Lurve is an awfully strong word, but maybe something like that.” He briskly kissed me on the forehead and turned back toward the conference room.

  “My, my, detective!” With my hand I feigned waving a fan at my face, using my best Gone with the Wind Southern drawl. “In the office of all places? You naughty boy!”

  Glancing back as he walked away, he pointed his finger at me. “Ari, I mean it. Don’t do anything crazy!”

  Then the lyrics of an oldie but a goodie by Harold Melvin & the Blue Note started dancing through my brain, and made their way to my lips. “If you don’t know me by now,” I crooned off-key, until Tristan’s stink-eye made me shut the hell up.

  Chapter 30

  Two months ago ...

  Most days Cody Brannigan liked his job. It offered the distraction he needed from the pain that had chewed at his heart day after day for the past twenty-one months and fourteen days. He liked fixing the employees’ computers when a hard drive crashed, or installing new software when an update came through. The pay wasn’t great—the Department of Social Services always got the leftovers from the government’s budget, and every year it seemed like they made more cuts—but the benefits and paid time off made up for it.

  Cody long ago lost faith that the government—like many cynical Americans, he used the term as a pejorative for what he saw as an unchecked leviathan feeding on its own excesses—attached any importance to the growing needs of the poor, the underprivileged, the marginalized. Unwed single mothers. Children born into poverty. Foster children. And the list grew on and on of those who applied for their services. While the numbers of the needy grew, the dollars allotted them shrunk. A vicious cycle that siphoned any chance of betterment for a hopeless minority of Americans.

  Sitting at his desk, the past hour empty and quiet, he wondered why he hadn’t taken the day off. While it’d been weeks since Scott Guffrey was found dea
d, the cops were still buzzing around, this morning pulling Cody in for questioning ... again. Unusual circumstances in that neighborhood for a man to be stabbed to death in his own living room. Cody chided himself; he should have called in sick, distanced himself from the office gossip about him as he walked in late after his police interview—hell, it was an interrogation, pure and simple. He had grown weary of the whole thing, from the media circus that still permeated every news outlet, Facebook page, office, and street corner. The perpetual drama was draining, a raw reminder of what happened to Kat.

  His eyes shone with fresh tears, the taste of salt filling his mouth. He needed a phone call to answer, an email to reply to, a computer to fix. Anything to empty his crowded thoughts. That was his favorite part of working here—always something to do. Except for today, when he really needed it. The mundanity of the nine-to-five grind gave him something to look forward to each morning. Anything was better than the empty space in his bed where Kat used to curl up next to him in the dead of night; in the morning he’d turn over to find her eyes closed but lips grinning. While she pretended to be asleep, he’d pretend not to see her as he rolled over on her until she’d puddle into a fit of giggles and squeals. These were the fondest memories, the daily ones that he missed so much. The ones that had become part of his everyday existence. These moments made him who he was.

  Who was he without her? For the past twenty-one months and fourteen days he had become no one. An automaton that was good at his job. But it was no kind of life, and he didn’t try to fool himself otherwise.

  He had survived his own child. He couldn’t move on, no matter how hard he tried. The newest victim was Tempest, the other daughter, like she was a shadow of what he lost, an apparition of Kat, there but not really. His weekend visits with Tempest hadn’t been enough to fill the void. He’d never connected with her like he did Kat, not in the fun way. Kat was his firstborn, a daddy’s girl who hung on his every word, lived to please him with her silly jokes, goofy expressions, and playful antics. A jokester, like him. An out-and-out tomboy. Yet the depth of her compassion, her understanding of the world, revealed itself when she would wrap her small arms around his neck, her bright eyes evoking an understanding of the harsh realities of life as she’d remind him, “Daddy, someday life will get better.”