Buried Secrets_A dark Romantic Suspense

by Vella Day

  If the dead man in his lab was the owner, the neighbors might be able to describe Creighton, or better yet, provide him with a photo. Not that he had a face to match it to, but the man’s coloring and size would help establish if the body might belong to him.

  It took him three tries to find a neighbor at home. The woman who answered his knock was slightly out of breath. She was in her late twenties and wore Spandex mid-calf pants and a low-cut top. Her not so neat blonde ponytail together with the slight sweat on her forehead implied he’d interrupted her workout. He flashed his HOPEFAL badge, hoping the woman wouldn’t scrutinize his ID too carefully. To most, a badge meant authority.

  She dabbed a fluffy white towel down her chest, her long red nails extended, acting as if she didn’t want to mess them up. “The police have already been here.” His ploy seemed to have worked, or she didn’t care who he was.

  “I know, ma’am, but I wanted to see if you could give me a description of Creighton Jackson.”

  She looked at him for a moment before motioning him inside. Her immaculate, upscale house looked professionally decorated, almost as perfectly put together as she was.

  “Can I offer you something to drink?” Her smile was suggestive, as if the wedding ring on her hand didn’t matter much.

  “No, thanks. This isn’t a social call.”

  “Oh, too bad. I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Dr. Sam Bonita.”

  “A doctor? Ooooh.” She closed the gap between them and held out her hand. “I’m Sheila Gradkowski.”

  Leaving entered his mind, but he needed the information. “Mrs. Gradkowski. Creighton Jackson. What did he look like?”

  “Creighton?” She sucked in a big breath and clasped a hand over her mouth. “I heard they found a dead guy on his boat. It wasn’t Creighton was it?”

  “I’m not sure, ma’am. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Dear God.” She glanced up to the left, and then back at Sam. “Let me see. He was nice looking, but he could stand to lose a little weight around the middle.” She pointed a finger at his midsection. “He wasn’t fit like you.”

  Sam held his frustration in check. “What else?”

  “Well, he had sandy blond hair, fair skin, and lots of freckles.” She waved a hand. “I kept warning him about being in the sun without sunscreen, but did he listen? No.” A slow smile materialized on her face as she studied Sam from head to toe like a snake to its prey.

  “How old would you say he was?” he asked.

  “Old. Mid fifties. I only know because he was counting the days until Social Security, not that he needed the money. The guy was loaded, but there was something about free money that appealed to him.”

  “Do you know if he went to University of Florida?”

  “Oh, my yes. He was a mega Gator fan. He and my husband both graduated from there, though Creighton graduated eons before Jeff.” Her face looked horrified, as if Sam would think she’d married someone other than a young, handsome stud.

  “Can you tell me how tall he was?”

  She tapped her pink manicured finger on her bottom lip. “Maybe two or three inches shorter than you.”

  Estimating the man’s height from the length of his torso put Sam’s guess at five eleven. His gut churned. Creighton Jackson would never return his call. “Did he have any distinguishing marks on his body?” He wanted to see if she knew about the tattoo on the victim’s hip before showing her the photo.

  Her cheeriness disappeared. “How would I know? I never slept with him if that’s what you’re implying. That would be Deidra Willow’s job.”

  “Where can I find this Deidra?” He hoped this new woman would be a safe topic.

  Sheila calmed down somewhat. “She runs Botanica in Ybor. It’s on 22nd Avenue.”

  He entered the information in his cell phone. “One last question. Did Creighton have any relatives in town?”

  A loud engine rumbled up her driveway. Sheila raced to the front window, peered out and let out a gasp. “Crapola. It’s my husband. You have to get out of here.” She acted as if her husband would beat her if he found another man in the house.

  “No problem.”

  Sam was halfway to the front door when she yanked on his arm. “No. Go out the back, so he doesn’t see you.”

  From the look of panic on her face, he didn’t have time to ask why. Since Sam had parked a few doors down, the husband wouldn’t guess anyone was inside his house. He saw no reason to upset that apple cart. He’d grown up in a home of domestic turmoil and didn’t need to cause Sheila any more grief, so he slipped out the back, happy to inhale the fresh salt air and be on his way.

  Next stop, Ybor City, to visit the strange sounding store—and hopefully to locate Deidra Willows. The trip there took no more than fifteen minutes. At six thirty, few people walked the streets. From what he’d heard, the bar scene didn’t heat up until nine or so. The couple of times he’d ventured here for dinner, the mostly Cuban cuisine had been great, but the rowdy crowd had been too noisy for his tastes.

  Dusk had settled over the tops of the buildings, casting a shimmering gold layer over the hundred-year old brick buildings. Christmas lights were strung across the street from ornate lamp to ornate lamp, giving the neighborhood a festive look.

  Sam turned onto 22nd Avenue and spotted Botanica two blocks from the main drag. There were plenty of metered parking places in front of the store. Raised a Catholic, he’d never had a reason to visit an occult store before.

  Determined to find out if Creighton was the man in his lab, he stepped through the entrance and almost laughed when a weird, ghoulish sounding bell announced his arrival. A combination of mustiness, incense, and something he couldn’t put his finger on permeated the air. Given how the place was crammed full of merchandise and small knickknacks, he figured the dust quotient would break the air quality meter.

  Two teenager girls were browsing the back of the store and a forty-something year old woman was leafing through a book. A pretty pixie, keeping sentinel over the cash register, looked bored. She glanced up, and it was as if she’d shot out a tractor beam right at his chest, ready to reel him in.

  4

  Sam checked out the girl at the counter even though he had no plans to take her up on her open invitation. The studded collar and tattoo on her arm was not his style, but she deserved to express herself however she chose.

  His mission was to speak with Deidra Willows, not get a date. Given Creighton Jackson was in his fifties, Sam figured the cashier most likely wasn’t Jackson’s lover, nor did she look old enough to own the store. He stepped toward the counter to ask for the owner and realized the girl appeared closer to thirty than twenty, which put her a few years younger than him. It didn’t matter. He’d had enough of women on the prowl for one day.

  “Hi. I’m looking for Deidra Willows.”

  She leaned over the counter giving him quite a view. “Are you sure I can’t help you?”

  He chuckled. “Positive.”

  She straightened and popped the gum in her mouth. “Deidra’s in the back. I’ll get her.”

  Interesting place. While he waited for the owner, he slid over to a table that drew his attention. Several jars were jammed to the brim with bones, and he fingered through them. They weren’t human, but he wasn’t sure which breed of dog they belonged to. Most were bleached white, meaning the owner had more than likely purchased the bones over the Internet.

  “You need to speak with me?”

  Sam turned to find a rather homely woman, forty-five to fifty, smooth brow line, wide set eyes and equally wide mouth. Her jaw was a little small for her face, but that didn’t take away from the woman’s presence.

  He held out his hand. “I’m Dr. Sam Bonita with the Henry Pomerantz Center for Forensic Science.” He shortened the name. The real title was a mouthful.

  “Yes?” She didn’t even blink, as if she knew of the place.

  “Could we speak somewhere in private?”

&
nbsp; “What’s this about?” The woman didn’t seem to care if the clerk or customers overheard what he had to say.

  “I’m here about Creighton Jackson.”

  Her body stiffened, but her face didn’t twitch a muscle. “What about Creighton?”

  The use of the first name meant she knew him rather well. The two teenager girls giggled and sidled up to the check out counter. The clerk chatted with them, but he blocked out the conversation, needing to word his statement correctly. “One of his neighbors said you and he knew each other… rather well. I was hoping you’d have a photo of him.”

  No concern crossed her face. “Not at the store, but at home, I might. Why would you want a picture of Creighton?”

  She didn’t seem to connect the dots between the forensic science lab and death, nor did she seem aware of the body found on his boat despite the news stations blasting the story ever few hours. “Did you know if he had a tattoo on his hip?”

  She frowned. His change in topic seemed to distract her for a moment. “Yes. He had one on his hip in the shape of an anchor. Why?”

  Damn. Though the body in the lab was in all probability Creighton Jackson, he wasn’t happy about it. He wished he could leave the tell-the-girlfriend to the police, but once she thought about the conversation and realized Creighton was dead, she’d be devastated and would need some answers.

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you, but the police found a man in the bottom of Creighton’s boat who had an anchor tattoo on his hip.”

  She said nothing for a moment, her eyes searching the air. “Are you telling me Creighton’s dead?” Her voice came out raw.

  “We believe so. Once I find a relative and obtain a DNA sample, I can make a positive identification.” No need to mention the man’s head was missing, making a photo ID near impossible.

  She shook her head several times as if she wished hard enough, what he’d told her would turn out to be false. “I can’t believe it. Are you sure? Creighton goes to Colorado this time of year. You must be mistaken.”

  Surely, she couldn’t believe that two people had anchor tattoos on their hips, both of whom were friends. “Apparently, he never made it there. Did you receive a call from him after he arrived in Colorado?”

  “No. I haven’t spoken to him in a while. We weren’t seeing each other any more.” Maybe that explained why her breakdown wasn’t as emotional as he’d anticipated. When Sam had found his wife bludgeoned to death, he’d sobbed for days.

  She leaned back, almost as if she was about to fall. Sam reached out his hand to steady her, but she caught herself on the table. “If you’ll excuse me.” Without asking any more questions, she spun around and disappeared down a dark hallway. He bet she’d be calling the police as soon as the news registered. For now, he’d wait, ready for her questions to surface. Shock had a way of short-circuiting reason.

  He moved away from the table with the bones toward the front door in order to notify Phil in private. He kept his voice as low as possible.

  “Are you sure it’s Creighton Jackson?” Phil’s comment came out crisp and tight.

  The last of the current customers whooshed by him, and he waited until the door closed. “Strong chance it is. Maybe that cop, Giombetti, can get something of Jackson’s to test the DNA.”

  “I can give him a call.”

  “Thanks.”

  Sam stuffed his cell in his top pocket and pretended to study the other artifacts on the table. The cashier rushed over to him. “Did I hear you right? Did you say a friend of Deidra’s is dead?” Her brow creased and her mouth pinched.

  “It’s possible.”

  She stepped back and raised a brow. “Are you a cop or something?”

  “I work at a forensic lab.”

  “Oh.” Her nose notched up. “How did he die?” A question Deidra should have asked.

  “I’m not sure. Even if I knew, I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you. It’s confidential.”

  She blew another bubble. “I get it.” He could almost see the wheels in her mind spin.

  “Have you ever met Mr. Jackson?”

  “Me? No, but I only started working here three weeks ago.”

  “So you probably have no idea if Mr. Jackson had any relatives in town.” A long shot, but worth a try.

  “Nope. Would you like me to ask my boss?”

  “That would be helpful. Thanks.”

  “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.” Her smile was as pretty as a spic and span room.

  Hips swaying, she glided toward the office and disappeared around the corner. While he waited, he checked out the scent section in the store, though he wasn’t sure why he found the strange fragrances so appealing. Maybe it was because he’d spent the last few years surrounded by the stench of decomposing bodies.

  “Dallas Brockton. He’s Creighton’s son.”

  Sam whipped around at the sound of the cashier’s voice. Gone was the cute, flirty girl. Instead, she appeared more focused and direct.

  Because they had different last names, he might be a stepson.

  She handed him a slip of paper. “That’s what Deidra said. Here’s his number.” She stood so close she had to crane her neck to look up at him. “I’m Jenna Richman by the way.”

  He waited another second to see where her little game was headed, but when she kept silent, he dipped his head and lowered his voice. “Thanks again for you help.”

  She ran a hand over her spiked hair. “You from around here?”

  He recognized the pickup line, but decided he’d play along for the fun of it. God knows he could use the levity. “I live north of here.”

  She caught her bottom lip with her teeth in a provocative way that almost made him question whether he should take her up on her offer. He shouldn’t—couldn’t. He had a job to do. Besides, it would certainly look bad if he failed to provide Phil with an answer on Sam’s first big case.

  “So what do you do at this lab? Dissect bodies or something?” Her tone implied she wanted to dissect him.

  “I’m a forensic anthropologist.” He hoped she wouldn’t make any suggestive bone(r) jokes like so many of his female students used to.

  “For real?”

  An unexpected laugh escaped. “For real.” He hadn’t anticipated finding anything about her attractive, yet she intrigued him.

  Jenna’s light brown eyes morphed into the color of deep, rich coffee. She stepped back and let out a breath then edged over to a large storage bin that resided near the front of the store. After removing the cover, she pulled out a femur. “Is this human?”

  Sam lifted the bone from her grasp and inspected it, acting as much like a professor as he could. “Yes. It’s a human thigh.”

  She leaned in and sniffed the bone. “It doesn’t smell. Do you think it’s real?”

  The only detectable aroma he noticed was her fruity perfume—a mixture of lemons and peaches. His wife always wore strong scents, and he was surprised he liked the lighter aroma. Answer her question. He juggled the bone to determine its weight, and then studied the epiphysis, which was at the end of the bone. “I’m afraid not. It’s a very good replication though. This is definitely plastic.”

  “Oh.”

  Two customers, a woman and who he guessed was her daughter, wandered in. He cleared his throat. “I better let you get back to work.”

  She glanced over at them. “They can wait.”

  The woman eyed them with a scowl, and he raised his brows at Jenna. “Don’t lose your job on my account.”

  As if he’d told her the place was on fire, her eyes widened and her body stiffened. She spun around and raced up to them. That wasn’t the reaction he’d expected, but then, he didn’t understand much of what women did.

  It was time to get back to work anyway. Since Deidra didn’t seem to be in need of answers, and Jenna was involved in conversation with her new customers, he left. Instead of heading back to the lab though, he sat in his car and dialed the number Jenna had handed him. He woul
d have gone to Creighton’s son’s place and spoken to him in person, but he didn’t have an address. He disconnected after two rings. How insensitive could he get? What if the body wasn’t Creighton Jackson’s? Sam needed a positive ID before giving the son such horrible news over the phone. He speed dialed Carla Pendowski—the technological wonder woman of HOPEFAL. While those computer geeks on TV seemed to be able to break into any and every computer across the county, Carla wasn’t far behind.

  “What’s up, Doc,” she answered.

  “Funny.” He liked Carla, even though she too wasn’t his type. She wore her grandmother’s vintage dresses, had an IQ at least twice his own, and loved hard rock music. A relationship like that would never work—not to mention she celebrated her twenty-third birthday only two months ago. A thirteen-year age difference was too much for him to grasp. “I have a job for you.”

  “My fingers are at your disposal.”

  The image of Jenna’s fingers being at his disposal quickly came to mind, but he pushed aside the erotic thought. His first order of business was to make a positive ID on the body in the lab, not wonder what would have happened if he’d asked for Jenna’s number.

  “Doc, you there?”

  Christ. His mind hadn’t wondered like that in forever. “Yeah. I need to see if you can find an address for a Dallas Brockton, son of Creighton Jackson.” He gave her the man’s cell phone number.

  He could hear the keys typing. “Got it. What are you going to give me for the address?” Carla loved playing games.

  “How about a Starbuck’s Mocha Latte?”

  “Done.” She gave him the information. He rarely remembered to buy her the drink, but she didn’t seem to care. It was the challenge that mattered to her.

  Jenna closed the book she’d been reading for the past half hour and rubbed her temples. The incense seemed particularly intense tonight, or maybe the impending migraine came because once Sam Bonita left, no one of any interest had stopped in. Thursday nights at the shop were the worst. At least the tourists on Friday and Saturday made her job more interesting.