by Mary Burton
Dr. Henson frowned. “So we can assume the bones were positioned very late yesterday or early this morning.”
“Arranged like Lincoln Logs.”
She cocked a brow. “Only you could equate bones to a child’s toy, Detective Kier. Jung would have a field day with your childhood.”
Unfazed, Malcolm held her gaze. “The childhood was normal. But I wasn’t a normal kid.”
“Who was?” Garrison said. “Sane people don’t stare at bones at one a.m.”
Dr. Henson nodded, seeing the greater truth behind the words. “So they weren’t exposed to the elements?”
“Not here,” Malcolm said.
“Interesting.” She glanced into the bag and picked up the skull. “Your victim is female.”
Malcolm’s interest peaked. “How can you tell?”
“The narrow brow line and the high cheekbones are both characteristics consistent with a female. I’d also guess that she was Caucasian and around thirty.”
He scribbled down what she’d just said. “Because why?”
Dr. Henson traced her finger down the center of the skull. “Narrow nasal passage is consistent with the Cau-casoid race, and see these lines in the top of the skull?”
“Right.”
“That doesn’t happen until mid-twenties.”
“Really?”
“Bones will tell you a story if you know how to read them.” Carefully, she replaced the skull in the bag. “The bones aren’t brittle or old as a body long dead would be.”
“Any guess on time of death?”
She raised a trim brow, and for the first time he saw amusement dance in her eyes. “Sorry, that will take a little more work.”
“Worth a try.”
“I would suggest you contact Missing Persons and ask them to search for Caucasian women between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five.”
Malcolm unclipped his cell phone from the holster on his hip. “Doc, they were first on my call list.”
Chapter 2
Wednesday, October 5, 6:01 A.M.
Missing Persons had four possible Jane Does that could have matched Malcolm’s victim. The first two were hookers, the third a drug addict, and the fourth an actress. Malcolm tried to contact the people who’d issued the reports on the hookers and drug addict, but no one answered the numbers provided in the report. Not surprising. Hookers and drug addicts lived on the fringe, and associations and friendships were tentative at best. It also made them easy prey for killers.
Last on his list was the actress. Sierra Day. The man who’d called in the report, Terry Burgess, was the manager of the West End Theater, and he was also directing Sierra’s latest play.
When he dialed Burgess’s number, he was surprised to hear an alert, if not angry, “What!”
“This is Detective Malcolm Kier with Alexandria Police.”
“Okay.” His tone bordered on brittle.
Malcolm’s hackles rose, but he kept his voice even. “I’m calling about a missing persons report you filed.”
“Right.Yeah. Sure. Sierra Day. Did you find her?”
“That’s what I’d like to talk to you about. Can we meet?”
“It’s really not a good time. I’m at the theater and up to my ass in work. We open in nine days.”
“We need to meet now.” His steely tone was the verbal equivalent to him baring teeth.
“Sure. I’m at the theater.” Burgess sighed and gave the address.
Malcolm jotted the address down, hung up his phone, and glanced at Garrison. “Another charming citizen who believes he’s doing us a favor.”
“Let it roll off your back, man.”
“Easier said than done.”
Garrison shrugged. He gave good advice, but they both knew he also took the job too personally at times.
“According to Burgess’s missing persons report, Sierra Day, the lead actress in his upcoming play The Taming of the Shrew, failed to show up for play practice.”
“When was that?”
“Ten days ago. When she missed an important photo call, Burgess called the cops.”
“She’s been missing a week and a half? The bones had no traces of flesh. With the cool weather a body wouldn’t decompose that fast. Doesn’t seem to fit.”
“No, but she’s our only lead now.”
By the time Malcolm and Garrison arrived at the West End Theater in Old Town it was just after six-thirty in the morning. They’d woven down side streets skirting the morning commuter traffic that clogged the Washington Beltway.
Parking in Old Town Alexandria, the historic section of the city, was challenging at midday but just after dawn fairly easy. The cobblestone streets and centuries-old town houses housed trendy shops, restaurants, and museums that were a magnet for tourists who streamed into the area.
At this hour the historic district remained asleep except for a few coffee shops that catered to the locals working in the area’s service industries, hotels, and diners.
Garrison pulled down a side street and parked right in front of the old brick building that was home to the West End Theater. Located on a corner, the theater building was freestanding. A wrought-iron fence bordered a backyard featuring a simple stone stage surrounded by seats made of the same stone, reminiscent of an old Greek theater. In the summertime the trees would be lush and full, the grass green, and the random planters filled with brightly colored flowers. But now fall had stripped the trees, leaving their branches nearly barren and the ground covered with brown leaves.
Malcolm glanced at the laptop computer screen mounted between their seats in the front of their Crown Vic. “According to the theater’s website they’ve been here since 1934.” He shook his head as he stared at the building. “I’ve passed this place enough times but never stopped. Olivia has been after me to attend a play with her, but I keep dodging.”
“Can’t say I’m a theater person, either. Mom and my sister dragged me to a play a couple of months ago. I dozed off.”
“They catch you?”
“My sister Carrie did, but she didn’t narc to Mom.” Carrie, adopted by Garrison’s parents from foster care when she was five was now fifteen. She was a precocious child whose brown eyes reflected the losses she’d suffered. As Garrison liked to say, she was fifteen going on fifty.
“Not much gets past teenagers. Or kindergarten teachers.”
“Olivia bust you for something?”
He shrugged. “She dropped the M word right before I went out of town. I knew the steaks and homemade bread were too good to be true.”
“She wants to get married.”
“Yeah. But she did say that I don’t have to marry her right now. She’s just looking for some kind of timetable.”
Garrison looked amused. “A deadline.”
“She likes to have all the facts.”
“So what did you say?”
Malcolm opened his car door and got out. “I kept smiling and saying how great the food tasted and how great she is.” Why he couldn’t just say yes worried him. Good or bad, he made his decisions quickly and with no regrets. Except this time.
Garrison followed and closed his door. “You’ve been seeing a lot of her. She seems to fit your profile.”
“Profile?”
“Pretty. Great cook. Easygoing. Wants kids.”
“I like her. She’s easy to be around.”
“So do I hear wedding bells?”
Malcolm slammed his car door and locked it. “I should be asking you that question. You and Eva have had a thing for well over a year.”
“Hey man, Eva and I are opposites. Draw charts and grids to analyze us, and you’d figure us for failures.”
“And yet you keep seeing each other.”
Garrison shook his head. “The woman drives me crazy.”
“That good or bad?”
“Both. We got into it at King’s last night.” Eva worked at King’s as a waitress/bartender and office manager. At twenty-eight, she’d just started
her junior year in college. She made no attempt to hide the fact that she’d first entered college at seventeen but a decade in prison for a murder she’d not committed had delayed her education. The real killer had been caught, Eva’s conviction had been overturned last year, and she rarely looked back. Fiercely independent, she didn’t shy away from conflict and had an IQ that was off the charts.
“She’s still volunteering at that halfway house for ex-cons?”
“Yeah.” Garrison shook his head. “Damn dangerous. They had a knifing there last week.”
“Eva in the middle of it?”
“Oh, she broke it up. I only found out about it yesterday. The uniform that had been on scene told me.” The darkening of Garrison’s gaze testified to his frustrations.
“Eva’s a little too fearless.”
“Must run in the family.” Eva’s older sister was Angie Carlson, Esquire. Defense attorney. Brilliant, hardworking, and tenacious, many in the department called her “The Barracuda.” Malcolm had only crossed swords with her a few times, and the encounters confirmed she would do whatever it took to defend her client.
“They are as different as night and day,” Garrison said.
“Maybe in looks, but under the skin … there’s no mistaking the genetic link.”
Garrison frowned. None of the cops in the area were fond of Carlson’s tenacity. “You trying to piss me off?”
“Stay out of my love life, and I’ll stay out of yours.”
“Agreed.”
They strode up to the theater’s double red front doors. Brass knockers, tarnished by weather and neglect, hung in the center of each. To the right of the door was a list of the upcoming season’s plays, which was to kick off next week with The Taming of the Shrew. Spring brought two plays unfamiliar to him: a comedy, Noises Off, and the drama Terra Nova. A Christmas Carol was their December production.
“According to the theater’s website, the place used to be a warehouse when the city was a thriving port. The building was about to be condemned when a bunch of rich ladies bought the place in the thirties and founded the theater. It was their way of creating jobs and entertainment during the depression.”
Garrison pounded on the front door. “Well, let’s see what we can find out about Sierra Day.”
Heavy footsteps sounded on the other side of the door, and seconds later it opened.
A short man with red-rimmed eyes, a neatly trimmed beard, and wire-rimmed glasses glared up at them. He wore jeans, a Stones black T-shirt, and polished black cowboy boots. “You Kier?”
Malcolm nodded. “That’s right.You Terry Burgess?”
“Yeah.”
“This is my partner, Detective Deacon Garrison. Thanks for meeting with us.”
“Didn’t sound like I had a choice.” Burgess stepped aside so that they could enter the building.
The hallway was lined with hundreds of framed photos taken during countless plays. An overhead bulb didn’t spit out enough light to fully illuminate the hall, but Malcolm guessed that was intentional. In full light the place likely would show more age and wear. Stacked along the wall were dozens of brown boxes imprinted with the logo A&A PRINTING.
“You always get in early?” Malcolm asked.
“It’s late for me. I’ve been here for thirty-six hours straight.” Brittleness crackled in the guy’s tone.
Malcolm held on to his patience, as he remembered he was also sleep deprived. “That’s rough.”
Terry pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s been a very long night. My understudy for Sierra Day is a disaster, and at the rate she is going reviewers will hammer us when we open next week. Can we just talk about the missing persons report on Sierra?”
“You’ve already replaced her?”
“I waited two days, but I had to move forward. Too many people are working on this show, which is costing me a fortune.”
“Could she have just taken off?” Malcolm asked.
“Sierra is temperamental, a bitch, demanding, but she never misses play practice or photo calls. She’s too vain and too ambitious.”
“What about a man or drugs?” Garrison asked.
“Doubtful. I mean she’s been through her share of men. But nothing stood between her and the stage. She loved it. And she never did drugs.”
“Was she angry about something? Did you two have a fight?”
“Her last day here we got into it about the lighting. The new public relations manager commented that the lighting looked hot, and then Sierra got all worried that she’d start to sweat on stage, and her audience would see it.”
“It was a big fight?”
“We yelled. And we called each other a few choice names. But that’s how we do things. When I call her a bitch it’s only in the nicest way.”
“So she left angry,” Malcolm said. “She’s not hiding out somewhere and cooling her heels just to make you sweat?”
“She better not be. Or I just might strangle her with my own two hands.” Burgess delivered the line with enough flourish to undercut the words’ meaning. He sounded like an actor on stage.
Malcolm raised a brow. “Why’s that?”
“I chose this play for the season because she agreed to do it. Sierra was the perfect Katherine. She was made for the part, and I was hoping for great reviews. Now she’s gone.”
“Do you have a picture of Ms. Day?”
He nodded and reached into an A&A Printing box. “Just delivered. Now we’ll need to print a correction.” Inside were Playbills for The Taming of the Shrew. Burgess flipped to page three and showed them the picture of a bright-eyed blonde with a smile that would make any man stop and notice.
Malcolm didn’t know if this woman was his victim. But it sickened him to think someone so young and vibrant had been stripped of her identity.
“Have you found Sierra or not?” Terry asked.
“We’ve found a body,” Malcolm said, choosing his words carefully. “But we’ve not made an identification.”
Terry’s face paled. “You can’t compare the picture to the body?”
“Not in this case.” And without giving too many details he added, “The killer didn’t leave us much.”
Burgess looked sick. “How did she die?”
“Can’t say. Right now we are just trying to determine our victim’s identity. Sierra Day’s missing persons report matches what we know about our victim. Is there anyone who would want to hurt Sierra?”
“The better question is who didn’t.”
Malcolm raised a brow and pulled out a notebook. “Start at the top of the list.”
Terry glanced down at Malcolm’s pen poised to write on his notepad. “Hey, and when I said I could kill Sierra, I didn’t mean in the literal sense.”
“Duly noted,” Malcolm said. “Who hated Sierra?”
“Her soon-to-be ex-husband for one. His name is Brian Humphrey, and he acts in plays here from time to time. He was never as good an actor as Sierra, and I think that didn’t help their marriage. And then toss in the fact that Sierra is a bit of a whore, and well, you get my point.”
“Sierra slept around?”
“According to Brian she started an affair with another actor here two months after they got back from their honeymoon.”
Garrison raised a brow. “Two months. Who was the guy?”
“I don’t know. You’d have to ask Brian. But I can tell you that Brian was one angry dude. He came by the theater several times during rehearsal, and he and Sierra got into some knock-down, drag out fights. The last time she slapped him.”
“When was that?” Kier asked.
“Three weeks, give or take.”
“What can you tell me about Sierra?”
“She was stunning and very talented. She could slip into a role like you or I put on a coat. She had the it factor.”
“Did she know she was good?”
“Oh, yes, she did. She was a smart one. She knew she had the talent to go far. And she wasn’t afraid to do whatev
er she needed to get what she wanted.”
“Can you explain that?”
“Two years ago she was the understudy in a play. The night of opening, the lead actress, who was healthy as a horse, got sick as a dog. Threw up so much she had to be taken to the hospital for IVs. Sierra stepped into her place. The lead recovered, but it was two weeks before she could work again. By then Sierra had gotten all the opening-night reviews and notices. That gig quickly led to another bigger role. She had her sights on Broadway and Hollywood.”
“Who was the actress who got sick?” Malcolm asked.
“Zoe Morgan.”
“Where can I find her?”
“Works at the ballet now. I don’t know where she lives.” Burgess sighed. “Box-office sales were strong because of Sierra. She was a local favorite. I hate to think of the refunds we’ll have to process when word leaks out she won’t be in the play.”
“You said she had her sights on Hollywood and Broadway?”
“This was her last season with us. She planned to leave at Christmas after her surgery.”
“Surgery?”
“She was planning on getting a boob job.”
Malcolm shook his head. “She told you this?”
“Oh, yes. She was quite open about her plans. She understood the bigger the boobs the better the roles down the line. She was pushing along her divorce so that she could get her financial settlement. Needed the money for the surgical work.” He scratched the back of his head. “She was on the phone with her attorney last week, yelling for a court date.”
“Who was her attorney?” Garrison asked.
“I’ll never forget the name. I heard Sierra yell it out enough. Angie Carlson.”
Eva’s sister. The Barracuda.
Garrison stiffened.
Malcolm muttered an oath. “Figures.”
“You know the woman?” Terry prompted.
“Yeah.” Last spring she defended local plastic surgeon James Dixon, who’d been accused of attempted murder of a prostitute. Malcolm and the other cops in homicide suspected that James might be linked to the disappearance of several other prostitutes, but they’d not been able to prove it. DNA had linked him to some of the women, but at the time each had vanished, he’d had an alibi.
