Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
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
A piercing scream cut through the air-conditioned halls . . .
This was getting old. There was enough screaming going on at Fernglen this morning to make me think I’d wandered into a haunted house attraction or teen slasher flick by mistake. Why did a gecko or garter snake elicit so much fear? Maybe, I decided, because it was out of context in a mall, unexpected. If you were gardening or hiking through a state forest, you’d be half-thinking you might see a lizard or snake, so it wouldn’t startle you as much. At the mall, the scariest thing you expected to see was the total on your credit card receipt.
Following the continued screeching, I hooked a sharp left into the Dillard’s wing. A young woman with a stroller stood halfway down the hall, arm outstretched and finger pointed rigidly at Diamanté’s display window. Her mouth opened wide as she screamed, the sound changing to a gasping attempt at words when she saw me approaching. “It’s . . . it’s . . . it’s . . .” she huffed.
“It’s nothing to be afraid of, ma’am,” I said in my most comforting voice. A peek into the stroller showed me an infant in head-to-toe pink, sleeping through her mommy’s hysteria. “It’s harmless. Just a—” I swiveled to look in the window, hoping to be able to say, “just an iguana,” or “just a corn snake.”
But it wasn’t a corn snake or an iguana or even Agatha. It wasn’t a reptile at all. It was a man. A naked man. A completely naked, completely dead man.
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DIE BUYING
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / August 2011
Copyright © 2011 by Laura DiSilverio.
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For all wounded warriors,
in thanks for your service and sacrifices
Acknowledgments
I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Mr. Ed Beane, director of security at Chapel Hills Mall, and his deputy, Robert Bullard, for cluing me in on what real mall cops do. Any errors in this book—procedural, operational, or otherwise—are mine, and attributable to the needs of the plot or my lack of understanding.
I also want to thank my good friend Lester Sharpless for giving me a tutorial on roller derby, a sport I’d want to try if I didn’t know my aging bones and joints would make me very, very sorry.
As usual, thanks to the women who critique my writing efforts: Joan Hankins, Marie Layton, Amy Tracy, and Lin Poyer. Thanks also to my agent, Paige Wheeler, and her team at Folio Literary Management, and my editor, Michelle Vega, and all the folks at Berkley Prime Crime, especially my energetic and enthusiastic publicist, Kaitlyn Kennedy, and Ben Perini and Rita Frangie, who created this book’s gorgeous cover.
My writing would not be possible, satisfying, or fun without the love and support of my beloved husband and daughters, and a host of friends full of goodwill and encouragement. Special thanks to Jill Gaebler, Cindy Stauffer, Retha Bosley (the source of Anders Helland’s name), Katie Smith, Hans VonMilla, Patrick Butler, Fred and Ellen Gortler, Tim and Christy Mulligan, and Linda Major, who have gone out of their way to convince their friends, librarians, and local booksellers that my books are worth reading. I am truly blessed by your friendship.
One
It amazed me how a few hundred feet of tile floors and narrow halls amplified a scream.
With the Fernglen Galleria empty of shoppers at this early hour, the terror-stricken wail ricocheted off the tiles, so I couldn’t quite tell where it was coming from. The fear in the sound got to me, though, and I pivoted my Segway, the two-wheeled electric vehicle I used to patrol miles of mall corridors and parking areas, and zoomed past the fountain, the frozen escalator by the food court, and a wing of stores with their grilles down.
“Ai-yi-yi!” came the screech again.
I turned down the narrow hall that led to the restrooms. Fernando Guzman, a member of the mall’s maintenance staff, danced wildly around his wheeled gray trash can, flailing a mop this way and that. He looked like a demented warlock performing an incantation around an outsized rubber cauldron. He caught sight of me.
“EJ! Por Díos! Get it off me.”
It was then I spotted the dragon on his head. Bearded dragon, that is. An Australian lizard. I only knew that because Kiefer, owner of the mall’s reptile store, Herpetology Hut, made a point of instructing me about a different critter every time I stopped to check up on things. This bearded dragon was only about eight inches long. Gazing at me incuriously from unblinking black eyes set into a triangular head, it seemed remarkably unperturbed by Fernando’s gyrations.
I got off my Segway and approached Fernando, making calming motions with my hands. “Chill, Fernando. Just hold still.”
He stopped doing his impression of a broken windmill in a hurricane and stood almost still, shaking slightly. �
��Is it poisonous?” His eyes widened until white showed all the way around his brown irises.
“No.” At least, if it was, Kiefer hadn’t mentioned it. The thought made me hesitate for a second, and I tucked my hair behind my ear in a nervous gesture I’d had since childhood. I reached one hand toward the lizard.
Fernando, anxious to help, stooped down. The reptile, finding itself eye to beady eye with me, hissed and puffed out the spiny ruff under its chin. Aah, so that’s why they called it a “bearded” dragon. Its fierceness gave me pause. Maybe I should call for backup, get someone to fetch Kiefer. But, no, he probably wasn’t even at the store yet.
“Get it, EJ,” Fernando pleaded.
It’s a lizard, I admonished myself, not a camel spider. The dinner-plate-sized arachnids had creeped me out in Iraq. Just grab the damn thing. My hand flashed out and closed around the reptile. Its skin felt rough on my palm. Trying to be gentle, I lifted it away from Fernando’s head, keeping a firm grip despite its wiggly attempts to free itself. It tangled its little claws in Fernando’s thick, black hair, making him wince as I pulled it free.
“Gracías, gracías! Thank you,” Fernando said fervently, straightening. He backed up a couple steps and eyed the lizard warily.
“I live to serve,” I said wryly. “How’d this guy get on your head, anyway?” The lizard had gone still in my hand, its tail draped up my arm.
“I bend to pick up some trash, here.” Fernando pointed to a spot under the fire extinguisher. “Next thing I know, that . . . that monster leap on my cabeza.” He raked his fingers through his hair, as if trying to eradicate the feel of the lizard’s feet on his scalp.
I brought the lizard closer to my face and stroked its back gingerly with one finger. It was kind of cute in a scaly, reptilian sort of way. “How’d you end up here, dragon? Don’t you belong in a nice, secure cage at the Herpes Hut, eating insects or dandelion leaves or Purina Lizard Chow?”
The dragon hissed.
Leaving Fernando to continue his duties, I held the lizard against my chest with one hand while trying to steer the Segway with the other. I reflected that in my thirteen months as a member of the Fernglen Galleria Security Force, I’d never dealt with an animal incident. Lost kids, drug deals, shoplifting, vandalism, car theft—yes. Escaped reptiles—no. The work might not give me the adrenaline rush that patrolling the streets of Kabul or Baghdad with my military unit had, but it was still police work, of a sort, and I couldn’t expect much better with a knee and lower leg mangled by shrapnel from an IED blast. The lizard nudged between the buttons of my crisp white uniform shirt, recalling my attention. I jumped and the Segway veered.
“Off-limits, buddy,” I said, pulling Mr. Nosy back as his claws snagged on my bra’s lace trim. I straightened out the Segway as I came around the corner into the Macy’s wing where the Herpes Hut was located. Kiefer Jones ran toward me, dreadlocks flopping against his shoulders with every step. He wore a plaid flannel shirt unbuttoned over a red “My Snake Has A Reptile Dysfunction” tee shirt and jeans. His twenty-something face wore a scowl.
“EJ! You are not going to believe what’s happened. I—”
“Looking for this guy?” I forestalled him by holding out the bearded dragon, who hadn’t seemed to mind traveling by Segway.
“Dartagnan! Where’d you find him?” Kiefer accepted the lizard from me, and it scurried up his arm to perch on his shoulder.
“Fernando found him by the men’s room.”
“We’ve got to find the others.” His dark eyes flicked to either side, as if hoping to spot . . . what?
“What others?” I asked, an ominous feeling growing within me.
“Look.” Kiefer turned, flannel shirt flapping, and hurried into the Herpes Hut.
The shop looked much as always: glass terrariums lined the walls, pet food and bedding and whatnot occupied shelves running up the middle of the store, and a short counter supported a cash register about midway back. A musty wet smell hung in the air, a scent I knew came from the turtle habitats. On the surface, everything looked normal, but something didn’t seem right. As I turned in a two-hundred-seventy-degree arc, I realized what was missing. No rasp of scales across rocks, or slither of heavy bodies through leaves on terrarium floors, or skritch of lizard claws on glass. The only sound was a faint humming from the fluorescent bulbs. I looked into the terrarium closest to me. No inmate. And none in the enclosures above it or on either side. My gaze met Kiefer’s.
“Gone,” he said bitterly. “Every single one, except the turtles. Whoever did it left this.” He thrust a sheet of paper at me.
Brows arching into my bangs, I took it by one corner, careful not to smudge any possible fingerprints, although Kiefer had probably ruined them already. I read the hand-printed note. “We have liberated our opressed reptile brothers (and sisters). Sincerely, Lovers of Animal Freedom.” LOAF? There was an animal rescue group that called itself LOAF?
First things first: “How many?” I asked Kiefer.
Rotating his head from side to side so his neck cracked, he said, “Twenty-one lizards, two tortoises, and fifteen snakes, including Agatha.”
“Agatha?” I said with dismay.
He nodded grimly.
Great. The last thing the mall needed was a fifteen-foot python surprising customers in dressing rooms or contesting right-of-way in the food court. Agatha wasn’t for sale; she was more a mascot who drew customers into the store. Kiefer had owned her for years, and I could tell by the way he shifted from foot to foot that he was worried about her.
“Anything poisonous?”
“EJ!” He looked offended.
“I had to ask.” I keyed the radio and told Joel to let the other security officers know to be on the lookout for reptiles of various shapes and sizes. The Fernglen Galleria Security Force doesn’t have a permanent dispatcher; one officer is assigned that duty for the day and handles the radio and any phone calls that come in. Today it was Joel Rooney.
“Come again?” Joel said incredulously, his South Carolina drawl wringing three syllables from each word.
“Reptiles,” I repeated. “Lizards and turtles and snakes, oh my! There’s been a mass escape at the Herpetology Hut.”
I heard Joel relay the news to whoever else was in the office, and a babble of voices sounded from my radio. I sighed. The phrase “get my gun from my truck” came clearly above the chatter, and I quickly added, “None of the reptiles is poisonous—”
“Agatha just ate last week,” Kiefer interjected, scrunching his face anxiously.
“—or dangerous.”
Kiefer’s look of relief made up for what might have been a white lie.
“Call Animal Control, too,” I suggested to Joel.
“Wilco.”
I turned to Kiefer. “Any idea who might have done this?” I asked, strolling past the empty terrariums lining the store’s east side. It was kind of sad not to see anything scurrying around, no beady eyes staring back. I was by no means a reptile-o-phile, but I could see why people kept them as pets. “Anyone in here the last two weeks who struck you as a bit ‘off’?”
“Jesus, EJ,” Kiefer said, “this is a mall. The place is filled with strange people.” I gave him a look and he hastened to add, “But I know what you mean. There was a couple in here last Friday—a boy and a girl, maybe eighteen, nineteen—who stuck around for the better part of an hour. They just walked up and down the aisles, looking at stuff.”
“Why’d they stand out?” We had made our way to the rear of the store, and I inspected the back door, the one leading to the utility hall that ran behind the shops, as Kiefer thought. Splintered wood around the lock told me an unsophisticated bandit—someone with a crowbar rather than lock picks—had gained access this way. I snapped a couple of shots with the digital camera I kept on my utility belt.
Kiefer shrugged. “I’m not sure. They wore those camouflaged things”—his hands brushed up and down in front of his torso—“but a lot of the kids do that.”
His brow wrinkled. “I guess it was the way they didn’t talk to each other. Just walked around, looking serious. No ‘Oh, look how cute,’ or ‘I bet that one’s poisonous.’ Just . . . nothing.”
I straightened from my study of the door. Dartagnan had used a dreadlock like a ladder to climb atop Kiefer’s head and was staring me down with an “I’m king of the mountain” haughtiness. Maybe he thought he’d get more lizard chow now that all his cousins had vamoosed.
After jotting down Kiefer’s info, I slipped my notebook back in my pocket. “Okay. Give a holler if you think of anything else or if you see those two around. If I were you, I’d call up some buddies who aren’t afraid of your merchandise and go reptile hunting. You’ve got”—I checked my watch—“fifty-one minutes until opening. After that . . .”
“Thanks, EJ,” Kiefer said. “I’m on it.”
Outside the Herpes Hut, I mounted the Segway and made my way to the office, waving at a few geriatric mall walkers as I sped past. Fernglen, like many malls, opened early for walkers to get in their laps before customers arrived. I debated telling them to keep an eye out for stray reptiles, but decided that might start the kind of panic the mall’s management would just as soon avoid. I don’t know why, but some people don’t want snakes to be part of their shopping experience.
Fernglen Galleria sat just outside Vernonville, Virginia, halfway between D.C. and Richmond, about five miles west of I-95. It’s laid out in a big X, with the food court located on the ground floor where the four wings come together. Department stores—Macy’s, Dillard’s, Nordstrom, and Sears—anchored each wing, and kiosks selling everything from sunglasses to calendars to skin potions sprouted in the middle of the wide halls like mushrooms after rain. Lots of glass in the roof gave the mall a light, airy feel and encouraged the luxuriant hostas and ferns and other greenery planted in huge stone boxes that inspired the mall’s name. I couldn’t help but think the junglelike growths might attract some of the escapees. I peered into the planters as I passed, but didn’t spot anything with scales.
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