The Reveal: A Detectives Seagate and Miner Mystery (Book 6)

by Mike Markel

  The Reveal

  A Detectives Seagate and Miner Mystery

  Book 6

  Mike Markel

  The Reveal: A Detectives Seagate and Miner Mystery

  Copyright © 2015 by Mike Markel

  All rights reserved. No portion of this novel may be duplicated, transmitted, or stored in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and locations are fictitious or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or people is coincidental.

  The Detectives Seagate and Miner Mystery series:

  Big Sick Heart (Book 1)

  Deviations (Book 2)

  The Broken Saint (Book 3)

  Three-Ways (Book 4)

  Fractures (Book 5)

  The Reveal (Book 6)

  Visit Mike Markel at MikeMarkel.com

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  About the Author

  The Detectives Seagate and Miner Mystery Series

  Prologue

  He sat in his car, a hundred yards from her house, thinking about what had happened. For the past four days now, that was all he had thought about. What she had done. At first, it had made him furious, but by the second day the fury had cooled into determination and begun to assume a shape. He had molded that shape, kneading it, pressing and forming it, and now he was ready to act.

  Nobody would notice his car parked among all the others on her quiet street in the original residential neighborhood in Rawlings, Montana. The houses were old—fifty years, even a hundred—two stories set on narrow lots separated by fences. Running alongside the fences were driveways of broken concrete or pea gravel or tire ruts on grass leading to one-car detached garages in the back.

  He cracked the window to let out the cigarette smoke. One leg tapping rapidly, he was oblivious to the sweet aroma of the turned soil from the gardens that edged the front porches up and down the block. In the purple twilight of a mild late April evening, he did not notice the white, pink, and yellow petals of the daffodils, chrysanthemums, peonies, and tulips all around him.

  Here on Harkins Street, there were no light poles. Porch lights on the close-set houses, some only ten or fifteen feet apart, provided ample illumination. He glanced at the house sitting back from the curb to his right. On one side of the large spruce tree in the front yard was a metal swing set; on the other, a trampoline with netting around it to keep the kids from tumbling out. He looked up at the second story. It was dark; the kids must be asleep. An indistinct yellow glow came from the side of the house, near the rear on the main floor. He guessed it was the kitchen. That would be the parents sitting at the table, exhausted after getting the kids to bed. They wouldn’t hear anything.

  He looked down the street toward her house. The last car had left more than fifteen minutes ago. He pulled his phone from his jacket pocket to check the time: 10:03 pm. He lowered his window halfway and flicked his cigarette out, watching it bounce once and then roll a few inches and come to rest on the pavement, the grey smoke snaking into the night air and then disappearing.

  He got out of the car and closed the door softly. The lock didn’t catch. He leaned his hip into the door and it clicked almost silently. For a moment he stood there, looking up and down the block and listening. A pickup truck approached. As the driver saw him and steered out into the middle of the street to give him room, he turned back toward his car, as if he had forgotten something on the front seat.

  After the pickup rumbled past, he looked and listened again. He picked out the tiny scratching sounds of two squirrels chasing each other around the base of an oak tree in a yard across the street. He heard the rustling of new leaves on a quaking aspen twenty yards in front of him on the narrow strip of grass between the street and the sidewalk. But he saw no one and heard nothing to cause him any concern. He was alone on the street.

  He walked around the front of his car, his finger tracing a line in the fine layer of dust on the warm hood; then he crossed the grass strip and stood on the sidewalk. His hands in his pockets and his head bowed slightly, he walked toward her place. A gentle breeze carried the sound of recorded music from the top floor of a boxy, ugly tan-brick house. In the next house, blue and red lights from a widescreen flickered across a front room.

  He stopped, her house now just across the street. Although the eight or ten cars that had been parked in her driveway and along the curb were gone, the house was still lit brightly on both floors. He looked around one more time but saw no one. He stepped between two parked cars, crossed the street, and approached her waist-high wooden fence. He pushed the gate open, the spring creaking softly. He followed the flagstone path, then climbed the five concrete steps to the painted wooden porch.

  He opened the dented white aluminum storm door and stepped up to the window in the navy blue wooden door. He peered inside, then glanced over his shoulder once more. Seeing no one on the street, he tried the knob. He smiled, relieved to find it unlocked. He opened the front door slowly, stepped into the house, and gently closed the door behind him.

  He stood on a worn oval-shaped braided wool rug, the blue, green, yellow, and red braids faded with time and use. He closed his eyes and breathed in the air, still moist from all the students, still heavy with the scents of their sweet lotions and perfumes and the cheeses, dips, coffee, and wines.

  He opened his eyes. Before him was the wide staircase, made of sturdy, dark wood ornately turned. The balusters were polished, but the handrail was dull, the surface scratched and nicked. His eyes followed the worn stairs to the second floor, which was lit by a single bulb in the hallway.

  He glanced to his left, into the living room. The inside wall was dominated by a wide brick fireplace, painted white but stained grey above the firebox by decades of smoke. The room was crammed with mismatched furniture: sofas, loveseats, armchairs, and cherry dining-room chairs. Side tables, hassocks, and metal TV trays were scattered about, all of them covered with glasses, cups, china dishes, and plates.

  To his right was the dining room, with a cut-glass chandelier from another era and a heavy, dark dining table with thick legs. At the far end of the dining room was the doorway to the kitchen. He heard the sound of running water.

  He walked into the dining room, over the old carpet with floral patterns and ragged fringes around the four sides, past the large table. He paused in the entrywa
y to the kitchen, glanced behind him, and listened. He was confident they were the only two in the house.

  She was washing dishes, her back to him. Her hair was wavy, grey mixed with brown. She wore a grey wool blazer over a red turtleneck knit top. Her jeans were black, her socks red. She wore no shoes.

  She did not hear him.

  When he stepped onto the old linoleum in the kitchen, it creaked, startling her. She turned to face him, her eyes wide.

  It took him a moment to realize that she was weeping. She turned off the faucet and faced him again. “You scared me.” She wiped at her eyes with a finger. “What are you doing here?”

  He did not respond.

  She gathered herself and stood up straight, her posture defiant. “What do you want?”

  His voice was soft and unforced. “To give you one more chance to fix this.”

  She raised her chin. “And if I don’t?”

  He held her gaze. “What you did was wrong.”

  She shrugged, becoming more comfortable in a familiar role. “Wrong?” She almost smiled. “That wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “I don’t think you realize what is happening here.”

  She tilted her head slightly. “Tell me what is happening here.” Her jaw was high. “Explain it to me.”

  His expression was solemn. “We’re way past that now.” He paused. “I explained it all before. No more talking. It’s time for you to make it right.”

  She shifted her weight and asked again. “And if I don’t?”

  “Then I have no choice.”

  “You always have a choice. You could, for example, take responsibility for your actions. You could move on.” She shook her head, as if arguing with him were futile. “But I imagine that isn’t your style. That would be a foreign concept to someone like you.”

  He advanced a few steps. She stepped back until she bumped into the counter, which was covered with dirty dishes and glasses. Her eyes fixed on his, she moved her right hand tentatively across the countertop. Her fingers wrapped around the black wooden handle of a long bread knife.

  When he saw the blade coming at him, his left hand came up quickly. Grabbing her wrist, he stopped her tentative thrust. He twisted her wrist, pulling her trunk and head downward. She cried out and the knife fell to the floor.

  “You shouldn’t have done that.” His voice was threatening now.

  “You’re going to kill me? Over this?” She lost her composure and began to weep again, out of control.

  He maintained his grip on her wrist, then twisted it sharply. She cried out once more, her upper body bowed over.

  “You didn’t get back to me,” he said.

  Through the pain and the fear, her speech was high-pitched and halting. “You know … very well why I didn’t.”

  He tightened his grip again and twisted her wrist once more. Something in the wrist gave way.

  She screamed in pain. “Do it, then.”

  “Last chance,” he said.

  “Fuck you.”

  As he twisted her wrist again to draw her arm behind her and spin her around to face the counter, her left hand came up quickly and she scratched his neck. He flinched, more in surprise and indignation than in pain. He drew his right hand up to his neck and inspected it for blood, but the scratches were too shallow. He drew the hand back and hit her hard across the side of her face. She recoiled, her body sending glasses and plates crashing onto the linoleum. Then she fell forward and sank to the floor.

  Still conscious, she reached out, grabbing at his leg, but her hands had no strength. He pulled his leg back, breaking her grip easily. He bent down and lifted her, her legs swinging weakly in the air. Gathering her up, encircling her arms, he hoisted her onto his hip and carried her out of the kitchen and into the dining room.

  She tried to kick him, but her legs bumped harmlessly against the dark table. He stood in the foyer, looking up the staircase. He shifted her body, her legs still swinging but slower now, and tightened his grip on her waist. He stepped onto the staircase.

  He heard her breathing, faint and shallow, as he climbed the stairs. She didn’t scream but moaned softly as he paused briefly on each of the thirteen steps. Finally, his breathing labored, he stood on the pale green carpet in the hallway. He lowered her to the floor and looked at her, but her eyes, half-shut, did not focus on him.

  He looked down the staircase toward the foyer and the front door, then reached down and picked her up again from her waist. He tried to get her to stand but her knees buckled. He took a deep breath, gathering his strength. Reaching under her armpits from behind her, he pulled her up to her full height, her toes barely touching the carpet. He adjusted her position so that she was centered over the broad staircase.

  He grunted as he pushed her off the landing. When her face first hit a step, he heard a single cry of pain, but then she made no more sounds, except for the rumbling and slapping as her limbs and her head thumped against each of the steps. She came to rest with her face and shoulders on the braided rug in the foyer.

  He walked down the steps, careful not to touch the handrail or the wall. He stepped over her legs, which extended up to the fourth step. Lifting her blazer, he saw her chest rise and fall softly beneath her red turtleneck and smelled the faint aroma of fresh perspiration.

  He picked her up again by the waist. It was easier this time because now her limbs did not move at all. Once again he carried her up the thirteen steps and lifted her to her full height. Her head was slumped forward, her chin on her chest, her arms and legs limp. Once more he thrust her out over the staircase. Her head hit the steps with a muffled thud and she tumbled down. This time, her body came to rest on the staircase. She looked like she was swimming down the stairs, her right arm dangling over a step, her left arm behind her, by her hip.

  Again he walked down the staircase, stepping carefully around the body. Standing on the braided rug, he placed two fingers on her neck. There was no pulse. He waited another moment, studying her red turtleneck, which now did not move. He lowered himself to one knee and placed his ear to her mouth. He felt no breath.

  He stood up straight and walked to the front door. Using his jacket to turn the knob, he opened the wooden door, then shouldered the screen door, which had not clicked shut when he entered the house three minutes ago. He wiped the doorknob with his jacket as he secured the wooden door, then pushed the screen door shut, the air hissing as it escaped from the pitted aluminum closer. He rubbed at the push knob with his jacket, then turned and descended the five concrete steps. He followed the flagstone path, opened the gate, and walked down the block toward his car, his hands in his pockets and his head slightly bowed. He heard no unusual noises and saw no one.

  Chapter 1

  The protocol is, since the day shift starts at 8:00 am, and since it should take us an hour to wake up, scrape off the night crud, and roll in to work, anything that happens 7:00 am or later we get the call. The night shift is still officially on duty, but if you send them out at 7:00, they’re so ragged they’re going to try real hard to wrap things up by 7:30—even if the wrapping ends up a little sloppy—so they can get back to headquarters by 7:45 and make it out to the parking lot before 8:01.

  So I wasn’t surprised that my buzzing phone showed 7:02. The call was from Rawlings Police Department. I wasn’t happy, of course. Just not surprised.

  I cleared some of the crap out of my throat. “Seagate.”

  “Good morning, Detective. This is Mary.”

  I think I was supposed to say good morning to Mary, maybe ask her how she was. But at 7:02 in the morning, I was blanking on who she was. “Yeah.”

  “We have a suspicious death.”

  “Yeah?”

  “At 411 Harkins. A forty-something white female. Lying at the bottom of her staircase.”

  I cleared my throat again and started to come out of my fog. I’m a forty-something white female lying on my bed. It takes me a little time. “Did you say homicide?”

 
“No, I said suspicious.”

  Suspicious isn’t an official cause of death. There are only six official ones—natural, accident, suicide, homicide, undetermined, and pending—and only one person gets to call it: the medical examiner. But suspicious is as good as any other word. Cops use it all the time. It means the first officer on scene was surprised she was dead because he didn’t see any bullet holes or a knife sticking out of her or a suicide note in her hand.

  If the victim had been real old or sick-looking, it would have gone straight to the EMTs and an autopsy. But an apparently healthy forty-something year-old corpse stays put until the detectives and the medical examiner look her over. If we see signs of struggle or a crime—or really anything that doesn’t look right—then we open a case file and crank up the machine.

  “Did you call Ryan?” That’s my partner: Ryan Miner.

  “Yeah, and Harold, too.” That’s the medical examiner: Harold Breen.

  “Okay. I’ll be there in twenty. You said 411 Harkins?”

  “That’s right.”

  After a quick shower, I ran a comb through my wet hair. These days I leave the steam on the mirror so I don’t have to be reminded of the increasingly puffy grey bags beneath my bloodshot eyes. I threw on my cop-casual outfit of dark slacks and light blouse, grabbed a granola bar, and headed out to my carport. I didn’t bother with coffee. New cases come with their own caffeine.

  It took me less than ten minutes to make it to Harkins, a main street in the neighborhood called the North End. That’s an area about six blocks square, mixed commercial and residential. It’s the only neighborhood in town where nobody complains if you paint your house pink and purple, let the grass grow knee-high, and run an aromatherapy business for dogs on the street level. There’s a tea house, a shoe-repair shop, a store selling used paperbacks for fifty cents, and a place that carries only crafts and trinkets made by poor people in Africa. The sign out front says all the profits go directly to the people who made the stuff, but in the ten years it’s been open, I’ve never seen the two parking spaces out front even half-full.