“I suppose that’s all in your definition of ‘watch out for.’”
She laughed, deep and throaty. “You’re funny. Anyway, I wanted to introduce myself. If you need anything, call me. I only live a few houses down, so I can be right over.”
“Perfect.” At least Mr. Sears had stayed out of my business. I wasn’t sure I could say the same for this woman. People who had enthusiasm and energy to spare usually spent that enthusiasm and energy on other people. At least in my experience they did. Some people used it for good—by volunteering. Others used it for aggravating—by stirring up trouble.
I thought Rose was going to walk away, but she continued to talk. “I’ve already met Bill downstairs. No one else seems to be home.”
I nodded. “Sierra downstairs is on her honeymoon, and Riley across the hall is probably at work. Mrs. Mystery—she lives in the attic apartment—sometimes doesn’t come out or answer her door for days at a time.”
“I see. It sounds like you’re all a close knit little community here. I totally dig that.”
I nodded. “Close knit. That’s us.” We were all as different as night and day, but we’d almost become like family. We watched each other’s backs. Together, we could all make a really sappy music video to the song “Lean On Me.” We’d been there and done that.
“I want to have a big cookout for all of you tomorrow. Please say you’re available. Six o’clock outside on the lawn. I’m providing all of the food.”
I wanted to object, to tell her I had too much work to do. But the woman put her hands together under the chin in an “oh please” motion and looked at me with wide eyes. Finally, I nodded. “I’ll be there.”
She raised her index finger and pinky in the air in a rocker’s symbol. “Rock on! I’ll see you then.” She slipped a business card into my hand. “Here’s my contact information in case you need me for anything. I aim to please!”
I watched as she practically skipped down the steps and out the front door, turning before she left to wave goodbye. The woman would certainly add some life around here. I’d give her that.
Maybe God was telling me that I needed more perky people in my life. Between Clarice and Rose, that would certainly seem to be the case.
I trudged down the steps, holding my coffee with one hand, and my Pop Tart with the other. In vain, I tried to pull my Pop Tart wrapper off with my teeth. That’s when I heard another door open. It had to be Bill McCormick, the radio talk show host who lived downstairs.
Sure enough, he stepped out, his bald head shiny and his stomach robust. His eyes, though . . . they looked different as he looked up the stairs at me. They looked brighter. “Did you meet her?”
I gave up on the Pop Tart and dropped it into my purse. “Did I meet who?”
“Our new landlady. She’s a real looker, isn’t she?” He wagged his eyebrows up and down.
“A real looker? I suppose.” I noticed that Bill’s face was almost glowing. And I’d never seen his face glowing. Usually, it was lit red with fury as he talked about either politics or his ex-wife.
“She told you about the cookout?”
“Sure did.” I didn’t really want to go into a long conversation about this. I had a lot of work to do, but I wanted to be a team player and the residents of this apartment were the closest things I had to a team. Well, the residents here and the members of my church. I’d known the residents here for longer, though.
He nodded and grinned. “I think my luck is changing.”
“Have you been unlucky?”
“You didn’t hear about my show?”
I stopped, my curiosity sufficiently pricked. “What about it?”
His lips suddenly pulled downward. “If my ratings aren’t boosted, the station is dropping me.”
My mouth gaped open. “They can’t do that. You’re their number one guy. You have been for years.”
“That’s what I thought! But ever since I had that little slip up a few weeks ago where I called that state senator,” he paused and tugged his collar, “well, something I shouldn’t have called him, sponsors have been dropping my show.”
“Ouch.” I couldn’t begin to imagine what had come out of his mouth. Once Bill got going, there was no stopping him, and no thought was left unspoken.
There was a lot to be said for remaining quiet and appearing wise. What was that Bible verse? Even a fool is thought wise if he keeps silent, and discerning if he holds his tongue.
I’d been in Bill’s position before, unfortunately. My impulsiveness and brashness did get the best of me sometimes.
Only once in a while, for that matter.
Okay, quite often.
“It’s like I said. I think my luck is turning around.” He nodded and grinned, a far off look in his eyes. “It’s turning around.” He waved at me and disappeared back inside his apartment.
Well, good for him. I hoped good things did come his way. He’d certainly been miserable for long enough. Of course, if he wasn’t so angry all the time, ratings for his show might really drop.
I didn’t have time to worry about it. I had to worry about cleaning this next crime scene and getting paid. This homeowner was using their insurance, which meant it would take forever for me to collect my compensation. It meant I’d have to haggle with the adjustor, who seemed to always have all the time in the world. But I’d take whatever jobs I could get. After all, I had student loans to pay.
I stopped cold when I saw my van.
Clarice leaned against it, a bright smile on her face. She waved enthusiastically, an energy drink in her hands and Converse on her feet. She was already wearing her trendy, oversized glasses, which seemed unexpected from someone as prissy as Clarice.
I wanted to run the other way or pretend like I didn’t see her. I couldn’t do either. Instead, I plastered on a smile and walked toward my van.
“Hello, Clarice.”
“You almost sound like that guy from The Silence of the Lambs. Isn’t that crazy? Hello, Clarice,” she imitated before laughing. “That’s so psycho.”
Great, I was starting to sound like Hannibal Lector. This was what my life had come to. Next, I’d be talking about fava beans.
“So psycho,” I repeated. I pulled my purse higher and sucked in a long, deep breath as I gathered my thoughts. “So, you’re here. And you’re wearing designer jeans again, I see.”
“You didn’t think one crime scene was going to scare me off, did you?” She tilted her head a moment before tugging at the leg of her jeans. “And these are last year’s designer jeans, so I figured they’d be okay.”
“How’d you know what time I was leaving? I didn’t think we’d discussed that.”
“I’ve been here since 7. Auntie Sharon said you like to start early. I didn’t want to bother you in your apartment, though, so I just decided to wait outside. No one’s going to say I’m a bad employee this time. Nope. That’s not happening again. I’m getting all gold stars with this job-a-roo.”
Perfect, I thought to myself. I wasn’t getting rid of her, was I? I forced another smile and nodded toward my van. “Let’s go, then.”
Sharon. I wished I believed in voodoo. I might buy a doll with pink hair and a nose ring if I did. Of course, I was a Christian now, and as a Christian I was constantly reminded of both my need for forgiveness and my need to forgive. Sometimes it felt like I’d be struggling with those concepts for the rest of my life.
We started down the road. I tried to turn up the radio and listen to “Welcome to My Nightmare” by Alice Cooper. Instead, Clarice was talking about the crime scene yesterday and her sorority sisters. I tuned her out and tried to concentrate on driving.
“Oh my gosh! Did you see that?” Clarice screeched.
I nearly slammed on brakes. I looked for a lost dog about to wander aimlessly in front of my van. A woman being mugged. A nude man playing guitar on the street corner.
I saw nothing but a busy highway snaking through town, crammed with the gridlock of morning ru
sh hour traffic.
“See what?” I was trying not to seethe. Really. I was.
“On that sign post back there? How could you have missed it? It was a flyer for Zombie Fest. Zombie Fest!” Her pitch rose with each word.
I bit back a sharp retort and tapped my fingers against the steering wheel. “Zombie Fest?”
“That sounds like the bomb. I can’t wait to tell my friends.” She held out her arms, limp at the wrists, and crossed her eyes. “Zombies. I’m a zombie. Brains!”
Oh my goodness. How was I going to survive a whole day of this? By the end of our first job, I’d be begging for a zombie to come and eat my brains.
She grabbed my arm and nearly had me jumping out of my skin. “You’re totally going to go, aren’t you, Gabby?”
Certainly she wasn’t asking me if I was going to . . . “Zombie Fest?”
“It’s this Friday. You’ve got to do it! Everyone who’s anyone will be there.”
I wasn’t quite so sure her words were true. “Zombie Fest doesn’t sound like much fun.”
“It’s zombies, for goodness sake! What’s not fun about that? Except maybe monkey ninjas.” She paused and turned her head sharply toward me. “You’re not too old for it, are you?”
“Too old?” I wasn’t even thirty yet. “Of course not.”
“You’re acting too old.”
Too old? Some kind of survival instinct ignited within me. I was not some old stick in the mud. No way. I was young. Hip. With it. “I’d love to go to Zombie Fest. It would be the highlight of my week. Maybe my month. When I said it didn’t sound like much fun, I meant it didn’t sound like much fun—it sounded like the bomb-diggity of fun.”
She grinned. “See! Auntie Sharon was right when she said I’d get along great with you. We’re totally on the same wavelength.”
Oh, please. Never. Ever. Shoot me.
I kept driving, wondering what I’d just gotten myself into. Clarice talked about it for the rest of the ride until we pulled up to our crime scene. The place was a small little bungalow located in an older but well kept area of Norfolk called Larchmont. Some larger homes here backed up to the water, but many were moderately sized. This house was painted olive green with white shutters and immaculate flowerbeds.
I cut the engine and prepped Clarice a moment. “There was a shooting inside. I’m fairly certain it was a drug deal gone badly. I’ll spackle the wall where the bullets got lodged, scrub down everything, remove anything that would remind the family of the crime.”
“Got it.”
I met a man on the porch. He wasn’t the same person who’d been here when I came out to give my estimate on Saturday. He had a curly gray beard, oversized glasses, and wore a trucker hat. His skin was pale and wrinkled, and he had an over abundance of ear hair.
“Thanks for coming,” he mumbled, tugging at his hat.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” I meant it. I never wanted to become immune to death’s sting or the life-altering impact it had on the lives of the deceased’s loved ones.
He nodded solemnly. “We all are. If you could make it look like this never happened, we’d sure be appreciative.”
“I’ll do my best,” I told him.
He unlocked the door for me before walking to his car and making me promise to lock up after I left. I hauled out my equipment, including an industrial vacuum, an air scrub, and lots of cleaning products. We drug it all inside and paused for a moment.
I almost always paused first thing when I arrived at the scene. Maybe it was my subconscious way of paying respect to the dead. Every life, no matter whatever series of events that defined it, deserved a moment of honor. If God had created all of us, then it only seemed fitting to mourn the passing of one of His creations.
My cell phone rang. I glanced down and saw Riley’s number. Hopefully he was calling to tell me that Milton Jones had been located and taken back into custody. At least I could breathe a little easier if that was the case, no matter how paranoid that might sound. I’d intended on watching the news this morning, but my pressing work schedule had won over the TV.
I hit TALK. “Hey, Riley. What’s up?”
He got right to the point, not mincing any words. “A woman has been snatched here in Norfolk.”
Okay, that wasn’t the normal greeting I was expecting from Riley. “What?”
“It’s on the news. A woman was snatched from her bedroom in Norfolk last night.”
“That’s horrible, but why did you call to tell me that?” Riley wasn’t one to be random, so I knew he had a point. I had a feeling I knew what that point was, but I wanted to hear him say it, lest I sound paranoid.
“It’s got Milton Jones’ M.O. all over it, Gabby.”
I leaned against the wall and lowered my voice so Clarice wouldn’t hear. “It’s ridiculous to think he’s in this area, Riley. Are the police sure the woman didn’t just disappear?”
“He left a photo there.”
My blood got a little colder. “What kind of photo?”
“It was a snapshot of the woman taken at a Tides’ baseball game.” The Tides were our minor league here in Norfolk. “She had no idea it was taken. Her eyes had Xs over them.”
I shivered. That was Milton Jones’ signature calling card. I shoved aside my emotions for a moment. “How do you know the police in Norfolk found the photo? Are they actually saying it on the news?”
“No, Detective Adams called me a few minutes ago. He knew I was prosecutor on the Milton Jones case, and he wanted to talk to me about some details.”
My throat burned as I swallowed. “I see. It has to just be a terrible coincidence or a copycat. Jones can’t make it across the country without being caught, especially not in two days.” I was going to keep telling myself that, at least. It made sense to me.
“You’d be surprised what that man can do. Promise me you’ll be careful? Keep your eyes open?”
“Of course.” I was always careful and kept my eyes open. Even then, I’d almost been killed several times.
“I love you, Gabby.”
“I love you, too, Riley.” My hands still trembled as I put my phone away and slipped into my Hazmat suit.
“Everything okay? You look like a ghost . . .” Clarice raised her arms and crossed her eyes again. “Or, should I say, a zombie?”
“Yeah, everything’s fine.” I didn’t want to discuss this with Clarice, of all people. I nodded toward a room down the hall. “Let’s get scrubbing.”
“Aren’t you going to spray the place with that chemical again?”
I scoffed. “Why would I do that?”
“Maybe someone left another message for you.”
“They didn’t leave a message for me. They left it for the police.”
“Then why did that officer say the message had been left after the crime scene unit had already been through?” She crossed her arms and stared at me.
“Good question.” I’d thought about that myself.
“Maybe someone wanted you to discover it.”
“Nice theory, but it doesn’t work. I don’t usually spray Luminol,” I admitted. “Yesterday was just kind of a . . . test. An initiation for the new girl, you could say.”
“I get that. But was there any other way you might discover that message?”
“It was just a fluke. There’s no way anyone could have known I was going to do that. I hadn’t done it before. I won’t do it again.”
“Maybe someone knew you ordered the Lysol . . . inol.”
“Luminol.” I shook my head. “I really think that you’re overthinking this. Let’s suit up.”
“So how’d you become a crime scene cleaner anyway?” Clarice asked as she pulled on her Hazmat suit.
“It’s a long story. I went to school to study forensics, but I had to drop out. I was looking for something to keep me connected to the crime scenes and give me more experience. You know, something I could use later on. I heard about crime scene cleaning and decided to give it a sho
t.”
“What is it that’s kept you in this job instead of doing something else?”
I shrugged. “Various reasons, I guess. The job market isn’t great right now.”
“You, like, worked for the medical examiner for a while, right?”
I nodded. “Budget cuts happened, though, so I’m back to doing this. It’s not that bad. I get to help people.”
“And you’ve helped to solve some crimes, right? That’s what Auntie Sharon said.”
I nodded, snapping on my gloves. “I’ve got a few under my belt. It’s been a mixture of following the evidence, following my gut, and not giving up.”
Clarice smiled. “That’s perfect.”
I paused. “What do you mean?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I just mean that you have a great story. Really. You do.”
I pushed the door to the bedroom open and gasped. I backed out of the room, my heart drumming against my chest. Someone hadn’t bothered to try and wash away his message this time.
“What is it?” Clarice asked, her eyes wide and frightened.
The image wouldn’t escape from my mind. The blood. Dripping. Slashed across the walls. “It’s another message.”
“What does it say?”
I closed my eyes. “Three, Four. I’m hungry for more. Gabby St. Claire, are you ready for the gore?”
CHAPTER 5
Detective Adams stared me down. We’d worked together several times before. Okay, well maybe “working together” was a slight stretch. In the past, we’d had encounters stemming from the fact that I’d been nosy. Like clockwork, Detective Adams had always shown up just in time to tell me to back off and let the police handle things.
Our professional relationship had progressed to the point where he’d helped me get the job at the Medical Examiner’s Office. In many ways, he had grown to become one of my biggest supporters. He knew I was competent and that I lived to see justice served.
“No one knew I was coming here except the homeowner,” I told him.
“Someone knew you were going to be here.”
The Scum of All Fears: Squeaky Clean Mysteries, Book 5 Page 3
