The Killer You Know

by Kimberly Van Meter

  Which, she’d admit, wasn’t easy when she was tempted to “forget” the deadline for a fluff piece on the church Sunday school daycare when she really wanted to focus on something that could actually make a difference, such as the time she discovered the school district central kitchen had been using food stuffs that were past their expiration.

  Maybe the threat of a little soured milk wasn’t all that dire in the big scheme of things but Quinn liked to think that stories like that helped build her foundation for later.

  For example, if she hadn’t followed up on the expired foods, she wouldn’t have been able to put the dots together when a rash of kindergartners caught a whiff of food poisoning and ended up in the hospital after a vomit-fest had followed afternoon snack.

  The school was lucky the parents didn’t sue.

  But if they had, Quinn would’ve been right there to catch the story, which given the fact that she’d discovered the misdeed in the first place, would’ve been a huge feather in her cap.

  However, no one sued.

  The school called it an “oversight” and in response, put a new committee in place to ensure it never happened again.

  They also fired the head cook, although not because of the food situation but because it was discovered that he had been going up to Seattle on weekends to do things best left unsaid, and the district didn’t think it was prudent to keep him on staff.

  Another story that fizzled to nothing under the suffocating veil of a “confidential personnel issue.”

  And Quinn was tired of her hard work going down the tubes.

  This story was the one that was going to change everything. She could feel it in her bones.

  Nothing was going to stand in her way.

  Chapter 2

  Silas pulled into the sleepy coastal town of his birth and took a moment to adjust. A barrage of memories assailed him as he maneuvered the rental car through the tiny downtown, the storefronts nearly the same as the day he’d left, and swallowed against the continuing echo of his brother’s voice.

  The chill in the air was damp. This was the kind of weather that got stuck in your lungs and stayed there throughout the winter, as storms lashed the seas and battered the coast.

  He parked outside the sheriff’s department, choosing to go straight to the authorities before checking into his hotel.

  A lone seagull screeched and he glanced at the bird. After losing Spencer, the sound had always creeped him out.

  Silas walked over to where the dispatcher sat behind a heavy glass window and flashed his credentials.

  “Special Agent Silas Kelly here to see the sheriff about the recent Seminole Creek murder investigation.”

  The woman behind the glass gave Silas a once-over but buzzed the sheriff.

  Moments later Sheriff Lester Mankins appeared, looking older, grayer, with more lines on his face, but certainly the same guy he remembered from when he’d been a misguided teen, acting out from grief.

  He would’ve thought that Mankins would’ve retired by now.

  “As I live and breathe... Silas Kelly, the most stubborn, angry cuss that I’d ever dragged by the scruff of the neck down these halls. How are you, son?”

  And just like that he was fourteen again. Silas struggled against the pinch in his sternum and extended a hand. “Can’t complain, Sheriff. How about you? Why haven’t you retired yet? Isn’t there some fish out there with your name on it?”

  “Every damn weekend,” he joked, patting Silas heartily on the back. “C’mon back. Let’s talk in my office.”

  Silas followed Mankins and took a seat once the office door was shut behind them.

  Mankins spoke first. “I can only imagine that you’re here because of that poor girl we fished out of Seminole Creek early this morning. Bad news surely does travel fast.”

  Silas confirmed with a nod.

  Mankins sighed. “I figured. But I gotta say, seems a little out of federal jurisdiction. Tragic as it is, the case is likely just a grim statistic. Girls find themselves in bad situations and things get out of hand.”

  “Is that what you think happened?”

  The sheriff shrugged, spreading his hands. “Well, it’s how the case presents at first blush.”

  “I’d like to see the case file.”

  “Hold on, hold on, big shot. My investigating officer hasn’t even had time to put thought to paper. Have you checked into your hotel yet?” At Silas’s head shake, he said, “Well, how about you get checked in, go eat some chowder, warm up your bones and then tomorrow morning we’ll see how things look.”

  Silas hated waiting. “I’d like to pull my brother’s cold case.”

  That caused Mankins to do a double take. “Whatever for, son? Let the boy rest in peace. There’s no sense in dredging up painful memories.”

  “I can appreciate that, Sheriff. But I think the two cases might be linked.”

  “And why would you think that?” Mankins asked. “Your brother disappeared almost twenty years ago and there’s been nothing like that since. This girl has nothing in common with your little brother. Whoever did that terrible thing to Spencer...they’re long gone. I can almost guarantee it.”

  Silas didn’t believe that, no matter how many people had suggested the same theory.

  It was too random.

  Most murders were rarely random.

  “If it’s all the same...I’d like to pull the files.”

  Mankins heaved a sigh as if Silas were chasing ghosts and wasting his time but he pressed a button on his phone, saying, “Janice, can you get Hanford to go into the archive and pull all the files pertaining to Spencer Kelly? He’s likely gonna have to go to storage. I don’t think they’re still in the building.”

  “Yes, Sheriff.”

  Mankins leaned back. “Satisfied?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Look, those files aren’t going to be ready until tomorrow, either. So either way, you’re going to have to cool your jets, get settled in and try to enjoy the salty air. Does wonders for the soul.”

  Silas had no plans to wander the streets, drinking in the sights or the ambience. He was here for one purpose—to determine if this girl’s case had any connection to Spencer’s.

  “What can you tell me about the victim?”

  “It’s the damnedest thing. Good kid. Comes from a great family. Her name is Rhia Daniels, sixteen, popular, pretty. Cheerleader, academic scholar, volunteers at the animal shelter, hell, she’s the poster child for the all-American teenager. We’re running into a brick wall as to who might want to hurt the poor girl.”

  “Looks can be deceiving,” Silas murmured. “What do you know about the family?”

  “Solid. Good people. They didn’t deserve something like this.”

  How many times had he thought the very same thing when delivering bad news to grieving parents?

  No one deserved to lose a child.

  Mankins switched gears. “How’s your mama? She still in Florida?”

  “Yes, sir. Loves the sun, sand and the fact that when it rains, it’s sunny five minutes later.”

  “And your dad?”

  “He passed a few years ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. He was a good man. How about your brothers?”

  Silas knew polite conversation was expected but he had little interest in chewing the fat. He kept his answers short. “All well. Thank you.”

  “It’s a damn shame your family didn’t stay local. The Kellys are good folk.”

  Port Orion had lost its charm after Spencer died. His parents split and soon as the boys were done with school, the Kellys put Port Orion in their rearview.

  Too many memories.

  Too many unanswered questions.

  He rose. “Tha
nk you for your indulgence. I’ll try to stay on the peripheral. When is the autopsy scheduled?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ll check in afterward.”

  “I wish it were under better circumstances, but it’s good to see you again,” Mankins said. “You turned out pretty good.”

  Silas accepted the comment with a subtle nod and a definite burn in his cheeks. Sheriff Mankins had been one of the people who’d seen a kid eaten by grief and guilt instead of the little shit that everyone else thought he was.

  And now, seeing Mankins again, brought back all those feelings he’d long since put to bed.

  He’d never properly thanked Mankins for his help. But now wasn’t the time. Silas wanted to keep things professional.

  “It’s good to see you,” Silas offered by way of goodbye then saw himself out.

  He drew a deep breath once outside the station. It felt as if an elephant was sitting on his chest.

  Silas hadn’t expected to see Mankins still serving as sheriff. But hell, nothing changed in Port Orion it seemed, so why would he assume that Mankins would be retired?

  Port Orion wasn’t exactly a hotbed of crime. Aside from Spencer’s abduction and murder and now this young girl, Port Orion was the picture of tranquility.

  But what Silas had learned through his investigations with the FBI was that nothing was perfect. There was no perfect family, no perfect town.

  Everyone had secrets they didn’t want to share.

  Every place had dark shadows.

  So Silas was going to do what he hadn’t been able to do back when he was thirteen—throw some light on the shadows...and rattle some closets to see what skeletons fell out.

  Port Orion was about to have its bloomers blown up.

  * * *

  Quinn arose early, as she always did, and hustled down to Reba’s, her favorite diner, for breakfast. She had a standing order of coffee and Reba’s bestselling zucchini bread. Quinn liked to tell herself that she was getting her greens by eating zucchini bread for breakfast but deep down, she knew it was just delicious cake.

  And she was okay with that.

  She walked into the cozy diner and smiled at the waitresses, noting every familiar face that was always in the diner at this hour—Bill, Nancy, Georgia, Edwin—but her gaze skidded to a stop at one particular person who was certainly not local. Talk about tall, dark and mysterious.

  And easy on the eyes—in an intense sort of way.

  Black, austere wool coat, slicked back dark hair and an air about him that said, I’m not friendly so don’t even try, which pricked Quinn’s need to know more.

  Either he was part of the Trenchcoat Mafia or he was a Fed.

  Quinn was putting her money on a Fed.

  And what exactly was a Fed doing here in Port Orion? Well, there was one way to find out.

  She scooped up her order and went straight to his booth, sliding in on the opposite side with a smile.

  “You’re not from around here,” she said, going straight for the obvious. “So who are you?”

  He looked up and she was hit with stormy gray eyes that mirrored the skies when it was about to drop a bucket of water on the land. Her usual witty comebacks died on her tongue as she was momentarily stunned by the energy coming off him in waves.

  “You first,” he countered, holding her gaze, taking her measure as surely as she’d tried to take his.

  Remembering herself, she smiled brightly and extended a hand across the table, which he accepted briefly then released quickly. “Quinn Jackson. Reporter for the Port Orion Tribune and my Spidey-sense is telling me that you are a federal agent.”

  “Your Spidey-sense is not wrong,” he answered, though his gaze had narrowed a bit. “And to what do I owe the pleasure? Are you part of the welcoming committee?”

  “Not at all. I’m curious as to why a federal agent is in town, right when our poor town is being overrun by strangers because of the recent murder of Rhia Daniels, a pretty, little cheerleader girl, who, at first glance, was universally loved. Seems highly coincidental, right? I mean, what does the FBI care about a murder in a small town?”

  He took a slow, measured sip of his black coffee. Quinn grabbed six tiny cream buckets and dumped them into her own coffee, adding about five packets of sugar.

  She liked her coffee...less like coffee.

  “What did you say your name was?” Quinn asked, blowing on her coffee.

  “I didn’t.”

  “Ah, that would explain why I still have no clue as to who you are. Are you going to tell me or do I have to guess?”

  A brief smile lit up his mouth before he answered. “Special Agent Silas Kelly, FBI.”

  Triumph at being right sang in her voice. “See? I knew it. Now my next question...what the hell are you doing here?”

  “I used to live here.”

  “Yeah? When?”

  “My entire family was born here.”

  “Hmmm, I’ll have to verify that statement from different sources. Back to my original question...what are you doing here? It has something to do with Rhia’s death, doesn’t it?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Cryptic,” Quinn stated with a frown. “Okay, I’m going to assume that you’re here because of Rhia’s murder. So what’s so special that the FBI is getting involved? Government conspiracy? Not likely. Aliens? Probably not. Some connection to a different case? I can’t imagine. So you’ve got me stumped. Help a girl out and give me a hint.”

  “I’m not here to give interviews, Miss Jackson.”

  “What are you here for?”

  “That would be my business.”

  “So this is a personal trip, not official?”

  He hesitated and she capitalized on his minute pause. “Aha! Let me guess...you are here on semi-official business but you’re not taking over the investigation, which means you’re here on a fact-finding mission,” she finished, pleased with herself. “Tell me I’m not wrong.”

  But he couldn’t. All he would say was, “You can believe what you wish.”

  Well, this was going nowhere.

  “Let me tell you what I think... I think—” she began, fishing a little “—that Rhia Daniels was killed by someone that the FBI is interested in.”

  “Everyone is entitled to their opinion...or speculation.”

  “So you’re really not going to tell me anything, are you?” When he graced her with a sardonic expression, she said, “All right. Fine. Play it your way. I mean, we could work together and help each other out, but if you’d like to go it alone in a small town where the locals are wary of strangers...then I guess that’s your choice. But don’t come crawling to me when you get stonewalled at every turn.”

  “I’m not a stranger.”

  “Yeah, but how long has it been since you’ve been gone?”

  “Fifteen years.”

  “A lot can change in fifteen years.”

  She left him with that thought.

  And a smile.

  With any luck, that seed she’d just planted would sprout and grow wild.

  Chapter 3

  Pastor Forrest Simms was in his office when two members of his flock came in, eyes and noses red from uncontrollable weeping.

  Violet and Oliver Daniels, Rhia’s parents.

  “Pastor,” Violet started, turning to her husband and clutching at his jacket. “I can’t tell him. You do it.”

  Oliver nodded gravely and swallowed before saying, “We wanted to tell you before you heard through the grapevine... Rhia is dead.”

  Forrest felt the blood drain from his cheeks. “How?”

  “She was murdered. Someone took our Rhia away. Who could do such a thing?” Violet was seeking answers that Forrest couldn’t g
ive her.

  His gut churned as he searched for something to ease their heartache but his thoughts were crashing into each other. He leaned on platitudes to get him through. “She’s in a better place. She’s with Our Father. Take comfort in that where Rhia is, she is loved by the Almighty and knows only peace.”

  “I want her back,” Violet wailed, sobbing against her husband’s chest. “She was my baby. My miracle baby. And now she’s gone. Who would do such a terrible thing to such a sweet girl?”

  Oliver tried to hush his wife but he was barely hanging on himself. He looked to Forrest with an apology. “We’re sorry for interrupting your private time, Pastor. We just wanted to share the news personally, on account of how close you and Rhia were. She really looked to you for spiritual guidance and we will always keep you in our hearts for that.”

  Forrest nodded, his discomfort making his skin itch as if a thousand fire ants were biting him. “She was a lovely girl.”

  Violet nodded and Oliver walked with his bereft wife out of the office, leaving Forrest alone for a brief moment before Gladys, his secretary came in, her expression one of shock.

  “Rhia Daniels? Did I hear that correctly?”

  “Yes.”

  Gladys fluttered her hands like a bird trying to take flight and then pressed her hands to her chest as if she was going to faint. “What is this town coming to? The wickedness is overwhelming. I mean, just the other day I was at the grocery store and someone stole cash right out of my purse when I had my back turned. The nerve! And now a murder?” She shuddered, adding, “This brings up so many bad memories. Hasn’t this town suffered enough?”

  Forrest nodded, knowing that Gladys was referencing the death of Spencer Kelly almost twenty years ago. He and Spencer had been in the same grade. His death had been a major blow to the community.

  Then Gladys thought of something. “Oh goodness, that must be why I saw all those news vans milling around downtown. That means the restaurants are going to be full. Darn if I’m going to get a table tonight now.”

  “Gladys,” he admonished and she was immediately contrite.

  “Excuse me, Pastor. Where is my head? I don’t know what’s wrong with me. We should host a gathering so people can come and grieve for poor Rhia.”