Dead Little Darlings

by Herron, Rita

  She needed him to talk before it was too late.

  The only thing he’d admitted was that he’d been the lighthouse keeper during the timeframe when she’d witnessed that murder. Every time she questioned him, he started coughing up a lung, and they got nowhere.

  She couldn’t let the bastard die without revealing what he’d done. Then she might never know what happened to that baby.

  Sometimes she woke up with the infant’s cry in her head. It kept her awake at night. If only she’d done something . . .

  But she’d only been six. And when she told her mother, her mom had panicked and ordered her to keep her mouth shut. She was terrified that a madman might track them down and kill them, too.

  Nightmares of that happening had dogged Marilyn all her life.

  Finally she was doing something about it. If she solved this crime and found the baby, dead or alive, she might be able to banish those demons once and for all.

  The buzz of cameramen, the weathercaster, phones and voices filled the studio. She gave a quick glance at her boss’s office. Ladd Winthrop, her coworker, exited the office with a grin. Ladd was handsome, smart, detail oriented, and driven. He was also charming and popular with the women, especially the female audience, and he wanted the lead anchor position.

  So did Marilyn.

  He would definitely win the popularity vote.

  Her? Not so much. She had to win by bringing in the big story.

  She headed to her office, a small windowless, boxlike space that made her feel claustrophobic with its dim lighting.

  Another motivational factor driving her to impress her boss David Blakely. She wanted that corner office with a window overlooking Savannah’s riverfront. There she’d have light, see the sunshine. Be able to breathe.

  She dropped her computer bag and purse on her desk and was just settling into her chair when Blakely appeared.

  Pasting on her professional smile, she said good morning.

  Blakely looked down at her over the rim of his dark glasses. “I’m still waiting on that big one you promised.”

  Another twinge of nerves rippled through her stomach. “I’m working on it.”

  “Are you stalling, Ellis, or is there really a story?”

  “Of course there’s a story,” Marilyn retorted. “And it is big. But big stories take time.”

  “It had better be worth the wait,” Blakely warned.

  She nodded. “Don’t worry. It’ll top the Skull story.”

  Instead of the smile she expected, an odd expression tightened his jaw. “There’s something else we need to discuss.”

  Marilyn gritted her teeth. Surely to God, he wasn’t going to assign her to cover a school event or garden show. “What is it?”

  “Have you heard about that true crime show, Cold Cases Revisited?”

  “A new one?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.

  He adjusted his glasses. “Yes. Local. The star of the show is an FBI agent with the Cold Case division.”

  “And you’re telling me this because?”

  “Because the agent, Caroline Manson, is in Savannah. She’s investigating those skeletal remains found at Seaside Cemetery.”

  Marilyn’s lungs seized. Those bones might be connected to Eaton.

  Damn. She couldn’t let the agent break this case. This story was hers.

  And no one would get in the way.

  Ryker didn’t expect to find much in the Darling house. Over two decades had passed since the teenagers disappeared. If Mr. Darling had killed them, he’d had plenty of time to dispose of the evidence.

  Then again, if he’d been cleared early on, he might have grown complacent and left something behind.

  “Did the girls share a room?” Caroline asked.

  Mr. Darling nodded. “Yeah, they fussed about it, but I wasn’t made of money. Everyone had to make do.”

  Ryker catalogued his comment. “Mind if we take a look?”

  “I don’t know what good that’ll do,” Mr. Darling scoffed. “Police searched the place when the girls first went missing.”

  Caroline offered him a placating smile. “I’m sure they did, sir, but anything we learn about the girls might help us figure out where they were going when they left. The detective who first investigated thought they’d run away from home, but now that we know two of your daughters were murdered, we need to look deeper into classmates, your neighbors, any repairmen or workers around the house or neighborhood the weeks before the girls disappeared.”

  He pushed up from the chair with a grunt. “All right. Knock yourself out, but I doubt you find anything.”

  Because he’d gotten rid of anything incriminating years ago?

  They followed the man into a hallway, then Darling pointed to the first bedroom. “This was the girls’ room.”

  Caroline rubbed her arms as she entered the room. “Have you changed anything in here?”

  Mr. Darling shrugged. “No. The wife wouldn’t allow it. And then when she left, I didn’t have the heart.”

  “Have you heard from her since she left?” Ryker asked quietly.

  An odd look darkened the man’s face. “Not a word.”

  “Do you know how to contact her?” Caroline asked.

  Darling twisted his mouth in response. “Sure don’t. She could be dead for all I know.”

  Ryker bit back a retort. Considering that two of his daughters had been murdered, that was an odd thing to say.

  Had the police questioned the mother’s disappearance? Had she left, or had Darling killed his wife—maybe to cover up the murder of their daughters?

  “Mr. Darling, do you mind if I look around in your room?” Ryker asked.

  The man stiffened. “Yeah, I do mind. I’ve been through this before.”

  Without his permission, Ryker would have to find enough evidence to justify a warrant and come back.

  Ryker’s phone buzzed on his hip. He checked the number. His captain. “Excuse me, I have to take this.” He left Caroline to persuade the man to agree to the search as he stepped into the hallway and connected the call.

  “I’m at the Darling house,” Ryker said.

  “Let Agent Manson handle it for now,” his captain told him. “We have another case. I’m texting you an address. A man named Eaton.”

  “What happened?”

  “Found dead in his home. The first responding officer said it looks like murder.”

  Chapter Four

  Marilyn tamped down her nerves as she stepped into her office and punched Ryker’s number. She wanted to hear his comforting voice. As much as she’d tried not to fall for the sexy man, it was growing more difficult every time they were together.

  But . . . she had to keep it professional. He might know something about the skulls and this new agent in town.

  If he knew the identity of those skulls, why hadn’t he told her?

  Because you’re a reporter. And you both have rules.

  She silently cursed. Sometimes their jobs got in the way.

  But the sex made up for it. At least, most of the time.

  Ryker’s phone rang three times before he answered. “Ryker?”

  “Marilyn, I can’t talk now.” His breathing sounded choppy as if he was walking or running somewhere.

  “Wait,” she said hurriedly. “My boss informed me that a federal agent is working a Cold Case show here about the skulls found at Seaside Cemetery.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been assigned to work with her.”

  Marilyn’s stomach plummeted. What if Ryker and this agent discovered the connection to her?

  “Do you know the identity of the bones?”

  A hesitant pause. “We’ll talk later. I just caught another case.” His breath rasped out. The sound of his engine starting rumbled in the background.

 
Her reporting instincts kicked in. “Where are you going?”

  Outside her window, she saw her coworker rushing by, his phone glued to his ear. He must have a lead on a story. Dammit, she had to stay on top of things.

  “Ryker, cut me a break. You know the media will get wind of this. Give me the scoop.”

  His breath rasped out. “It takes two to share, sweetheart,” he said. “And you didn’t exactly share with me this morning.”

  “I shared my body with you,” she said in a teasing tone.

  A hesitant pause. “I’m talking about more than sex,” he said gruffly.

  She gripped the phone with clammy hands. In spite of what people thought of her, she didn’t crawl in bed with just anyone.

  She had feelings for Ryker. Feelings that Marilyn never thought she’d have for anyone. But this was all so . . . complicated.

  “I can’t talk about the case,” Ryker bit out. “Now, I have to get to work.”

  She started to argue, but the phone went silent. She screamed into her hand, then forced herself to calm down. He’d probably been called to a random crime. A shooting or random attack in Savannah? A domestic situation gone awry?

  Nothing that affected her or was important enough to warrant her getting upset.

  Ryker probably wasn’t happy about being paired up with this fed either. Although he’d proven he was a team player when he worked with Special Agent Hatcher McGee and Special Agent Wyatt Camden during the investigation into the vigilante murders and the capturing of the Skull.

  She checked the scanner she used for police activities and crimes. Her heart hammered in her chest at the address that appeared.

  Eaton’s address.

  A suspected homicide had been reported.

  Dear God . . . was Ryker on his way to Eaton’s house?

  Ryker hated hanging up on Marilyn, but guarding his information was imperative. Although he hadn’t liked the way she’d walked out after sex this morning.

  Worse, he didn’t like that it bothered him that she’d walked out.

  Shit. Keeping their professional and personal lives separate was part of the job and their agreement. Although he’d definitely crossed that line during the vigilante murders and the Skull case and given her a heads up on leads.

  That case and the victim, Tinsley Jensen, who’d suffered horribly at the hands of the serial predator the Skull, had gotten under his skin and everyone else’s. They’d wanted to solve it at all costs.

  And Marilyn was damn good at what she did. He had to play by the rules, but she had an advantage—she could skirt them.

  He glanced at his temporary new partner and was glad she’d had her ear buds in while he was on the phone. He sure as hell didn’t want her to hear his private conversation with Marilyn. Captain Henry had warned him multiple times about not sharing info with her.

  Darling had refused to allow them to search his house, so he was going to drop Caroline off at the station so she could set up her office.

  She was anxious to familiarize herself with the details of the former detective’s investigation and see if Flagler had checked phone records on the landline.

  She removed her ear buds with a sigh. “Judging from the tape Flagler made, his initial impression of the Darlings was that they had something to do with their daughters’ disappearances.”

  “What did you think about Mr. Darling?” he asked.

  She drummed her neatly clipped nails on her leg. “He didn’t seem shocked that the girls were dead. Although after twenty-five years, he probably didn’t expect us to find them alive.”

  “He’s definitely hiding something,” Ryker said. “I also wonder if his wife really left him as he claims or if something happened to her.”

  “I agree.” Caroline made a note in her electronic pad. “That’s another reason I want to review the original files. I’m interested to see how thoroughly his property was searched.”

  “Even if it was, I want a warrant to search it again. If Darling killed the youngest daughter and/or his wife, he could have stored their bodies somewhere else, then once the police finished conducting their original search of his property, he could have moved them, thinking that it wouldn’t be searched again.”

  Ryker pulled up to the police precinct and parked. Agent Manson reached for the door handle. “Sounds like we’re on the same page.” She angled her head to study him. “You know, when I first learned I’d been assigned to work with you, I was skeptical. I’m sure you didn’t ask to be partnered with me either.”

  “No, I didn’t. And my captain agreed that if a more pressing case comes up, it takes priority.”

  A frown darkened her face. “These girls suffered horribly. I can’t think of anything more pressing than finding out who tortured and killed them.”

  Without another word, she slipped out the door and slammed it.

  Ryker sucked in a sharp breath, and loosened the top button of his collared shirt. Clearly, he’d hit a nerve.

  He didn’t have time to worry about her feelings though. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to let her make him feel guilty for working another case. He answered to Captain Henry, not to her.

  A chill rippled up Marilyn’s spine as she skimmed the police report. A man had been found dead in his bed.

  That man—Daryl Eaton.

  Worry knotted her muscles. She’d known Eaton was close to death, but he’d been alive when she’d left him.

  Had he died because he couldn’t reach his mediation? If so, was she responsible?

  Nausea rose to her throat. She’d walked a fine line with him, but she hadn’t wanted him to die before he confessed.

  Her first instinct was to ask Ryker to meet her. To tell him everything and ask for his help. But she couldn’t do that without jeopardizing their relationship.

  And both their jobs.

  Her chest aching, she removed the photograph of her mother that she carried with her and ran her finger over her slender face. “I’m sorry, Mama. I kept the secret for so long. But I don’t think I can live with it any longer.”

  Her mother’s terrified expression the night Marilyn had run screaming to her from the lighthouse replaced her smile in the photo. “I don’t care about anything but you, honey,” her mother said. “You have to stay quiet. I couldn’t stand it if that madman came after you.”

  Marilyn swallowed hard. She had kept quiet. But other girls might have died because of it. And she hated herself for being a coward.

  She dabbed at the back of her neck with a tissue from her desk. Eaton’s caretaker should have been there within minutes after Marilyn had left.

  Had she found Eaton dead and called it in?

  Considering the man’s failing health, she was surprised police suspected murder.

  Had they found evidence that there’d been foul play?

  Ryker left Agent Manson at the station, then sped toward the address of the crime scene. He wove through the streets of Savannah and veered onto a road leading out of town.

  Ten minutes later, he parked at a small house with an overgrown yard. A police car was parked in front along with an ambulance. Ryker climbed out of his vehicle, then strode up to the door. The paramedics were waiting outside, while the officer met him at the door.

  Ryker identified himself, and the officer introduced himself as Shay Finn. “What do we have?” he asked.

  “Sixty-something-year-old man, Daryl Eaton, inside. Found him in bed when I arrived, wasn’t breathing. I called it in, medics came, but it was too late.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “Not sure. No signs of obvious homicide.”

  Ryker shifted. “But the captain said you suspected foul play?”

  The officer stroked his chin. “I could be wrong. But the tip came in from a 9-1-1 call. Caller didn’t identify herself. Looks like there was a s
truggle in the room.”

  They needed to track down the number of that caller.

  “Any signs of a break in?” Ryker asked.

  The officer shook his head.

  “What about the ME?”

  “On his way.”

  “I’m going to look around inside.” Ryker surveyed the property. The house was slightly secluded, the overgrown bushes on both sides shielding it from the neighbors’ sightline. “In the meantime, why don’t you canvass the neighbors? Maybe someone saw or heard something.”

  Officer Finn nodded then headed across the yard. Ryker yanked on latex gloves as he entered the house. The musty smell of old furniture, dust, left over food on the kitchen counter, and . . . sickness assaulted him.

  He peered into the kitchen and den, struck by the cluttered shelves, piles of old magazines and trash. It looked as if it had been months, maybe longer, since the place had been cleaned. The acrid odor of death guided him down the narrow hallway to the bedroom.

  He exhaled sharply before entering, then noted several bottles of medication on the ancient nightstand beside the bed. A faded pea green bedspread, and dirty laundry reinforced the notion that no one had taken care of this place in a long time.

  He immediately checked for signs of a struggle. The lamp had been knocked off the nightstand and lay shattered a few feet away. A bottle of pills lay on the floor, overturned and spilled out. The picture on the wall by the bed was hanging askew. A glass was shattered at the foot of the bed, an empty saucer cracked beside it. A piece of partially eaten toast and jelly was smeared on the floor.

  It did appear there had been a struggle.

  He inched closer to the bed, his stomach clenching at the sight of the man’s feeble, gnarled hands clutching the sheets as if he’d clawed them before he died.

  His face was pale and pasty looking, his skin yellow, his wiry hair sticking out, his eyes wide and staring blankly in the shock of death.

  Ryker photographed the scene with his phone, capturing the way the man was lying halfway off the bed, the position of his hands, and the rumpled bedding. He also snapped pictures of the nightstand and floor, and the bottles of medication on the table.