Dead Little Darlings

by Herron, Rita

  The doctor’s name was Simmons. The ME would follow up with him on Eaton’s health problems and his mental status.

  He stepped away from the bed for a moment and studied the scene again. Another pill bottle sat toward the back of the nightstand, not within easy reach.

  Questions trickled into his mind. If Eaton was weak, could he have reached them?

  Did he have a caretaker or nurse who came in? Was he on Hospice?

  Ryker glanced around again, but didn’t see signs that anyone else had been in the room. He started toward the bathroom, but his foot brushed something on the floor. Looking down, he scrutinized the area by the bed. Something sparkled against the dark wood.

  He stooped down and spotted a small gold loop earring with a diamond chip in the center.

  His pulse clamored as he picked it up and examined it.

  Dammit to hell and back. It looked exactly like the earring Marilyn had been wearing this morning when she’d rushed out the door.

  Chapter Five

  Daryl Eaton deserved to die.

  At one time, she had condoned what he’d done. Hell, she’d even used his services.

  But the fucking bastard was about to grow a conscience on his deathbed. And that bitch of a reporter was pressuring him to talk. If she kept putting the screws to him, he might puke up details about the Keepers.

  Then everyone would know the truth.

  Secrets that would ruin her family would be made public. The shame . . . it had been bad enough back then when it had all happened.

  She couldn’t bear to live through it again.

  Those Darling girls had not been the darlings everyone believed they were. Of course, no one knew that either. No one wanted to see the ugly side.

  But those girls had one.

  And they had needed to be punished.

  If Marilyn Ellis kept nosing around, she’d have to be punished, too.

  Sometimes secrets needed to stay buried. And anyone who tried to expose them had to be taken care of.

  Even if it meant burying them along with the lies.

  Chapter Six

  Ryker studied the earring, his mind whirling with questions. Had Marilyn been here? If so, why?

  Could this man have something to do with the story she was so secretive about?

  He removed an evidence bag from his pocket, slipped the earring inside and closed it, then stuck the bag inside his jacket pocket. He shined his flashlight along the floor and walls, searching for signs that Marilyn, or someone else, had been here.

  Fingerprints, hair fibers, shoe prints.

  The ERT team would have to search for forensics. But it would be a shit storm to sort out the dusty layers of grime in the room and determine what was recent and important, and what was unrelated.

  A loud knock from the front brought his head up from where he was examining the bed. A couple of blood droplets darkened the sheets. The victim’s, or had he scratched an attacker?

  He snapped a photo then hurried to the door. Dr. Patton stood on the stoop, his bag in hand. A crime scene van pulled up and parked beside the ambulance, and two crime investigators climbed out.

  He opened the door to let the ME in. “Victim is in the bedroom.”

  Dr. Patton brushed past him while the evidence response team stepped up.

  Ryker introduced himself. A female tech named Ruth and a male named Ken surveyed the yard and porch. “What do we have?” Ken asked.

  “Man found dead in his bed. Judging from the medication on his nightstand, he had health issues, but there are signs of a struggle.” Of course the overturned lamp and water glass and pills could have been the old man in the throes of a heart attack staggering to reach his meds.

  “It’s pretty nasty in there,” Ryker added. “But pull every bit of forensics you can find and we’ll sort through it.”

  He followed the team inside, pointing out the kitchen and layout of the small house.

  Ruth gestured toward the kitchen. “I’ll start in there.”

  “I’ll dust the doorknobs and look for prints,” Ken said.

  Another car engine rumbled outside. When Ryker returned to the front door, Marilyn’s little red sedan roared up.

  Why was he not surprised?

  Even without him tipping her off, she usually arrived at a crime scene within minutes of the police. Probably used a police scanner, although he’d never pushed the topic. She was doing her job and sometimes it was best he not know.

  At least she was alone right now, no cameraman in tow.

  The earring in his pocket taunted him. Today was a different story though. Today he had to ask questions.

  She slid from the car, her gorgeous legs tempting to throw him off his game. But he banished the memory of how they’d felt wrapped around his waist earlier that morning, reminding himself that he and Marilyn had agreed to keep their lives compartmentalized.

  Sex belonged in the bedroom.

  In public and at work, they were both professionals. If she had information about the victim inside—and the events leading to his death—he had to push her for answers.

  Still, dread filled him as she walked toward him. She was the only woman he’d ever met who’d gotten under his skin. It wasn’t just her sensual mouth and body. On those long nights when she woke up with night tremors, shaking and shivering from fear, he’d pulled her in his arms. Something bad had happened to Marilyn. Something that haunted her and drove her to do her job. Something that made her vulnerable.

  Her tough façade was simply an act.

  There were demons she needed to deal with. Demons that he wished she’d share so he could help her slay them.

  “Detective Brockett,” she said as she climbed the rickety stairs. “What do you have here?”

  He zeroed in on her ears. The gold earring with the diamond chip winked back from her right earlobe. The left one . . . was missing.

  He considered confronting her, but decided to see if she talked first, so he hardened his jaw. “You tell me, Ms. Ellis.”

  Her blond brows rose, her eyes feigning innocence. “How should I know?” she asked softly. “I’m just following a lead on a call that came from this house.”

  Uh-huh. “So you don’t know the man who lives here?”

  Tension simmered between them.

  She hitched out her hip. “No, should I?”

  Anger shot through him. Dammit, she was lying.

  He gestured toward her left ear. “Lost an earring?”

  Her face paled slightly, and she lifted her hand and touched the earring in her right ear, then the left where the other one should be. He saw the wheels turning in her mind. She was retracing her steps, wondering where she’d lost it.

  Wondering if she’d already been caught and if she should give up the lie.

  Panic seized Marilyn as her fingers touched her earlobe.

  She’d dressed hurriedly this morning after making love with Ryker. Then they’d had another round in the kitchen before she’d left for Eaton’s. She could have lost it when she went down on Ryker . . .

  No . . . when she’d climbed in the car, she’d checked her image in the mirror. Her job put her in the public eye, and she couldn’t show up at work looking as if she’d just crawled from a man’s bed. Both earrings had been in place.

  “Marilyn, what do you know about the man inside that house?”

  Her gaze locked with Ryker’s, and her heart hammered in her chest. He knew she’d been here. How?

  The earring . . . had she lost it inside?

  Her conversation with Eaton replayed in her mind. He’d been agitated, had grabbed her arm. She’d yanked away.

  Her earring could have fallen off during the altercation.

  “I know his name is Daryl Eaton,” she said. “I saw that on the 9-1-1 call.”

 
; Irritation, or maybe disappointment, darkened his angular face as he studied her. She fought the temptation to squirm. Ryker was a passionate lover in bed, but he was ferocious in the interrogation room.

  She saw a glimpse of that man now, and it made her want to run.

  “You rushed out this morning to work on a story,” Ryker continued. “Does that story have to do with Eaton?”

  Marilyn sighed. This question launched her back on comfortable ground. “You know I can’t divulge the details of a piece I’m investigating.”

  “Right.” He crossed his arms. “Then you should go now. Because I can’t talk to you about this case either.”

  Marilyn tilted her head to the side. “The public deserves to know what happened here. I’m assuming Mr. Eaton died. Do you know COD?”

  “The ME is doing a preliminary exam now, but as you’re aware, the body will be transported to the morgue for an autopsy,” Ryker said stiffly. “Cause of Death won’t be determined until that’s complete.”

  “His death must have suspicious circumstances surrounding it,” Marilyn insisted. “Or else you wouldn’t have been called to the scene.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I have no comment.” He gestured toward her vehicle. “Now, I have to ask you to leave my crime scene.”

  Marilyn had been thrown off of crime scenes before. Had been treated rudely, snapped at, even physically pushed away. She’d also been threatened with arrest more than once.

  But for some reason it irked her more that Ryker was cutting her off. Didn’t he trust her?

  He rubbed a hand over his pocket, and she sensed he’d found her earring. He was waiting for her to talk.

  But she couldn’t reveal her suspicions about Eaton. Not yet. Not until she had proof he was the cold-blooded murderer she thought him to be.

  Disappointment roiled through Ryker as Marilyn drove away. As much as he understood their arrangement, he wanted her to confide in him. And this morning, he’d even considered confessing that he wanted more from her. That he . . . what? Wanted a commitment?

  Hell, he didn’t know what he wanted. Only that he was starting to feel discontented with their relationship.

  If they worked together, they’d make a formidable team.

  But when they were on opposite sides, she was a formidable enemy. Well, maybe not an enemy. An obstacle?

  He didn’t have time to dwell on their relationship though. He had a case to work. Technically, two cases—the Darling sisters’ murders, and now Daryl Eaton’s.

  Ryker strode back inside, careful not to touch anything. He found Dr. Patton in the bedroom, his glasses perched on the end of his nose.

  “What do you think?” he asked the ME.

  “Judging from his prescriptions, Eaton had high blood pressure and a bad heart. He was also suffering from dementia.” He lifted the sheet and gestured toward the man’s thin, blue-veined legs and bony arms. “No visible injuries or signs he was attacked, or indication that a weapon was used against him. Of course, the man was probably so weak that it wouldn’t have taken force to overpower him.”

  “Do you think he died of natural causes?” Ryker asked. Maybe he didn’t have a case here after all.

  “I’ll hold off on making that call until after the autopsy. I’ll run a full tox screen and let you know.”

  Ryker nodded. “If he was that sick, he may have had a home caregiver. Maybe a family member or nurse who came in? Hospice?”

  “It’s possible. I’ll speak with his doctor and see what he can tell me.” Dr. Patton dropped the sheet back over the man. “Did he have family?”

  Ryker shrugged. “I don’t know yet. The officer who responded is canvassing the neighbors. I’ll look around and see if I can find any contacts or paperwork to tell us more about him.”

  Dr. Patton adjusted the mike he used to record his thoughts during the initial exam. “If the CSI team has their pictures, I’ll tell the medics to transport him to the morgue.”

  Ryker nodded confirmation, then walked over to the man’s dresser, searching the top of it then the drawers. No business cards or papers with an address, name or contact information.

  Inside the man’s closet hung a pathetic number of worn shirts and faded pants that looked as if they were twenty or thirty years old. Dusty work boots, a gray rain slicker, and rain hat were in the corner.

  Nothing helpful. No safe or even a shoebox full of papers.

  He scanned the walls. An old photograph of the lighthouse on Seahawk Island caught his eye. The fog drifting across the ocean and the dark sky made the building look downright eerie.

  A search of the kitchen yielded a bunch of junk mail and past due medical bills.

  Ryker checked inside the desk drawers in search of a will or information on family, but didn’t find anything.

  In the bottom drawer along the back, his fingers brushed something hard, metal. He pulled it out and examined it. It was an old fashioned metal key that looked as if might belong to a lock box of some kind.

  He hadn’t found any such box in the house so far.

  Hoping to find it later, he removed another evidence bag from his pocket and stored it inside. He’d keep it and see if he could figure out what it went to.

  “Find anything?” he asked the CSI in the kitchen.

  She shrugged. “A stray hair here and there. Fibers. More than one set of prints. We’ll run them and see if anything pops.”

  “Keep me posted.” Ryker went outside to check the carport for something the key might fit. Boxes of old junk were stacked in the corner. He plowed through them and found ceramic knick-knacks, an old cracked set of dishes, plastic funeral flowers, and other assorted junk. No lock box for the key.

  Officer Finn pulled back into the drive and parked, then climbed out. He rubbed a hand over his head as he approached Ryker.

  “Neighbors offer anything?” Ryker asked.

  “Lady next door can’t hear and doesn’t drive. Said she met Mr. Eaton years ago, but she had trouble getting around and can’t remember when she last saw him.”

  He yanked his pants up on his hips. “Fellow on the other side said Eaton used to be a hard ass, a big guy that no one wanted to mess with. Didn’t have family. Years ago, Eaton was the lighthouse keeper on Seahawk Island.”

  That explained the photograph of the lighthouse on his wall.

  “Man remembers seeing a couple of cars coming and going. One belonged to a woman with graying hair. Saw her bringing in some groceries. Thinks she was Eaton’s caretaker.”

  Judging from the state of the house, cleaning wasn’t part of her job description.

  “Does he know her name or how to contact her?” Ryker asked.

  Officer Finn shook his head. “She drives a beat up, dark green sedan.”

  He wondered if she was the person who’d called 9-1-1. If so, why hadn’t she stuck around? “See if you can find that car.”

  “On it.”

  “What about the other vehicle?”

  The officer heaved a breath. “A little red sporty car.”

  Ryker clenched his teeth. Marilyn’s car.

  Exactly what did she know about Eaton that she didn’t want to tell him?

  Chapter Seven

  Agent Caroline Manson shivered as she walked through the graveyard where the Darling sisters’ bones had been discovered. The earth felt damp from the recent rains, her shoes sinking into the marshy ground. A breeze stirred, swirling dead leaves and brush around her feet and tossing strands of Spanish moss that had fallen from the tree across the tombstone markers, creating an eerie feel.

  Months ago, the storms had uprooted the graves although the workers at the cemetery had restored the land and tombstones as best they could. A crabber had stumbled upon the bones, but sadly the skulls had been missing, which led police to connect them to their ongoing search for the n
otorious serial rapist/killer the Skull.

  She crossed several rows of graves, her gaze drawn to the crime scene tape still roping off the area where the bones had been recovered.

  The oldest Darling sisters were dead; one daughter still missing. Odds were that Polly, the youngest had also died.

  But why wasn’t her body with her sisters’? And who was the third girl with Candace and Deborah?

  “How did you girls get out here?” she asked, as if the graves might spill their secrets. “Did your father kill you and bury you here thinking no one would ever find you?” If so, he’d been right. They had remained hidden for twenty-five years. If not for the hurricane that hit the island, they might never have been discovered.

  She closed her eyes and imagined the pictures of the girls she’d seen in their school yearbooks.

  The sisters had been attractive, although their clothes had been homemade or thrift store bargains, and their eyes haunted.

  From being abused and hiding it?

  Howard Darling. Something about the man bothered her.

  His body language screamed that he was lying. Mr. Darling insisted the girls had no friends. If he’d discovered they were running away with this unidentified girl, had he gone into a rage and killed them all?

  The wind whipped up again, sending another chill through her, the screams of the girls echoing in her head.

  “I’ll find out what happened,” she whispered. “I promise.”

  Little girls shouldn’t be afraid of their fathers or parents or fear for their lives in their own homes.

  She should know. She’d grown up like that. And she’d survived because she was a fighter.

  But she had scars inside. And her own secrets . . .

  Chapter Eight

  Marilyn parked beneath a live oak in the Village, her nerves on edge. If she’d lost that earring in Eaton’s house and Ryker found it, he would ask questions.

  Questions she wasn’t ready to answer.

  Although lately, she’d considered telling him about her past. But the guilt and shame kept her silent. She didn’t normally care what other people thought about her. But she’d grown to respect and admire Ryker. The thought of disappointing him bothered her more than she wanted to admit.