Erin Solomon Mysteries, Books 1 - 5

by Jen Blood

  “Hi,” I said to Buddy’s voicemail. “This is Erin Solomon—Diggs’ friend. Listen, I just wanted to let you know you might want to check out the Burkett place again. Soon. This afternoon would be great.” I hesitated. “Please.”

  I hung up. So, that didn’t actually incriminate us or say anything about the fact that we were currently breaking into a locked house. But hopefully the deputy would get the picture.

  Diggs stuck his head out the window. “Hey—are you coming or what?”

  I tied a very unhappy Einstein to the nearest tree, promised I’d be back soon, and stepped up on the milk crate. Diggs took my hand and pulled me up.

  That cannon he was hauling around was looking pretty good about now.

  Once through the window, I found myself in an old bathroom in serious need of updating. I wasn’t expecting much based on the Hoarders’ exterior, but the room was surprisingly clean... and very monochromatic. Mint green fixtures—toilet, bathtub, and pedestal sink—were the perfect complement to the mint green tile walls and the faded, mint green towels.

  “Pretty,” I said.

  Diggs nodded. “Green living at its best.”

  I groaned.

  He pushed the door open, landing us in a dimly lit, wood-floored corridor. Whoever had been there last had left without turning off the heat: it was like a steam bath in there. I tried the light switch, and a naked bulb flickered in a wrought iron sconce on the wall.

  The hallway was narrow, with a bizarre pineapple-print wallpaper and not a stitch of art work on the walls. A swinging door brought us to the kitchen.

  I stopped moving.

  “Do you smell that?” Diggs asked.

  I definitely did: the smell of something rotting, strong enough to make me gag. I pulled my shirt up over my nose.

  “You wanna keep going?” he asked.

  “Hello?” I called out in lieu of an answer.

  This time, the response was immediate and unmistakable: A whimper that grew to a full-blown whine when I called out again. I didn’t bother to answer Diggs’ question, instead plowing on toward a narrow stairwell at the back of the kitchen where the stench was strongest and the whining loudest.

  The stairs were partially rotted, the ceiling was low, and the walls were narrow. I thought suddenly of negotiating the tunnels with Diggs last summer, and my newly regained courage wavered. It was even hotter here than the rest of the house, the air wet and as heavy as a blanket. I focused on taking shallow breaths through my mouth, and kept going.

  At the top of the stairs, there was a small, windowless room that had clearly been used for storage. I shined my flashlight across stacks of boxes, dishes, and books. A dingy curtain cordoned off a section at the back.

  “Anybody here?” I asked. The whining was coming from behind the curtain. I glanced back at Diggs. The smell was nearly unbearable now. “You’re still with me, right?”

  “Barely,” he said grimly.

  I took a step forward. Then another. The curtain moved. My heart was already thumping like a rabbit’s, but that movement kicked it up another notch. I took a breath, mentally steeled myself for unspeakable horror, and pushed the curtain aside.

  Chapter Eleven - Diggs

  Roger Burkett was seated with his back against the wall, naked from the waist up. His eyes were open, both arms outstretched and his wrists fastened with twine to eye bolts screwed into the wall. His throat was slit from one end to the other. I stared at the insignia over his heart, excised and re-stitched: an inverted cross.

  The combination of buzzing flies, heat, and the smell of putrefying flesh was overwhelming, to say the least. Solomon seemed unfazed. She moved forward, ignoring the dead body before us in favor of the live one beside it: a medium-sized golden retriever, its fur matted with blood. The dog lay beside Burkett with its head on the dead man’s lap.

  Solomon knelt beside the dog, talking softly.

  “You should wait until we can get a vet here,” I said.

  I might as well have been talking to the dead guy.

  She sat down and reached for the dog—palm up, fingers outstretched. Solomon’s one of those women who’s never actually still; I’ve slept with her, and even in her sleep she moves more than your average, fully conscious American. The exception is when she’s around anyone sick or injured—animal or human. It’s like she becomes another person. Her mother always wanted her to be a doctor, something Sol adamantly insists she was never interested in pursuing. I’ve always thought she would be good at it, though.

  The dog stretched its muzzle toward her, still whining softly.

  “She’s hurt,” Solomon said. She scooched a little closer. The dog didn’t shy away. “There’s a gash behind her ear.”

  “Sol—” I tried again.

  She ignored me, gently brushing her hand over the dog’s head. It came back sticky with blood. “We need to get her out of here,” she said. She removed the dog’s collar, decorated with penguins and dark with blood, and put it in her back pocket.

  “And the dead guy?” I asked.

  She barely glanced at him. “The cops are on their way. It’s not like he’s going anywhere.”

  Once she was up, Solomon tried sweet talking the dog out of the room first, with no success. Then, she looked at me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Maybe if we put her on a blanket, we could carry her down.”

  We made a couple of clumsy attempts. By that time, I figured if the poor dog hadn’t bitten us yet, she probably wasn’t going to. I hefted her into my arms. She whined when I started walking away from Roger, struggling against me the farther I got.

  “Easy, girl,” I said. She laid her muzzle on my arm and closed her eyes, still whining as I made my way down the steep stairwell. Sirens were headed toward us by the time we got outside, and I could barely feel the dog’s heartbeat.

  ◊◊◊◊◊

  Einstein had slipped his collar by the time we got outside, and was waiting anxiously for both of us. He totally ignored Solomon and headed straight for me instead, bumping up against me as I lay the retriever on the grass.

  “Will you get him out of here?” I said to Solomon. I like the dog, don’t get me wrong, but there’s a limit to how much canine bonding a man can take.

  Before she could grab him, Stein lay down facing the retriever, his muzzle on his paws, and whimpered. She opened her eyes. Stein thumped his tail. The retriever thumped her tail. He licked her head, then settled in for what I was guessing was the long haul.

  Buddy Holloway arrived on the scene a few minutes later, siren wailing. Solomon and I sat cross-legged on the ground, the retriever lying on her side next to us, panting while Einstein looked on anxiously.

  Buddy pulled up, took one look at the dog’s blood-matted fur, and I think was tempted to turn around and run back home.

  “The body’s on the second floor,” I said.

  “We found the dog in there with him,” Solomon said. “I’m not sure how long she’d been there.”

  Buddy crouched beside the dog, gently ruffling its ears. Einstein growled until Solomon shushed him.

  “Hey, Gracie girl,” Buddy said. He shook his head. “She hurt bad?”

  “I’m not sure,” Solomon said. “There’s a nasty gash behind her left ear. And she’s dehydrated. Pretty freaked out. Her name’s Grace, you said?”

  “Yup,” the deputy confirmed. “She was just a pup when they moved back here. About the only thing Roger cared two figs about was this dog.”

  “Apparently it was mutual,” I said. “It took some doing to get her to leave.”

  “She may have tried to protect him, too,” Solomon said. “It looks like her gums are cut up, which means she could have bitten whoever killed him. You could swab for DNA… I read about that working before, on another case.”

  Buddy looked at me. I shrugged. “She doesn’t know about the way things work in this part of the world, I guess,” he said.

  “You don’t have DNA in Ken
tucky?” Solomon asked.

  “We don’t have a lot of resources for testin’ DNA,” Buddy corrected her. “We can get it done, it just might take a while. In the meantime, I’ll get her on over to the vet. We’ll see what we can do for her.”

  I heard more sirens in the distance, which could only mean one thing. Sure enough, thirty seconds later Sheriff Jennings and two other cruisers pulled into the Burkett’s driveway. It wasn’t going to be a good afternoon.

  Buddy Holloway might be convinced Harvey Jennings had turned his life around, but as far as I could tell the sheriff was exactly the same egomaniacal, abusive prick he’d always been. Einstein was already none too happy that Buddy was trying to abscond with his new girlfriend, but he went ballistic when Jennings showed up on the scene. Grace started whining as soon as Jennings got out of his cruiser, and Solomon had to physically drag Stein away while Buddy put the retriever in his own car so he could get her to the vet.

  Once the dog situation was resolved, Jennings approached Solomon and me while the other cops started dealing with the crime scene. In the light of day, I noticed circles under the sheriff’s eyes that I’d missed the night before, and an intensity that seemed to burn brighter thanks to the fatigue.

  “Word is, Danny Durham never come home last night,” he said to me.

  “He was out partying,” I said without missing a beat. “You know kids. He just buried his father—he needed to blow off some steam.”

  “Boggles my mind how you can have one brother grow up so good, and one that just seems like he sprung up right out of the devil’s seed,” Jennings said. “But I guess you know something about that, don’t you, Diggs? That brother of yours that died ’cause of your carelessness and lies—the way Wyatt told it, your daddy made it plain he thought he’d laid the wrong boy in the ground that day. Guess that explains a few things about you, don’t it.”

  Solomon clenched her fists, clearly preparing to cold cock the bastard.

  “What do you need from us, Jennings?” I asked. “We’ve got places to be.”

  “You say Danny was out,” Jennings said. “Where was he? Who was he with?”

  “I know the way you operate,” I said. “I’m not answering anything without a lawyer. And you’re sure as hell not getting Danny in a room without one.”

  “That’s pretty much exactly what I expected,” Jennings said. “Somebody’s gonna catch up to that boy, one way or the other. No way you can protect him this time. So if you don’t have nothin’ to add, why don’t you two just get on home. Let us do our jobs.”

  “Are you sure?” Solomon asked. “We were in the middle of the crime scene. I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, but shouldn’t someone fingerprint us? Compare our shoe treads with others in the room?”

  “Sounds like a whole lotta work to me,” Jennings said with a sigh. “You didn’t kill Roger, am I right?”

  “Sure,” she agreed. “You’re right: we didn’t kill him. But wouldn’t it be easier to go through the crime scene if you can rule out a couple sets of prints straight off the bat?”

  “You know what kind of man Roger Burkett was?” Jennings asked her.

  “Not a great one, from what I’ve heard,” she said.

  “That about sums it up: ‘Not a great one,’ ” Jennings said. “He lied and cheated and stole. Chased skirts and beat on his girl and was just about the laziest S-O-B I ever laid eyes on. The Lord’s siftin’ through—that’s all this is.”

  “I’m pretty sure it wasn’t God who tied that guy up, slit his throat, and carved his chest to pieces,” Solomon said. She advanced on the sheriff, her temper up. “Did you see him?”

  “I haven’t had the pleasure yet,” Jennings said. “But I got a good idea what I’ll find.” I touched Solomon’s arm, trying to get her to back off. Jennings looked past her, though, fixing his attention on me. With the burning eyes and the mouth pressed into a firm line, he didn’t look even close to sane.

  “You two was both there last night when Reverend Barnel gave his sermon,” he said. “You might oughta think about what he had to say. We’re not twelve hours into those last forty-eight he said we had in this world, and the sinner’s are already fallin’. They’s gonna be a lot more before the end of the day. You can mark my words on that.”

  “And on that note,” I said, holding more firmly to Solomon’s arm. “Maybe we should just be on our way.”

  “Maybe you should,” Jennings agreed.

  We went back to the car. I pulled out without waiting for Solomon to buckle up. Einstein careened across the backseat as I did a one-eighty in the driveway and sped out.

  “That guy is certifiably nuts,” Solomon said. “How is he sheriff?”

  “He talks a good game, believe it or not,” I said. “And he used to hide his crazy a little better than he is now. He’s fooled a lot of people along the way.” I thought of Sarah—Jennings’ wife. Funny, gorgeous…and out-and-out terrified, by the time I helped her get out of town.

  We were halfway down the road, still talking about Harvey Jennings’ psychotic tendencies, when a black tank of an SUV with federal plates appeared in our path. I looked at Solomon.

  “Did you call your boyfriend?”

  “No,” she said. “I mean—I’ve talked to him. But I didn’t tell him anything that was going on.”

  There wasn’t enough room for us to pass, but based on the way the SUV was keeping to the center of the narrow road, I assumed that wasn’t their intention, anyway. I backed up until I was back in front of the Burkett farmhouse.

  The cops were in the middle of packing Burkett into the coroner’s van. Everything came to a halt when the SUV pulled up, and a good looking woman with dark eyes, dark skin, and a well-tailored suit hugging curves that would bring any thinking man to his knees, stepped out of the driver’s side. I looked at Solomon. She shrugged.

  “Don’t ask me—I’ve never seen her before in my life.”

  We got out of the car. Two men got out of the back of the SUV before the front passenger door opened and Jack Juarez himself stepped out. Solomon held up her hands at my raised eyebrow.

  “I swear—I didn’t call him.”

  The lady agent approached Sheriff Jennings. They spoke quietly while Juarez joined us.

  “Hey, baby,” he said to Solomon. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “What are you doing here?” she asked. I noted with a petty twinge of satisfaction, that she didn’t look that thrilled to see him. Juarez seemed to notice the same thing.

  “I was in a briefing this morning,” he said. “Someone mentioned that a Domestic Terrorism team was headed to Kentucky to investigate some recent activity. Naturally, my first thought was, ‘Kentucky’s a big state. What are the chances this has anything to do with my girlfriend?’”

  “How long did that thought last?” I asked.

  “Not that long,” he conceded. “I managed to convince Agent Blaze to bring me along, since I’ve worked with the unit before.” He lowered his voice, glancing back at the agent before he returned his attention to Solomon and me. “I didn’t expect it to be a problem, though, since I didn’t think you were directly involved.”

  “I’m not directly involved,” Solomon said. Juarez looked at her doubtfully. “I’m not,” she insisted. “Diggs is.”

  Agent Blaze joined us before we could continue the conversation. Sheriff Jennings clearly hadn’t been happy about whatever she’d said to him, because he and his men took their toys and went home, tearing out of the driveway without a word to any of us. Blaze didn’t seem fazed. Juarez made introductions, and she eyed Solomon and me speculatively.

  “There’s been a lot of activity here in the past week,” she said. “I’ll be working with the local and state police, but I’d love to get your perspective on things.”

  “Sure,” I agreed. “But right now my main concern is my nephew—that’s why we’re here. He hasn’t been seen since sometime last night.”

  “You have reason to believe
he might be involved with recent events?” She watched me closely. Something in her eyes made me think she knew a hell of a lot more than I did about what was going on in Justice.

  “Not involved,” Solomon said. “But possibly a target. Apart from the shootings last night, the victims—”

  “Had been part of a ritual Barnel performed illegally in his church,” Blaze finished for her. “As were you, Mr. Diggins, I believe?”

  I hesitated. Juarez looked at her in surprise. Maybe he hadn’t known Solomon and I were involved in this, but Blaze sure as hell had. “That’s right,” I said. “But I’m not worried about myself right now. My nephew’s the one in danger.”

  “That’s noble of you,” she said. “But it’s too early for you to make that determination—and not really your place to do so, besides.” She looked at Juarez for a second, as though trying to decide whether or not she should keep talking.

  “They’re all right,” Juarez said. Blaze didn’t look so sure of that, however. I may be on her radar, but she wasn’t ready to take me into her confidence just yet. She and Juarez slunk off for a whispered rendezvous, one or both of them gesturing toward Solomon and me periodically.

  “I don’t like this,” I said to Solomon under my breath.

  “And you think I do?” she said. “What the hell’s going on around here? Wyatt’s dead, somebody takes a potshot at your lunatic preacher friend while he’s babbling about the end of the world, we’ve got another body... And now we’ve got the Feds in the mix.”

  “Based on the way they’re talking, I’d say we’ve barely scratched the surface here so far,” I said.

  I didn’t care for the way Juarez was eyeing me, either. For a man who’d allegedly given his girlfriend his blessing to traipse around the countryside with me, he didn’t seem so keen on the two of us whispering together now. He and Blaze broke from their huddle. Solomon took a couple of steps away from me.