Buried Alive: A dark Romantic Suspense (The Buried Series Book 1)

by Vella Day

  Norwood continued, but Kerry’s mind spun with questions after the big announcement of a reward.

  “Thank you, Mr. Norwood. This is Liz Culbertson, Channel 8 News.” A picture of Janet appeared, along with a full screen graphic indicating how to get a hold of the family. The web address scrolled along the bottom.

  Hunter flicked off the TV.

  Kerry finally sat, leaned against the sofa and tried to grasp what had happened. “This publicity should be good for us, right? We might get someone calling about our other victims.”

  “Maybe. Unfortunately, every time there’s a news report, our guy goes crazy.” His body tensed. “We’ll need to take extra precautions.”

  Great. He better not suggest she move into a holding cell at the sheriff’s department for safekeeping. Knowing Hunter, she wouldn’t put it past him.

  The next morning when Hunter drove them to the sheriff’s department instead of to Kerry’s lab, she thought her worst nightmare had come true. Thankfully, instead of taking her to a cell, he directed her to the room where the two of them had first met to discuss the case.

  His hand rested on the knob of the closed door. “The meeting won’t take long. The homicide team needs to go over the details of the recent murders, and I thought it might help clarify things for you.”

  Never before had he included her in the details. Something was up. “You just don’t want to leave me alone at the cabin, do you?” It didn’t matter she hadn’t received any threatening phone call after the news broadcast aired. Then again, she wasn’t staying at her grandfather’s.

  He met her gaze. “You caught me. Once I’ve personally spoken to John, I’ll feel better about dropping you off at your work. I’ll ask him to check in on you every hour.”

  “You can’t keep me hostage.” She leaned closer to him. “If I get fired because I skipped out on work, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

  Hunter had the nerve to smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of any issues that come up.”

  The man definitely had a white knight complex. “You better.”

  Hunter opened the door. Four people sat around the large oval table. Hunter pulled out a chair for her and introduced her to the group. She’d met Phil at the gravesite. He sat next to a striking black woman, Gina something, in a low cut top and too much makeup. Hunter’s boss, Jack Andries, sat next to Jeff Shapiro, the man who’d called Hunter at the cabin.

  Jack Andries flipped open his folder and took a sip of his drink. “Phil, tell us what you’ve have on the Willie Wyble case.”

  “Haven’t a clue who might have killed him. A bum, who shared an overpass with Willie, told me that a medical examiner’s van picked up Willie a couple of times, supposedly to drive him to some graveyard. I plan on stopping at the morgue and question everyone who drives a van.”

  Kerry shook her head. When Hunter had mentioned this absurd possibility, she’d gone through the staff members who worked at the morgue. No one there would drive an indigent anywhere—especially in a marked van, even if the act wasn’t illegal.

  “Excuse me. I work there. If some technician asked a homeless man to do something for them, do you think he’d tell you?”

  “Not at first, but most people don’t lie well,” Andries said.

  Whatever. She wished him luck. He was definitely looking in the wrong grave.

  The cops would have more luck if she asked John Ahern what he knew about this Willie person. He might come up with a list of possible drivers who the police could then question. John had mentioned he contracted out the drivers sometimes when things became too busy.

  Phil leaned forward on his elbows. “I think Willie was trying to tell us the name of his killer when he died.”

  Jack Andries’ eyes widened. “That so?”

  “After he was shot once in the head, he managed to get off the tractor and into the woods. He was clawing some letters in the dirt when he bled out.”

  Gina’s lips pulled tight. “I disagree. I’ve been thinking about what I said. I don’t think he’d been able to climb off the tractor with a bullet to the head, crawl ten feet, and then write letters.” She pulled up her top an inch. “Maybe I imagined the scratches on the ground were actual letters because I wanted them to be.”

  “Don’t discount your first impression.” Her uncle’s jaw slackened and his gaze looked upward. “Wait ‘till you’ve been around a few years. There was this one case where a victim was shot three time in the head and wasn’t aware she was seriously injured until paramedics brought her to the hospital. She was coherent enough to give a detailed description of the shooters. Amazing how the brain works.”

  She straightened and smiled. “Cool.”

  Hunter tapped his fingers on the table, a nervous habit Kerry wished he’d drop.

  “Which letters?” The tension and intensity in Hunter’s voice scared her.

  “It’s only conjecture, mind you,” Phil said, “but we believe he was drawing a ‘D’ or possibly an ‘O’ followed by an ‘A’. A CSU tech said the third letter had a vertical line in it, but didn’t want to take a guess what it might be.”

  Phil shoved the folder to the middle of the table, and Hunter slid the picture toward him.

  Kerry leaned over to look and inhaled a whiff of Hunter who still smelled fresh from his morning shower. She nudged him. “Could the name Willie was trying to write be, Dalton?”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “What is it?” Hunter’s boss asked.

  Hunter gave them the rundown on the fact three of the four Jane Doe’s had contact with Dr. Paul Dalton. “As a matter of fact, Shapiro’s case is also connected. Nancy Donello-Sanchez had plastic surgery. Guess who the doctor was?”

  “Dalton,” Andries answered.

  “Yup.”

  “Get a warrant and search his records.”

  “I’m on it. In the meantime, I’ll tail him to see if it leads us anywhere.”

  “Be careful. We don’t want to tip him off.”

  Gina squeezed Phil’s arm. “We could do a sting operation.”

  Phil tilted his head toward her. “Forget it. All these women were abused. You wouldn’t fool anybody.”

  Andries Adam’s apple bobbed. “Gina. Don’t even think about doing something stupid like that.”

  “Whatever.”

  The group sat in silence for a few minutes, some taking notes, others reading a copy of Phil’s report.

  Kerry tapped Hunter’s shoulder. “If Dalton stole head #3, and you find it at his place, that would incriminate him, right?”

  “Of being a thief, but not of murder. I can’t get a search warrant for the skull without tangible evidence he stole it.”

  “Damn.” There had to be something she could do. “It seems as though you have to almost catch him in the act of killing someone before you can arrest him.”

  “Sometimes that’s true.”

  Dr. Dalton closed the blinds at the River of Hope shelter clinic. The upscale instruments and supplies at the downtown office were superior, but the regular clientele would have been offended if the women from here showed up downtown.

  For a charitable operation, Evelyn Cortland had done a good job providing necessary supplies.

  “Can you fix me up good as new?” Chanel Carlitta asked.

  She’d been such a beautiful woman. Once. The first time she’d had work done on her face was after a near fatal car wreck. Her husband had been drinking and ran off the road. Bastard walked away from the scene with hardly a scratch.

  Long after the accident, Chanel learned her husband had been trying to kill her when he’d driven into a pole. The doctor had warned Chanel to leave him. Like so many others, she hadn’t listened.

  Dalton leaned over her and checked out her injuries, and Chanel squirmed in her seat. Her cheek was badly swollen and a large, poorly healed cut rimmed her eye. The gash above her forehead appeared to be the most serious injury.

  “What happened, Chanel? It pains me to see yo
ur beautiful face messed up again.”

  Her lower lip trembled. “It was Gabe.”

  The husband, shit.

  Dalton pulled up a chair and leaned close, looking at her new scars as anger boiled inside. “Tell me what he did.”

  Her eyes widened. “Does it matter?”

  “Yes, it matters. I thought you promised you wouldn’t go back to him, but I see you have. How far along are you?”

  “Eighteen weeks.” A tear streamed down her cheek. “I tried to leave him once, but that was before I knew I was carrying his child. I don’t have a good job or much money saved. I had to stay. When I told Gabe I was pregnant, he was nice for a while. He promised he would be good.”

  “See? All men tell you what you want to hear.”

  She sniffled and nodded.

  “Tell me what he did. I need to understand the extent of your injuries.” Bullshit. I need to see if Gabe was as vile as my dad.

  “We had a party.”

  The doctor would listen to every word of her pathetic story. She seemed to need urging. “Go on.”

  Chanel licked her lips. “I thought everything was going real good, but I guess I didn’t clean up enough for Gabe’s standards. Once the guests left, he started in on me. Yelling, punching, pushing. Next thing I knew, he’d cut me.” She choked out a sob. “Am I going to lose the baby?”

  For a moment, the doctor could feel the punches, hear the yelling, feel the knife slice through the skin.

  “Doctor?”

  “Yes? Oh, sorry. I don’t know about the child, but I imagine the baby is fine if the beating happened when? A few weeks ago.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then don’t worry. Your face I can restore. You’ll hardly see any marks. Trust me.”

  When she grabbed Dalton’s gloved hand, the doctor wanted to rip it out of her clasp and strangle her right there, but he needed to control himself.

  A knock on his door startled Dalton. Evelyn Courtland walked in, and behind her was Detective Markum. Christ Almighty. Dalton’s stomach soured for a moment before confidence kicked in. They’ll never catch me.

  “Chanel, if you’ll excuse us. I think it would be best if we wait until after the baby is born before I fix your scars. I don’t work on pregnant women. Promise me you’ll see a family doctor to check out the health of your unborn child.”

  Her lips turned downward. The bitch better not cry. “Okay. Thank you, Doctor.”

  When she left, Dalton faced the detective. “What can I do for you?”

  “What can you tell me about Nancy Donello-Sanchez?”

  Nancy? Be cool. The detective can’t know what happened. He was fishing. “Evelyn can tell you more than I can. She worked with Nancy for years, right, Evelyn?” If my stupid nephew fucked up this job, I’ll personally strangle him.

  Evelyn’s face pinched. She was sour personified.

  “The detective wants to know her from your perspective. After all, you understand these women better than anyone.”

  Flatterer. “I’ll try. Nancy first came to me about, oh I don’t know, two years ago? Her husband, now her ex-husband, had savagely beaten her, and my heart ached for her. You know I do this work,” the doctor waved around the office, “pro bono?”

  “Yes, Evelyn told me. The community is in your debt.”

  Patronizing asshole. Don’t let him get under your skin. “Nancy had massive facial contusions, a broken jaw, and I believe a broken collarbone.” The detective wrote down every damned word.

  “After you repaired the damage, did you see her again?”

  Clever man. “Yes. Maybe four months ago. I can’t tell you the exact date. I’d have to consult my calendar back at the office.”

  “And why did Nancy come to you this last visit?”

  “What is this all about?” Dalton succeeded in sounding both put out and concerned.

  “Nancy Donello-Sanchez is dead. She was shot once in the head.”

  “Oh my God.” Dalton slid onto the seat. “I’m so sorry. What can I do?”

  “I’m here to see if you’d know of anyone who might have wanted to harm her?”

  Take your time. Think. “Nancy seemed to attract abusive men. Her latest boyfriend–I can’t recall his name–was no exception.”

  “Ron Whipley.”

  “You’ve spoken with him?” Dalton placed both palms flat on the desk to show no fear.

  “Yes, but we don’t think he had anything to do with her death.”

  “Oh? Why come to me then?”

  They locked gazes, but Dalton didn’t flinch.

  “May we have a copy of Nancy’s records?”

  “Sure. Stop by my office. I’ll have Mary Ellen pull them for you.”

  “Thank you. You might hear from me again.”

  “Any time, Detective.”

  The detective was halfway out the door, when he swiveled around. “I forgot to ask. Do you know a Willie Wyble?”

  Shit. Dalton took in a deep breath and rapidly tapped a finger on the desk. “Wyble. I don’t believe so. I mostly deal with women.”

  “Where were you Thursday night?”

  The night Willie died. “At the symphony. Why?”

  “We found Willie Wyble dead Friday morning.”

  “Are you accusing me of something?”

  “No. Just asking.” The detective rubbed his temple. “What size shoe do you wear?”

  “What?”

  The detective repeated the question.

  “A 9C, why?”

  “We found some footprints near a crime scene. Just playing Cinderella. Good day.”

  Cinderella? The cop was a whack job. But a smart whack job. He was someone who needed watching.

  23

  Chanel’s body spasmed as her unborn child jerked, forcing her to grab the kitchen counter to steady herself. Bile rose up her throat. At four and a half months, she should be over the queasiness, or so her friends had claimed. These same friends had drilled into her she shouldn’t take any medication during pregnancy, but her stomach hurt. Bad.

  If only her momma were still alive, she could have told her what to do. And Gabe? He should have been home by now. Then he could have driven her to the hospital.

  Crap. Why hadn’t he come home for dinner? Or called. Stupid man. He was probably gambling or out boffing some slut he’d picked up on Kennedy Avenue. If Chanel wasn’t carrying his child, she’d consider leaving her old man.

  Another pain stabbed her gut, causing tears to drip down her cheek. If she didn’t get help now, her baby was sure to make an unwanted entrance. She couldn’t wait for her no-good husband to get back.

  An ache made her back arch. This wasn’t good. Chanel grabbed her purse, slipped into her car, and headed toward the Emergency Room. If she’d called an ambulance, Gabe would have hit her for sure. They couldn’t afford no fancy care, he’d said.

  Her momma had claimed her aches and pains came from nerves. It was always nerves, but maybe her momma was right this time. When Chanel found out she’d have to wait another six months before getting her scars fixed, she’d cried the whole way home. Scars she never should have gotten in the first place. If she hadn’t made Gabe so mad that one time when he was drunk, he wouldn’t have beaten her to a pulp.

  Chanel’s stomach soured. Damn hormones.

  Her car clipped a cinder block someone had tossed on the side of the road, and her heart jetted into overdrive. Pay attention, girl. With her focus back on the road, she wove her way through the trailer park. Lights blazing, Mildred was on her front porch knitting something—probably another doggie vest. The old woman waved, but Chanel could only manage a nod.

  She pulled out of the park onto the near empty thoroughfare and pushed the accelerator hard. Another wave of nausea blasted her, but she kept her full attention on the street. As she rounded the first curve, headlights flashed in her rearview mirror.

  She looked up. It was too dark to see the make of the car. “What the hell could he want?” she mumbled. S
he was going over the speed limit as it was. Could that be Gabe behind her? She slowed a bit.

  The lights flashed again. The unidentified car pulled real close behind her and honked. She accelerated. “What are you doing, mister? I don’t have time to stop and chat.” Her heart sped up. “Crazy bastard,” she muttered. Oh shit. Maybe it was the police. She slowed again.

  The car following her pulled along her left side—in the oncoming lane. It didn’t look like no police car. Was the man insane? She looked ahead. Thank you, Lord, no car was coming toward them.

  She gripped the wheel hard, taking the next turn too fast, her tire running over the grass berm. She jerked back to the pavement and blew out a long breath. On the straightaway, she peeked to her left. He was still there. All she could see was someone waving her over. She slowed.

  “For God’s sake.”

  Oh, crap. Was gas leaking out of her tank or something? Was she about to blow up? Gabe said once they had some money, she should have her car looked at. Three years was too long to go without a service call.

  A strobe light flashed in his dash. Damn. It was the police in an unmarked car. She didn’t need no ticket. Her pulse raced, and the baby acted up again. Chanel slowed and pulled off to the side but left the engine running. She reached for her cell phone to call Gabe, but she couldn’t find it in the bottom of her messy purse.

  The man got out of his car and shined a flashlight in her eyes. She squinted.

  “Roll down your window, please.”

  Something deep inside told her not to do what he asked. Her hand stalled on the handle.

  He slapped his palm on the window. “Open up.”

  Definitely not Gabe. She couldn’t see the man’s face, but he was wearing a suit and tie, like a detective might wear. She needed to get this over with and on her way. The police were safe.

  She locked her door and rolled down her window part way. “What is it, Officer?”

  All she saw was a gun pointed toward her belly. A large, black gun, and her eyes widened as her heart did a flip inside her chest. She sucked in a large breath waiting for him to hurt her. A scream bubbled up just as blast ripped through her. Her mind stopped working, as pain ricocheted in her abdomen and raced down her legs.