Dead Don't Lie

by L. R. Nicolello

  But she didn’t make it to her watery bliss. Instead, the small office directly across from her master suite called to her. She stepped into the room, moved to the desk and sank into the black leather office chair.

  Grisly case photos, case files, newspaper clippings and handwritten notes—some colored with age—peppered the wall. Large eight-by-ten, colored photos of her family adorned it as well, a constant reminder of her loss. Sadness rolled over her, its familiar chill lingering as she settled into the chair. She took a sip of wine and swallowed back tears. Stepping into this room always tore at the scabs around her heart, opening the wound deep within her soul. She knew it, yet couldn’t break the hold it had over her.

  The same drive to bring closure to the families she encountered on an almost daily basis also drove her to this room time and time again to bring closure to her own loss.

  Tremors had torn through her the night she’d brought Kate and Ryan up here for the first time. The thought of losing the people closest to her had made her stomach roll. She’d half expected them to drag her straight to the closest psych ward. Who obsessed about their family’s murder but a crazy person? Instead, Kate walked up to her, wrapped Evelyn in her arms and whispered, I get it. Ryan had solemnly paced in front of the wall and started reading. When he’d turned to look at Evelyn, his face was soft. She’d sagged against the table and nodded, a small quiver of a smile on her lips.

  And that was that. They were family.

  The three of them didn’t talk about it often. They didn’t need to. It was Evelyn’s battle, which they’d respected. She’d been forever grateful for their silent strength. Kate would occasionally ask her how it was going. The two women didn’t need to clarify what it was—they knew.

  As Evelyn sipped her Malbec and studied all the information that hadn’t changed in fifteen years, her cell chirped. Setting the glass down on the desk, she grabbed her phone. A message from Kate illuminated the small screen.

  I know what you’re doing, E. Go to bed. You can’t cover my hot husband’s back if you’re falling asleep. Love you. K

  Evelyn laughed. Her friend knew her too well. She hugged herself as she turned back to the wall. The vise around her heart tightened. Would she ever crack this case? Ever bring closure to the always-present questions surrounding her family’s death? Would she ever be able to move on to the next season of life, and all the promise it held: A husband, a family? Or would she be like her adorable, but completely isolated neighbor—alone, tethered to this wall for the rest of eternity?

  She pushed herself up from the desk and looked again at the wall as a wave of fatigue washed over her. Sighing, she put down the now-empty goblet. Kate was right. Evelyn needed sleep—desperately. She pulled her shirt over her head, crossed the hardwood floor to her room and wrestled out of her jeans. With zero regard for her nightly routine, she crawled under the extra-heavy down cover and closed her eyes.

  Within two heartbeats, Evelyn was asleep.

  It seemed like only minutes later that shrill sounds jostled her from a dreamless sleep. For a moment, she lay there in the dark, fully awake, staring at the ceiling fan swirling on its axis. Another scream from her phone jerked her upright. Reaching for the obnoxious device, she cast a peek at the red digits of the alarm clock sitting on her nightstand: 4:00 a.m. Shit. This couldn’t be good.

  “Davis,” she said, already rolling out of bed and reaching for her jeans.

  “We have another one,” Kessler’s voice barked through the phone. “I need you down here. Now.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  EVELYN’S STOMACH CHURNED. This marked the third case mimicking a family annihilator in as many weeks. One was uncommon, two completely unheard of. Now a third one. Crap. If the chief wasn’t thinking serial killer before, he certainly was now.

  She drove through the black wrought-iron gates of their latest victims’ home. Her MINI Cooper’s tires crunched. She pulled up next to Ryan’s FJ Cruiser, threw her car into Park and took a deep breath. She got out of her vehicle and faced the house. Even darkness couldn’t hide its beauty. It wasn’t quite grandiose, but it was close. She sighed, then hunched her shoulders against the cold wind and marched toward the curving marble steps that lead to the ornate glass doors. Ryan met her on the top stair.

  “You look like hell,” she said.

  “Right back at’cha, babe.”

  He handed her a steaming cup of coffee. “Compliments of Kate.”

  “I love your wife.” She inhaled the strong aroma, grateful for her friend.

  “Not more than I do.” He smirked and jerked his thumb toward the door. “Our babysitter is inside.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Evelyn raised her eyebrows and looked toward the house. Her heart raced a little at the thought of seeing Agent Moretti. Where did that come from? “When did he arrive?”

  “About ten minutes ago.”

  “Great. Who’s heading up the CSI team?” She didn’t want to think about the handsome Fed any more than she had to.

  “Jake Campbell.”

  Perfect. He knew his stuff. She raised her cup, sipped the molten liquid and stepped into the house.

  They found Jake and Marcus in the oversize living room to the left of the grand foyer. A white marble mantel framed the walk-in fireplace that took up half the far wall. Two purple wingback chairs flanked it. A matching set mirrored them. Above the mantel sat a large portrait. The family’s faces smiled at them. Twin frames sat to the right, showcasing the children.

  “Jake?”

  As Ryan and Evelyn approached, the CSI officer rose from his place in front of one of the chairs. He barely looked old enough to drive, and still had the acne to prove it, but he was one hell of an investigator. If Evelyn had her choice, she’d handpick him to be her CSI lead every time.

  “Hey, guys,” Jake said.

  “Agent,” Evelyn said and nodded in Marcus’s direction. How was it possible for him to look so good even just after 4:00 a.m.?

  “Evelyn.” Marcus smiled, pulling heat from every cell within her.

  “What have we got?” she asked, turning her attention to Jake.

  Jake shook his head. “Whoever did this is certifiably nuts.”

  “You won’t get any argument there,” Ryan agreed.

  Jake motioned for them to circle the chair. Evelyn looked at the man’s head, or what was left of it, and her stomach heaved. Should’ve grabbed a scone before chugging that coffee. She swallowed hard. Just like the last male victim, his head had been blown off. And just like the last scene, the wife lay at her husband’s feet.

  Jake knelt, and they followed suit. With the tip of his pen, he pointed to a crimson stain seeping through the woman’s green silk pajama top. “See here. She was shot in the heart, then stabbed repeatedly. Twenty-seven times.”

  “Holy shit,” Ryan said. “You sure?”

  “See the lack of blood spray?” Jake pivoted on his toes and pointed to the wall. “If her heart was still beating while the unsub inflicted these wounds, there’d be more blood splatter.”

  Ryan turned away from the woman’s mutilated body. “That’s truly disgusting.”

  Evelyn whistled. “That’s a whole lot of rage.”

  “He’s escalating his pace.” Marcus looked up, concern in his face.

  She rose. “And we’ve still got nothing.”

  Evelyn scanned the room. Something was missing. Rather, not something, but someone.

  “Where are the children?”

  Jake shook his head, eyes downcast. “They’re upstairs. Both smothered in their beds.”

  Evelyn glanced at Ryan, who’d lifted his eyes to meet hers. Their guy was accelerating his pace and switching modes of killing with each new crime scene. That didn’t fit the typical serial, unless he was taunting them with the switch-up. Was something pushing hi
m? Was he ramping up to something? Or was he just enjoying the power and needed more to get off? If so, he was more sadistic than she’d originally thought—and that was saying a lot.

  * * *

  EVELYN HAD PUT a rush on the autopsy, but hadn’t expected the results so soon. It wasn’t the best scenario in the world to be called to after lunch, but death didn’t care about convenience. The doc had called. So here they were, headed to the icebox. She hoped Marcus could keep his lunch down. The man hadn’t left their side since this morning.

  The autopsy room’s two glass doors vanished into the recesses of the wall. The cool air slammed into Evelyn as the morgue’s distinct smell rode on its chilly gust. Despite years of visiting this place, it still made her insides crawl. Every time she stepped over the threshold, her own loss pounded against the back of her throat. She couldn’t prevent her mind from rushing back to the first time she’d been in a morgue. The smell of the chemicals. The bone-chilling cold. The sound of the slab being pulled open, and her father’s lifeless body being displayed for her to identify. She shuddered. The sooner they could get this over with, the better.

  With his back to them, Dr. Chapman placed a heart onto the scale and stepped away. Green numbers jumped around until landing on a final weight. He scribbled something onto a legal pad sitting on the metal table.

  “Hey, Doc,” Ryan said.

  Chapman turned and smiled grimly at them. He used the back of his hand to push his goggles up his wide nose. Wisps of unruly white hair stuck out from beneath his cap. He reminded Evelyn of Santa Claus—only creepy.

  Marcus stepped forward and extended his hand toward Chapman. “Special Agent Marcus Moretti.”

  Chapman looked at him and scowled, raising hands encased in bloodied gloves. Marcus dropped his hand and quickly stepped back.

  “Yes, I’m well aware of who you are, Agent.”

  Evelyn resisted the urge to laugh. There wasn’t enough money in the world to convince her to shake hands with Chapman when he was elbow-deep in an autopsy. Ryan pressed his lips together, no doubt swallowing his own laughter.

  “Anything useful?” Evelyn walked along the line of covered bodies, scanned the toe tags and stopped in front of a foot marked “Jason Howard.”

  Chapman sighed. “I wish I could help you bag this guy, Detective Davis. Truly, I do, but he was very thorough.”

  “I don’t think thorough is quite how I’d put it. Psychotic, yes—thorough, no.”

  “Easy, tiger,” Ryan whispered into her ear.

  Marcus chuckled, a deep dimple appearing in his cheek. Evelyn flushed.

  Apparently she’d pulled the feisty card this morning, yet Ryan was as calm as a Seattle summer day.

  Chapman let out a long breath. “I agree with your assessment, Detective. The guy is a psychopath. Anyone who would do such atrocious things to innocent children is a monster in my book. But that doesn’t change my findings. He was meticulous. This guy left nothing—no traces, no hair follicles, no blood, no fingerprints—at the scenes, or on any of the victims, for that matter. My guess is this isn’t his first rodeo. But, as you always say, Detective Davis, the dead don’t lie.”

  She nodded. Marcus tilted his head, a question flashing across his face. She ignored it and focused on the doctor’s report.

  Chapman turned his attention back to the organ on the scale. “I’m confident you’ll find this guy—just let them tell you their story.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE NEXT MORNING Ryan blew into the bull pen like a volcano ready to explode. His jacket flapped around his shoulder harness as he stormed toward her. Evelyn’s eyebrows shot up. She could count on one hand how many times she’d seen him this spun up. Whatever had set him off must’ve been good...or really bad. From her seat, she held up the cup of coffee she’d poured for him and waited.

  He grabbed the mug and shoved the Seattle Times under her nose. “Have you seen this horseshit?”

  “No, I can’t say that I have.”

  He marched around her desk and dropped into his chair. Thumping down his mug, caramel liquid splashing over the sides, he ripped open the paper and started reading.

  “‘Dear Editor—you’d be wise to advise the ever-glorious Seattle police force that I will kill one of your precious Seattle families every week until she figures it out. Think fast, sweetheart.’” Ryan slammed down the paper. His eyes grew dark. “Why would they print this shit? And who the hell is she?”

  “Evelyn is.” Marcus walked up, coffee and doughnut in hand, and sat on the corner of her desk. What was with him sitting on people’s desks? Didn’t his mother teach him manners? But she couldn’t ignore how exceptionally sexy he looked in his tailored tan pants, crisp white shirt, leather shoulder harness and red tie. And those curls. Good god, those curls. She shook her head at the rogue thought.

  Get it together.

  “What?” Evelyn pushed back her chair, creating distance between her and the handsome man invading her personal space. She hadn’t meant to be sharp, but the lack of sleep and the heavy weight of this case chipped away at her normally poised, self-controlled demeanor. Its eerie similarity—however vague it might be—to her own family’s murder unsettled her. Add the fact that the fifteenth anniversary of her family’s death was just a few weeks away, and it was no wonder that she was a bit impatient with Marcus.

  But now she was noticing how sexy he looked? Good grief.

  She glanced up at him. He smiled and her heart took off.

  “You can’t possibly know that he’s referring to me.”

  His shoulders raised in a slight shrug. “True. I don’t. But I’d bet my pension on it.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite,” Ryan said. “Talk, Mr. Special Agent Man.”

  She shifted in her chair, lips curled in a tiny smile. She enjoyed the play between the two men, and Ryan was in rare form today.

  Marcus swallowed a chunk of blueberry doughnut before answering. “It’s Marcus. No need for formality. We’re a team now, right?”

  Now that she hadn’t expected from the Fed. Trying to take over—yes. Putting them all on equal ground—no. She reached for her coffee.

  Ryan nodded. “Fair enough. Marcus it is. Start talking.”

  “It’s deductive reasoning, really. Anyone with half a brain and access to a computer can do a search and find the names of the SPD detectives.”

  Evelyn snapped her fingers. She smiled at Marcus, picking up on his train of thought, and cut in. “Then all they’d have to do is call in an anonymous tip and ask to speak to the lead detective.”

  “Exactly,” Marcus agreed. “The poor shmuck on the other end of the line—no offense—”

  “None taken.” Ryan shrugged, the fire in his eyes tapering.

  “—gives Evelyn’s name out, and bam. The bastard knows who the lead detective is.”

  “Holy shit.” Ryan rubbed the back of his neck. “It can’t be that easy.”

  Marcus smirked. “It is. I called in to check my theory myself.”

  A laugh erupted from Evelyn before she could swallow it. “You didn’t.”

  “I did.” Marcus winked and got up from the edge of her desk. He walked to the old desk they’d dug up for him and sat.

  “But why?” He looked at Evelyn pointedly. “Why go through all that trouble to single you out?”

  Evelyn shuddered. The thought of this psychopath zeroing in on her made her blood run cold. “I have no idea.”

  * * *

  LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Evelyn left the station, having volunteered to do the Starbucks run. The moment she disappeared down the stairs, Ryan turned to Marcus. “Why are you really here?”

  He looked at Ryan, deliberating how to respond. Someone didn’t ask that type of question unless they already knew the answer. It annoyed Marcus, but he got it. He’d do
ne the same thing many times over. So why was Ryan asking? Marcus watched him closely. Unless Ryan was trying to vet him to see how up-front and honest he’d be—which again, Marcus understood perfectly.

  “Why do you ask? It should be obvious. The mayor called, the Bureau answered.”

  “Bullshit.” Ryan’s eyes flashed. “Evelyn’s not the only one with friends in the Bureau. I reached out to my buddy, looked into you, just like you did us. Rumor has it you don’t usually consult with local, lowly law enforcement. You head up a special task-force team. One that would benefit from an individual with skills like Evelyn’s.”

  Marcus didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. Not without lying to this officer’s face, which he wouldn’t do. He already respected the detective too much. But he couldn’t show his cards yet. He wasn’t ready.

  Evelyn’s reputation was nearing legendary status. The Seattle field office had seen to that. Before he’d come along, she’d been approached three times to join the FBI. She’d shot them down each time, which puzzled him. Why would such a promising detective, with her off-the-chart closing rates and primal instincts, scoff at the chance to work with the Bureau? There was more room for her to excel and move up. Plus she’d have bigger cases, larger fish to fry. Most people jumped at that. Yet she’d rejected the offers. Why? From his experience, there was only one reason for someone to turn down such a prestigious offer: something was buried in their past that they didn’t want uncovered.

  So when the call had come in to join forces with the Seattle PD, he’d grabbed the opportunity to work with her. He could kill two birds with one stone: unravel the mystery that was Evelyn Davis and bring her onto his team, and help the SPD bag the serial killer stalking their city. Win for him, win for them.

  Ryan threw him a hard look. “She won’t accept whatever offer you have up your sleeve. This is her house. We are her family.”

  “First, I don’t think of law enforcement as lowly. I happen to respect what you do. Second, I don’t expect Evelyn to accept an offer at this stage in the game. She’s turned down my predecessor three times. I’m here to help with this case.”