Deadly Readings

by Laura Bradford

  Mitch looked at the picture of his parents sitting on the right-hand corner of his desk. His father had been so proud to wear the uniform, so in love with Mitch’s mother. It was hard sometimes to remember what it was like when they were both alive. He remembered all the baseball games his dad had missed when Mitch was a kid because an emergency call had come in at the last minute, sending him out the door and into his squad car. For so many years Mitch hadn’t understood, seeing his dad’s absence as a lack of interest. But as he’d gotten older and made his way through high school, he had finally realized what a hero his dad really was.

  He shook his head quickly and forced his gaze back onto the photograph of last night’s victim. Seventeen years old. A baby! And the look on her mother’s face when she saw her daughter lying on the beach . . .

  Mitch remembered the day the phone rang like it was yesterday. Dad had been shot while crossing the street to pick up his uniform at the dry cleaners. No suspect. No motive.

  The funeral had been a blur; so many people had come to the church that a local news station had set up a big screen in the parking lot for the people who couldn’t fit inside for the service. His mom had been so quiet through it all, doing her best to get Mitch through the whole ordeal.

  But his mom was the one who needed help. As days turned into months and no suspect was ever charged in Dad’s death, she’d become more and more withdrawn. Until one day she simply didn’t wake up. Although there had been a fancy medical word that explained her death, Mitch knew it was a broken heart that had killed his mom. His dad’s killer had struck twice.

  “Hell will freeze over before I let that happen to these families.” His teeth clenched over the sentence he needed to hear as much as he needed to say it. He simply couldn’t let another family live life without answers.

  Slowly, he picked through the pictures, taking mental notes as he looked at each one. There was a ton of work to do. The medical examiner’s report on the victims had been similar. Each girl had died as a result of a sharp blow to the back of her head. The weapon used was wooden, as evidenced by a small amount of splintered wood found inside the wounds.

  He looked again at each picture closely, searching for any additional clues that might link the two homicides together. But the mountain of paperwork on his desk made it hard to spread everything out.

  Mitch ran his hand across his eyes and through his hair. He needed to bring some semblance of order to the evidence, something that would enable him to go back and forth between each case with ease. He pressed the intercom button on the bottom of his desk phone and waited.

  “Yes, Detective?”

  “Could you get your hands on a card table for me? I need a flat, open space to work on right now and my desk is trashed.”

  “Sure thing.”

  As he waited, Mitch gathered up all the personal information he had obtained on each victim and walked over to the empty chair across from his desk. On top of that, he placed the crime scene photographs.

  A soft knock at the door alerted him to the arrival of the card table he’d requested and he quickly transferred both piles to the table, systematically laying each photograph across the top edge. After careful consideration, he reorganized them in more cohesive groups—body shots in one area, scene photographs in the other. Once the pictures were arranged correctly, he taped personal information pertaining to each of the two victims above the table and then turned on his recorder and held it to his mouth.

  “Two females. Twenty-four and seventeen years of age. Both natives of Ocean Point. The first victim was killed in her apartment; the second victim was killed on the beach. Both murders happened in the late evening. Apparent cause of death for both victims: blunt force trauma to the back of the head. Weapon in both instances appears to have been wooden in nature.”

  He studied each photograph carefully, looking from one victim to the other as he tried to see any visual similarities that existed between the two.

  “One blonde, one redhead. Very different build and size . . .” His words trailed off as he leaned in closer, studying the full-body shots more closely. In both cases, the index finger on the victim’s right hand was extended.

  “Victims trying to provide a clue?” he stated into the recorder, only to shut it off when he was done. Stepping to the side, he brought his full attention onto the shot depicting Susie Carlson’s lifeless body. In the teenager’s picture, the only thing in the path of her finger was the beach.

  “Great,” he mumbled. “I’ve got an appliance and a beach . . . outstanding clues there, Mitch. It’s no wonder they promoted you to detective.”

  He knew he should feel like an idiot for talking to himself, but he didn’t. It was a habit—one that always seemed to kick into place when chasing his own tail.

  He needed a break. He needed a fresh perspective.

  Pushing back in his chair, he wandered down the hallway and into the department’s lounge, the promise of caffeine in a can guiding his feet toward the small refrigerator and the case of cola the chief had stashed inside. When he’d procured a can from the top shelf, he started back toward his office, only to stop at the chief’s door instead.

  He knocked on the frame. “Chief? Got a sec?”

  “Oh, hey there, Mitch. Sure, take a seat.” Kevin Maynard pointed to the empty chair in front of his desk and leaned back in his own. “Any progress in the investigations yet?”

  Mitch took the seat indicated by his boss and released a frustrated breath against his hand. “I’m confident both these murders are connected. They have to be. There’s just too many similarities for it to be a coincidence. The problem is, they’re not pointing me in any one direction yet.”

  Pointing. Once again, it came back to the fingers. It had to be significant. His mind trailed off momentarily as he thought again about the position of the index finger on each victim’s right hand.

  “Mitch . . .”

  At the sound of his name, he snapped back into the here-and-now.

  “Mitch, we’ve got to get to the bottom of this immediately. Today alone, I’ve fielded calls from just about every member of the council expressing their concern over the impact these crimes are going to have on our tourist season.” Chief Maynard leaned forward against his desk and rested his chin on tented fingers. “I haven’t heard from Mayor Brown yet, but I’m sure his call can’t be far off. You know he’s not going to be pleased with the scrutiny this town is going to be under.”

  Mitch rose to his feet and headed for the door. “I’ll get back at it right now.”

  “You do that. And, if all goes well, we’ll be getting you some more backup in the future.”

  “Backup?”

  “Remember that request I put in with the council for more manpower in the department?” At Mitch’s nod, the chief continued, a self-satisfied smile inching its way across his face. “Two murders in less than a week should make their agreement a little more forthcoming, wouldn’t you say?”

  If Mitch replied though, he wasn’t sure. His thoughts were already back on the information he’d arranged across the top of the card table in his office. “I better get back at it, Chief. Catch you later.”

  This time, when he sat beside the card table, he opted to focus on the background information on each victim rather than the photographs. Lifting the recorder from the table, he pressed the silver button and held it to his mouth.

  “Victim number one was an alumni of Ocean Point High School. Victim number two just completed her junior year at OPHS. Both victims were active members of St. Theresa’s Parish.”

  Father Leahy.

  He depressed the button and lowered the recorder to his side. Maybe the elderly priest could shed some light on the victims—something the families might have missed. He maneuvered his way around the card table and over to his desk, but before he could pick up the phone, his intercom buzzed.

  He pushed the button on the side of the phone. “I really can’t be disturbed right now.”

>   “I’m sorry, Detective, but I’ve got an Elise Jenkins on the phone and she says its imperative she speak with you.”

  “Imperative, eh?” He heard the sarcasm in his voice and instantly regretted it. The woman was doing her job, plain and simple. He really couldn’t fault her for that. “Okay, put her through.”

  When his phone rang, he picked it up, the tone of his voice caught somewhere between a desire to be friendly and a need to keep it short. “What can I do for you, Elise?”

  “Detective Burns. I overhead something at the scene last night that I thought might be of interest to you.”

  He closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment to savor the way her voice matched her sweet face. “Shoot . . .”

  “The young lady who arrived with the parents—she said that she and the victim had been on the boardwalk earlier in the evening . . . having their fortunes read.”

  His eyes flew open. “Are you sure?” he asked, as yet another connection between the victims pushed its way to the surface.

  “She said that her cousin had been warned of danger. And when you consider the fact that Susie Carlson had been told the same thing by the same fortune-teller, there’s got to be something going on, don’t you think?”

  “How do you know about Susie?” he snapped. “Who gave you that information?”

  “I’m a good reporter,” she retorted.

  There was no doubt about that.

  He pulled his free hand down his face in an effort to get a leash on his growing agitation. So, she knew about the fortune-teller. Did it really matter?

  “Anything else?” he finally asked.

  “No, that’s it for now.”

  He was about to hang up when he decided to ask one final question. “Miss Jenkins? Can I ask why you brought this to me instead of running with it in the paper first?”

  “Because I think we can accomplish more if we work together.”

  “Together,” he repeated. “We’ll see. Anyway, thanks for the call, I really appreciate it.”

  After he returned the phone to its cradle, he couldn’t help but feel a measure of disappointment that the conversation was over. Maybe when the investigation was wrapped up, he could try to get to know her a little better . . .

  He turned back to the card table and wrote the words “fortune-teller” in big red letters across his notepad then grabbed the phone book from his desk and looked up the number of the murdered teenager. When the girl’s father answered the phone, Mitch identified himself and asked to speak with the cousin Elise had mentioned.

  A few moments later, Mitch heard the phone being handed to someone else.

  “This is Cindy’s cousin, Barbara. How can I help you?”

  He did his best to keep his voice as nonthreatening as possible in the hopes of making the voice in his ear less fearful. “I understand that you and Cindy had your fortunes told on the boardwalk last night. Is that true?”

  “Y-yes. I-I pretty much forced her to do it, even though she told me she didn’t want to.”

  Mitch waited a few moments while the teenager worked to slow her speech and control the tears she was obviously choking back. “The fortune-teller—Madame Mariah—did a palm reading on Cindy and told her something bad was going to happen.” He could hear the teenager’s voice cracking over the words, her tone becoming more desperate. “And then we came back to Cindy’s house . . . and . . . and . . . she went out for milk and then . . . she got killed.”

  Good old Madame Mariah. He knew she was one of the more colorful psychics up on the boardwalk. Always worth a few laughs. Only this time, what she was saying wasn’t funny.

  “Barbara, I need you to think carefully. Did you or Cindy see anybody that you knew while you were on the boardwalk last night?”

  “I don’t really know anybody here because I’m just visiting from Kentucky. But I remember Cindy waving to some people when we first got there.”

  “Did she tell you who any of the people were?”

  “She said one of them was a guy she worked with at the miniature golf course. Another was a lady who lives on the same street—a Mrs. Anderson, I think. There was a cute guy she introduced me to . . . Jacob . . . Jacob Brown, I think. He was there with his dad.”

  He jotted down the people: coworker, neighbor, Mayor Brown and his son . . .

  “Anybody else?”

  “I think she said the police chief was there too.” Barbara’s voice faded off momentarily, only to regroup even stronger. “Yeah, he was. I remember because she said he always reminds her of Nicolas Cage with a mustache.”

  Mitch smiled. Somehow he thought the chief would get a kick out of that description.

  “Thanks, Barbara. You’ve been a big help.”

  After he hung up, he added Madame Mariah’s name to his notes, then underscored it with a few bold lines.

  Johnson and Associates was working hard to win the approval of the town council to tear down the boardwalk’s first pier. If that happened, Madame Mariah and the rest of the fortune-tellers would be out of business . . .

  He pushed back from his desk and returned to the card table and his recorder. “Could Madame Mariah be trying to prove her importance in the community by predicting tragedies and then playing a part in carrying them out?”

  He depressed the record button as his thoughts began to race in contradictory circles. Why would Madame Mariah want to be involved in something like murder? Wouldn’t it be obvious that a rash of murders tied to psychics would only serve to work in the developer’s favor?

  “Or could someone be using the murders as a way to accelerate the pier’s demise?” he murmured.

  Working on a hunch, Mitch pressed the intercom button.

  “Yes, Detective?”

  “Could you get together a file on Johnson and Associates for me? Any and all information about them, their dealings with the town, past projects, that sort of thing?”

  “I’ll get right on it.”

  He sank into his chair and rubbed at the headache taking up shop behind his temples. The fact that he’d worked straight through lunch didn’t help.

  No, he needed a break. He needed to eat.

  “Two murders in less than a week should make their agreement a little more forthcoming, wouldn’t you say?”

  He bolted upright in his chair at the sound of the chief’s words in his ears. His mouth dry and his heart racing, he thumbed through his notes until he reached the page he sought. Both victims had seen the chief on the boardwalk the night they were killed.

  Chief Maynard was another connection.

  A connection with potential motive . . .

  Chapter Nine

  Wednesday, June 16

  9:00 p.m.

  Elise climbed the short flight of steps from the beach to the boardwalk, eager to learn as much as she could about Madame Mariah. At the very least, their time together would provide essential information for her feature story on fortune-tellers. But if she played her cards right, maybe she’d walk away from the interview with more.

  Much more.

  After all, two young girls were dead after being warned of tragedy by the fortune-teller. Stuff like that didn’t just happen. There was a link and Elise was determined to find it. With or without Madame Mariah’s help.

  She lifted her nose as she cleared the last step and stopped, her senses in overdrive. The smell of cheese steaks and calzones filled the air. Seagulls circled overhead, waiting to swoop down and catch a few crumbs. The pounding surf was a backdrop to the clicking of the game wheels and the friendly, yet persistent, banter of the vendors.

  The pier she was standing on was peppered with a variety of games, some chance and some skill. Spying a favorite game of hers, she crossed the pier.

  “Three frogs for a buck or seven frogs for two bucks,’’ said the heavyset man behind the counter. He had more tattoos on his arms than Elise had seen in a lifetime.

  She handed him a dollar. He pulled three wet rubber frogs out from under the c
ounter and handed them to her. She carefully folded the long, scrawny legs under the body of her first frog and positioned it on the platform in front of her. With careful precision, she slammed the mallet down onto the circular lever and watched as the rubber frog sailed through the air and splashed into the water.

  She repositioned the catapult, loaded the second frog onto the platform, and slammed the mallet down. This time her frog’s head landed on the lily pad, its rubbery legs dangling in the water.

  “Yes!” She shot her hands into the air and did a little dance where she stood.

  “Gotta get it all the way on the lily pad, lady.”

  “Oh, come on,” she protested. “Only his legs are in the water.”

  “That’s two legs too many, lady.”

  One big whack later, Elise finally had a prize to show for her efforts. She selected a pink teddy bear with a cute face and tucked it under her arm.

  “Nice shot, lady.”

  Elise glanced at her wristwatch quickly and froze. She had been so wrapped up in having fun that the whole reason for being there had temporarily escaped her mind. If she didn’t pick up the pace, her visit with Madame Mariah might be in jeopardy, and that was one interview she didn’t want to have to reschedule.

  She looked at the game attendant and patted the bear. “Thanks. It’ll be a nice addition to my apartment.” Then, looking down the pier she said, “Hey, do you know where I can find Madame Mariah’s place?”

  “She’s down there.” The man pointed his tattooed finger in the direction Elise needed to go.

  As she walked, Elise’s eyes were drawn to the amusement rides illuminating the night with their bright, colorful lights. Loud music, piped in through speakers, added to the excitement that emanated from the crowd. Youngsters screamed in delight as they walked carefully across a moving floor on the open-faced fun house. Others screamed in terror as they emerged from a nearby haunted house. Teenagers lined up for the rides that made them sick to their stomachs, and parents shelled out money for the costly tickets.