Night had fallen, bleak and sodden. By the time Natalie had settled Bunny into a shelter and driven across town to the Buckner residence, the media vans had departed and yellow police tape cordoned off the property. She preferred to be alone at a crime scene, where she could think without disruption. She wiped her shoes on the welcome mat and went inside.
Brandon, who was staying with his parents across town, had given the BLPD permission to search the entire property on the night of the murder, but since Luke didn’t want there to be any gray areas, Natalie had filed affidavits and secured an extensive warrant for the Buckner residence. Now they could come and go as they pleased.
The living room was modern and understated. Nothing too garish or bold. No stripes, plaids, or primary colors. The stairs creaked under her light steps. The banister felt sturdy in her hand. At the top of the landing, she slipped on a pair of disposable gloves and headed for the master bedroom at the end of the hall.
Cherry modern bedroom set. King-size bed. Egyptian cotton linens. Neat as a pin. On the nightstand was a pair of women’s designer glasses and a stack of books.
Natalie picked up a volume of nineteenth-century poetry. The pages were faded and worn from repeated readings. She examined the other titles. Dead Souls by Nikolai Gogol, Lady Chatterley’s Lover by D. H. Lawrence, Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse, Tolstoy’s War and Peace. The baby books were at the bottom of the stack.
No wonder Brandon thought Daisy was bored by him.
Next, Natalie activated Daisy’s Kindle Fire. The two breakup ebooks she’d purchased were there at the top of the list on the home page. Unread.
Natalie walked over to Daisy’s brass-handled bureau and sifted through her underthings—plain cotton panties, sports bras, socks, hose. Very practical. The second drawer contained the more sensual stuff—silky camisoles, mesh-back panties, lacy thongs, push-up bras, delicate teddies. Everything was lightweight and airy, made of the softest fabric imaginable. Next came the pajama drawer, then a sweater drawer.
Natalie crossed the room and entered the walk-in closet. She flicked on the overhead light. There were two distinct sides—one for Brandon, the other for Daisy. She inhaled the acerbic scent of cedar and rifled through Daisy’s outfits on their wooden hangers. Skirts and dresses, all colors of the rainbow. Silk and cashmere, cocktail attire and dressy casual. A camel-hair winter coat and a goose-down parka. Silky kimonos and chiffon robes. Little black dresses and formal wear. Daisy had built herself a serious wardrobe, one to match all occasions and moods.
Downstairs, she took a seat behind Daisy’s desk and powered up her laptop. She combed through Daisy’s emails and found an exchange between Principal Truitt and Daisy regarding Riley’s status. No new information surfaced. There were faculty emails discussing the prom committee and other school events. Also, Daisy had contacted her minister, the Reverend Thomas Grimsby, trying to set up an appointment for next week. She wanted to meet with him—urgently, it seemed—on a private matter. Natalie made a mental note to follow this up.
Daisy’s text messages to Brandon were brief and mostly revolved around domestic issues—the car needs oil, call the roofing contractor for an estimate.
Natalie rummaged through the desk drawers and found Daisy’s daily planner. She rifled through the pages until she’d reached the calendar section. There were plenty of obstetrician appointments, dental appointments, and beauty appointments. Also, oddly, scrawled throughout the calendar on random dates, going back seven or eight months, were the initials, “T&I.” Natalie puzzled over what this could possibly mean. Teaching and instruction?
She did an online search for “T&I” and came up with a list of acronyms that didn’t seem to fit. Transportation and Infrastructure. Trade and Industry. Technology and Innovation. Team and Individual. Testing and Inspection. Teachers and Interpreters. Toledo and Indiana Railroad.
She sighed and set the issue aside.
There were other appointments jotted on Daisy’s calendar, various committee meetings, faculty meetings, student activities, and other school events—along with her many beauty treatments. Haircuts at the Cutting Edge, mani-pedi’s at Zoey’s Salon, bikini waxes at the Palace Spa—scheduled at regular intervals, six to eight weeks apart, beginning approximately nine months ago.
Natalie put down the planner and checked her watch. Luke was waiting for her back at the station—he’d requested a debrief about today’s findings. As she shifted in her seat, ready to give up, she felt the bump with her right foot. She pushed Daisy’s roller chair back and peered underneath the desk. Shoved into a corner, behind the woven wastebasket, was a brown leather briefcase.
Natalie retrieved it, then propped the heavy briefcase on her lap and unzipped it. She scooped out a heavy handful of paperwork—student essays, test papers, lesson plans, faculty meeting schedules, curriculum notes. There was more paperwork inside, straining the briefcase. She took it all out and sorted through the mess, but nothing stood out.
She dug around in the inner hidden compartments, unzipping and probing them all. Finally, she found a sealed manila envelope and slit it open with a letter opener.
Inside was a paperback book titled Tristan und Isolde, by Richard Wagner.
Natalie recalled the classic tragedy from her college days, a medieval love story about star-crossed lovers, retold in countless manuscripts. Isolde, the daughter of the King of Ireland, was betrothed to British King Mark, who sent his nephew, Tristan, to escort her back to England. The couple fell in love en route.
Tristan and Isolde. T&I.
But there was more. Pressed between the pages of the book, folded in half, were several lined sheets of paper. She took them out and spread them across the desk. The love sonnets had been copied by hand, and all were signed, “Love, Tristan.”
21
It was midnight by the time Natalie popped her head inside Luke’s office.
“Yeah. Okay.” He waved her in. He was seated at his desk, talking on the phone. His shoulders sagged under the weight of the unit’s caseload. “Have a seat,” he told her, still on the phone, and she closed the door behind her.
Tonight, Natalie had to sit on her hands to keep from fidgeting. She was dead tired but wide awake, a strange mental state to be in.
Luke hung up. “That was the chief. The media’s way up his ass right now. News outlets have picked up on the story. It’s going national. Did you know there were satellite vans camped out on the village green? Each time I leave the station, some reporter will shove a microphone in my face and try not to look too excited about it. Phones have been ringing off the hook. Now the mayor’s concerned we don’t look like such a warm-and-fuzzy vacation destination anymore.…”
“What does he expect us to do about it?” Natalie asked.
“Nothing. I told him, nobody’s pressuring my people. We don’t take shortcuts. We don’t have the manpower to work the case any faster.”
“So … just continue with the investigation?”
“Right. I told the chief we’re working as hard as we can.” He sipped his bottled water. “What do you have for me?”
She handed him the evidence bag with the love sonnets tucked inside.
“What’s this?”
“I found it hidden away in Daisy’s briefcase. Those are love sonnets, as far as I can tell … one looks like it was copied from Shakespeare, I don’t know, I’m not an expert. A couple of originals. All signed ‘Tristan.’ A reference to Tristan and Isolde.”
Luke gave her a blank look.
“It’s a medieval love triangle. Tristan and Isolde fell in love while traveling from Ireland to England, where she was supposed to marry the king.”
He put down the evidence bag. “So Daisy was having an affair. Is that what this means?”
“Either that, or she had a secret admirer. But then, why keep it hidden from her husband?”
“Who the hell is Tristan?”
“That’s the million-dollar question.” She handed him two oth
er evidence bags. “The handwriting doesn’t match these two samples I found at the Buckner residence. I’m no expert, but see for yourself … there’s no comparison between Tristan’s handwriting and Brandon’s or Riley’s.”
Luke lined the three evidence bags side by side on his desk. “Nope,” he said. “Not a match. But we’ll need a handwriting expert to do the comparisons for us.” He handed everything back. “What happened to Tristan and Isolde?”
“It doesn’t end well. They died of broken hearts.”
Luke nodded. “Don’t most love stories end that way?”
“Which way—crying yourself to sleep at night with a pint of cookie dough ice cream?” she said with a smirk.
“Or you could take the low road and drink yourself into oblivion.”
“You tried that, huh?”
“Oblivion is overrated,” he said with a smirk. “After the divorce, I got so drunk once, I shaved off an eyebrow. True story.”
Natalie smiled. “I’m numb to your confessions by now.”
He held her eye a beat too long, and she felt the delicate tension between them. He’d kissed her once, on the day of her high school graduation—kissed her on the cheek, and it felt like a bee sting. She hadn’t wanted to wash her face for weeks.
“Anyway,” Luke said. “What does your gut tell you about this Tristan guy?”
“First of all, Daisy’s the last person I’d ever suspect of having an affair. And Grace reinforced that—she said Daisy loved Brandon and couldn’t wait to be a mom.”
He watched her carefully. “But?”
“But it’s confusing. I mean, she was in the middle of cooking when this happened. Looking up baby things online. Very domestic. But she also bought The Breakup Bible, and she owns some pretty sexy lingerie from Victoria’s Secret. And for approximately the past year, she’s been following a strict beauty and grooming routine … manicures, pedicures, leg waxes, a Brazilian. You live with someone for twelve years, my sense is you’d feel comfortable enough letting your legs go unshaved for a few days.”
“Until Tristan and Isolde,” Luke said.
“Right.”
“But wouldn’t Brandon notice the sudden uptick in grooming?”
“You said so yourself … if they were on a sex schedule while she was ovulating, sex can become pretty routine. Maybe she told him she got a Brazilian to keep things interesting? Anyway, let’s assume she was having an affair,” Natalie went on. “Let’s assume it started nine months ago, and this affair was so unexpected … so out of character for her … she couldn’t even tell her best friend about it. She was deeply conflicted. She was struggling with it. But then, once she discovered she was pregnant, let’s say a month or two ago, she had to break off the affair to save her marriage.”
“Which would explain The Breakup Bible.”
“To help her cope with her choice.”
“She loved him?”
“Maybe she loved them both,” Natalie speculated.
“A love triangle? You think?”
“Hiding it from her best friend. Hiding it from Brandon.” She shrugged. “Still waters run deep.”
“Because this strengthens two new possibilities,” Luke said, folding his hands on his desk. “Either Daisy’s lover killed her, or else Brandon found out about the affair and lashed out in a fit of rage.”
She tugged on her lower lip. She hadn’t wanted to go there. But you had to be objective. “I’m not so sure about that,” she said hesitantly. “Brandon seemed so knocked off his axis when we found her lying in the kitchen. I doubt he’s that good an actor.”
“I don’t want to believe it, either,” Luke said. “But you never know. Plenty of people lie. Some are lousy liars. Others are very good liars.”
She couldn’t dispute that. It was a chilling thought. What if Brandon had killed Daisy? But there was no proof. It was just wild speculation at this point.
“Shit,” she said quietly. “We have to talk about this, Luke.”
“Talk about what?”
“This is our friend. A few days ago, we were all kidding around, and now his life is ruined. And the possibility that he might’ve done something…” She shuddered.
“Look. We all like Brandon. Love the guy. But we have to go where the facts lead us. Period.”
They sat there dully, watching the potential train wreck unfold before them.
“This is your first homicide,” Luke reminded her. “You’re still feeling your way through. But it’ll come. Trust me. The answers will come eventually.”
Natalie cringed. “Eventually?”
“Be patient. Put your blinders on and trust the process.”
“Use the fork, Luke,” she quipped, an old childhood joke.
He smiled. “Enough of your clever words.”
Then a worn-out lethargy filled them both. The mood tonight was grim.
“So, again,” he said, “who’s Tristan?”
“Getting the baby’s DNA results should help us narrow it down.”
“Right. Barry says it’s going to take a few weeks, though. Okay.” Luke sat forward. “Let’s continue interviewing Daisy’s friends and colleagues tomorrow, see if they know anything about this guy, Tristan. Let’s track down the sonuvabitch.”
“Okay.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah,” she said. “About the markings on Teresa’s grave? It’s called hypergraphia. I looked it up. Some people have an obsessive need to write things down. It’s like being a hoarder, only instead of hoarding belongings, they hoard words.”
“Hypergraphia?” Luke repeated.
“It’s been tenuously linked to epilepsy, bipolar disorder, head injuries, or other mental illnesses. Also certain medical conditions. Basically anything that spurs activity in the frontal lobe, which controls speech. It’s a rare condition. They don’t know much about it yet, but antidepressants have been known to help.”
“Which means whoever did this could’ve been treated for a psychiatric disorder or a medical condition in the past,” he said. “We should make a list of all the psychiatrists in the area who specialize in hypergraphia.”
“It’s so rare, I doubt we’ll find any in the immediate vicinity. But there are a couple of experts … one in Massachusetts, one at Johns Hopkins. I’ll contact them and see if they can provide us with any information,” Natalie said. “In the meantime, I’ve asked Lenny to digitize the photographs I took of Teresa’s headstone and see if he can decipher any other words or messages. If somebody’s leaving us messages, then we need to know what he’s trying to say.”
“Our priority’s the Buckner case.”
“Of course.” She noticed her fingers were trembling. She’d had too much coffee today. No way was she going to sleep tonight.
“Did you eat yet?” he asked.
“Eat?” She cracked a smile. “What does that mean? You mean food? Because I haven’t seen any of that in a while.”
He laughed. “Right.” He opened a paper bag on his desk, and she accepted half a Reuben sandwich from him.
“Thanks.” She took a bite and said, “Mmm. Tastes good.”
“Feel better?”
There was an awkward moment when they looked at each other with feelings of warmth that came from shared loyalties and confidences. His confessions had taken place over the years in hushed whispers, as if they were inside a confessional booth instead of a bar or a party at work.
“First homicide I ever caught,” Luke said. “The victim was six years old. Curly brown hair. Big brown eyes. I think about it every year on the date she went missing. We searched the town and surrounding area. We dragged the lake. We zeroed in on the mother’s boyfriend and found the girl’s body in an abandoned building. Purple bruises around her neck in the shape of a man’s hands. We tracked him down, but he saved us a lot of trouble by shooting himself point-blank. Easier that way. Less paperwork.”
She watched him simmer over the memory of it.
“That case p
ut me in touch with myself. It changed my life. I became attuned to the ugliness that surrounds us,” Luke said. “I finally realized it’s part of human nature to want to destroy, and that I’m never going to defeat all the bad guys in the world. But I can try to beat them in my little corner of the world.”
She studied his face. She knew that look. It was a look that said he was about to reveal something even more personal. Whenever he got these urges, Luke’s professional demeanor would slip away and his vulnerable side would reveal itself.
“My relationship with Audrey died a slow, agonizing death. During our last year together, we were both on autopilot, but I couldn’t bring myself to admit it. We kept trying to reignite the old flame, but by then it was snuffed out for good. In the end, we decided to put our marriage out of its misery. Just kill it quick. Before it grew back.”
Natalie smiled sympathetically.
“One day, when Skye was a toddler, she crawled up on my chest while I was lying down and sat there gazing down at me, her sweet face hovering above mine like an angelic moon … and I knew she was onto me. Onto my falseness. Onto my hypocrisy. She could read through all the bullshit. She knew that I’d totally fallen out of love with her mom. She had that toddler’s piercing gaze, like a hawk staring down its prey. And the big lie came tumbling down, and I couldn’t hide it anymore. Because my own kid had ferreted out the truth. And so I moved out the following week, and then a few months later … Audrey took Skye to Los Angeles with her.” He sat rubbing the nape of his neck. “The hardest part was picking up the pieces. Booze helped for a while. You get used to that smoky flavor. The burn going down the throat—that’s addictive. After my wife took my daughter away, I became disgusted with myself. I was divorced and alone. I couldn’t be a significant part of Skye’s life anymore, so I used to hang out at the Barkin’ Dawg, where I wouldn’t feel so isolated. But it’s a paradox, because booze tastes like loneliness.”
“But you pulled your shit together eventually, didn’t you?” she reminded him. “After the eyebrow incident?”
He smiled ironically at her. “I had to prove to myself that I was a better man than my father. I was five when he lost his job. Lost his mind. Lost us. One day, he stopped coming home from work. My mother watched his dinners going cold, night after night. When she finally got up the courage to ask him where he’d been, he became abusive. He never hit her, but he yelled and kicked things. A month before he walked out on us, I asked him, ‘Do you love me?’ You know what he said?”
Trace of Evil Page 15
