The Watched (CSI Reilly Steel #4)

by Hill, Casey

  ‘Speak of the devil . . .’ Detective Chris Delaney said with a grin as she emerged through the heavily sprung fire door.

  ‘Hey,’ she greeted, trying her best to conceal the effects of her exertion. ‘Should my ears be burning?’

  ‘You just lost me twenty quid,’ Kennedy, Delaney’s middle-aged overweight partner commented.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I reckoned you’d arrive up already suited and booted,’ the older detective explained.

  ‘What he actually said, again, was that you probably slept in them,’ Chris elaborated, rolling his eyes as this was a very old joke of Kennedy’s and it was by now long past wearing thin.

  ‘Full marks for originality, detective,’ Reilly said, shaking her head. ‘And too bad neither of you will ever get to collect on that bet,’ she added archly, enjoying their familiar banter.

  In truth, Chris Delaney and Pete Kennedy were probably the closest thing she had to friends in Dublin, which spoke volumes. Not so much about the quality of any friendship, but more about the time they’d spent working on challenging, all-consuming investigations. The three had worked side by side since Reilly’s arrival at the GFU and knew each other well. They’d been through a lot over the course of their investigations together – not all of it good – but Reilly knew she could trust these two men with her life, and was secure in the knowledge that the feeling was mutual.

  And while there might once perhaps have been something stronger brewing between her and Chris, she was now pretty sure that ship had sailed. Which, Reilly supposed, might also be contributing toward her increased sense of isolation lately. While nothing was ever said out loud, the relaxed, easygoing nature of her and Chris’s relationship in the early days had since become somewhat more reserved. Probably for the best, Reilly thought. Everyone knew it was never a good idea to mix work and personal stuff.

  Especially in this business. ‘So do you mind if I get to work?’ she said, moving on. ‘What’s the lie of the land? Has the ME been called? And how many . . .?’

  ‘Don’t worry, nobody’s been in or out since the ambulance crew,’ Chris assured her, instinctively realizing that she wasn’t in the mood for joviality. ‘And yes, Karen Thompson’s on her way.’

  He quickly brought her up to date. ‘Dead girl in the bedroom, looks like an OD. Her mother and four-year-old son called it in, they’d just come back after a weekend away . . . poor kid.’ Chris shook his head in dismay, and Reilly grimaced at the thought; she knew all too well how that felt.

  ‘OK, let me get started. Gary and Julius will be here shortly.’

  Reilly pulled her dust suit from the kitbag and began to pull it on, retying her blond hair back in a tight ponytail before pulling the hood up over her head. Perching a face mask on her forehead, she slipped blue plastic covers over her shoes, before picking up her toolbox and heading for the doorway the detectives had pointed out.

  This led into a short hallway with doors left and right. Straight ahead was the bathroom, a cramped windowless space with long shelving above a bath partly obscured by a shower curtain. Vying for space on the shelf were numerous colorful bath toys and toiletries. A kid’s toilet seat and footstool were tucked in between the toilet and the wall.

  As Reilly approached the bedroom she made a quick reconnaissance of the full layout of the flat. To the right was a kitchen living room with a large sliding door that led out to a balcony. In the opposite direction was the first of two bedrooms; the door for the second bedroom was now visible.

  Inside, she immediately saw the double bed and the lifeless figure of a young woman draped across it. The bed was covered in vomit as was the bound and naked body, the pungent stench almost making Reilly recoil. But there were other scents vying for attention too: cheap perfume and alcohol but also cooking – fried onions, garlic and some kind of red meat . . . veal, she decided quickly. The contents of the kitchen would confirm or deny whether her famously sensitive nose and odd knack for cataloguing scents – for the most part a major plus in this particular line of work – had got it right.

  Making her way to the bedside, Reilly took out the camera and began taking pictures. She looked again at the lifeless form on the bed, but there was no indecision or hesitation, she knew exactly what to do and where to start. She moved around the bed, checking the floor and bedside table, but saw nothing visibly out of the ordinary. Then she gave the victim’s body a brief once-over – keenly aware that her hands were tied, so to speak, until Karen Thompson, the medical examiner, arrived to carry out an initial appraisal of the corpse. Afterward, she moved on to the kitchen/diner to look for evidence and try to get a full mental picture of the scene before the other GFU field techs arrived.

  On the small kitchen table were two bowls, with spoon lines of what looked like cream and red syrup streaked across the bottom. Dessert had been served and devoured.

  One look at the stack of crockery by the sink told Reilly that a meal of at least two if not three courses had been shared by two people. She took several shots of the table and the contents of the kitchen from a few different angles.

  Then, temporarily finished with the camera, she set it down on a nearby countertop. Earlier, when zooming in on the table surface for a shot, a thin layer of fine whitish dust had caught her attention. She guessed it was icing sugar (possibly the non-bleached organic kind) or something related to dessert, but would be taking samples in any case. Finding out exactly what was on the menu before the murder occurred could be crucial.

  Taking a pack of sample dishes from her kitbag, Reilly used a cotton bud to pick up some of the fine powder. She also procured a few scraps of the leftover food before assigning a number to each dish, attaching a sticker and then number to the corresponding sample before placing each dish into individual evidence bags.

  Feeling suddenly warm in her dust suit, she wiped her forehead with a latex-clad hand. She guessed the heating in the flat must be set on high, and knew this was something the ME would have to take into account, given how it would affect her time-of-death assessment.

  It was the last thought Reilly had before she collapsed to the ground, and her head crashed against the tiled floor with a sickening thud.

  CHAPTER 2

  Tampa, Florida

  Holly’s little Russian doll, Todd Forrest of the Tampa PD forensic unit decided.

  That was what this crime scene reminded him of: one of those Russian nesting dolls that opened up to reveal another one inside. Babushka dolls, he thought, recalling the correct description. His childhood friend had carried that damn thing with her everywhere until she was eleven years old. Todd shook his head. He didn’t want to think about such memories now, not while he was standing at the scene of a vicious murder. It seemed like bad luck, somehow. Besides, he had a case that needed his focus.

  The south city apartment complex was laid out in four two-story blocks, forming a square surrounding a fountain. Inside the square was a section blocked off by yellow crime scene tape, an area filled with a group of police officers. The top of the fountain was just visible over the heads of the tallest officers, but no one was looking up. All eyes were on the base of it upon which their victim, a brown-haired, green-eyed Russian girl, was splayed.

  She didn’t look older than seventeen and she’d never be older than that now. She’d also been just as cute as the little babushka doll Todd remembered. And like that doll, it looked like someone had been expecting to find a smaller one inside. The girl had been sliced from ribcage to groin, leaving her stomach a gaping mess.

  Todd felt the sudden desire to try to put her back together, good as new, the way you could with a toy, and he had to swallow around a lump in his throat. No one could ever put this poor girl back together. But he set his jaw; what he could do was piece together any clues he found to find the monster who did this, and help nail the son of a bitch to the wall.

  He raked his thick dark hair back from his face and thought, not for the first time, that he needed a haircut.
Between that and the clear blue eyes and fine features he’d inherited from his mother, he’d earned the nickname ‘Pretty’ almost immediately. One of the reasons he got on with his partner, senior forensic investigator Bradley Ford, was that the 42-year-old never used the moniker. Part of it could’ve been that Bradley’s Italian heritage had given him fairly exotic looks that attracted quite a bit of attention too.

  Todd raised the camera and started snapping photographs from every angle. He’d learned to detach himself from what he saw through the lens. If every time he had to document a crime scene he saw the body as a person, he would’ve quit long ago. But too detached was just as dangerous, he knew. His father – esteemed ex-FBI criminal profiler Daniel Forrest – had taught him that.

  So Todd had learned over time to try and balance emotion and professionalism, yet now at thirty-six years old and ten years working with Tampa CSI, he still wasn’t sure he’d gotten that particular equilibrium right.

  He always took a few minutes when he was first on a scene to allow himself to absorb the shock and horror, and grieve for the victim. Then he shut down those emotions and studied the area like he was trained; as a scene with separate components. The dead person was no longer the body of a human being, but remains to be studied and analyzed.

  Once he finished photographing, he retrieved a small glass vial from his forensic kit and dipped it into the bloody fountain water. He wiped the glass clean with a sterilizing wipe and stripped off his gloves, carefully depositing the wipe and gloves into a hazard bag. As he pulled a second pair of gloves from the toolbox, he idly wondered how many gloves his team went through in any given month. It depended on how many crime scenes they were called to and how many of the team were on site. So far this month, things had been busy.

  While his colleague went over the body with tweezers, vials and bags of his own, Todd scoured the immediate area around the fountain for anything forensically interesting or important. He ignored the chatter of the local cops as he sought out and collected seemingly mundane items in the hope they would lead the chief investigators to the killer.

  He and Bradley took their time, doing everything by the book. They were meticulous and good at their jobs, and by the time all of the samples had been packed up in the CSI van and the corpse released to the coroner for autopsy, the pair had been at the scene for over two hours.

  Most of the cops had drifted away, the monotony of what the forensics team was doing boring them. Neither Bradley nor Todd paid them any mind. While Todd scoured further out in the hope of finding the murder weapon, Bradley sent their intern back to the lab with the samples to begin analysis. He then joined his partner in the hunt, Bradley’s dark eyes intense as they each studied every inch of the courtyard.

  When Bradley’s phone rang, the senior investigator paused to answer it. He was good enough to talk and search at the same time, but Todd knew that his partner was too professional to take the risk – no matter how minute – that he might miss something.

  Some people, it was said, wore their hearts on their sleeve but Bradley wore his feelings on his face. And now, judging by the shift of expressions on that face, Todd knew the call was nothing good.

  ‘OK, we’ll be right there,’ Bradley said into his phone before ending the call.

  ‘Be right where?’ Todd asked, straightening. ‘We’re not done here yet.’

  ‘We are now.’ His partner was already moving. ‘Let the cops finish the canvass for the murder weapon.’

  Todd had no choice but to follow, still arguing as they made their way through the complex’s entryway toward Bradley’s SUV.

  ‘Don’t worry, this is already looking like an open-and-shut case,’ Todd’s colleague continued. ‘Detective has an eye-witness who places two known members of the Russian mob at the scene, arguing with the victim. She was pregnant and seems the father wanted her to have an abortion. The witness heard one of the men say that if she didn’t, he’d give her one.’

  Todd stopped short. ‘Are you serious? That’s just . . .’

  ‘Despicable? Heinous? Sickening?’ When Todd gave him an exasperated look, Bradley said, ‘I could go on. I own a thesaurus. Monstrous? Deplor—’

  ‘How can you be so flippant?’

  Bradley’s eyes darkened even further. ‘Department shrink says it helps us keep our sanity. Didn’t you get the memo?’

  ‘Look, I just want to bury this bastard in forensic evidence so deep he’ll never see the light of day again.’

  ‘Todd,’ Bradley’s voice softened and he put a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. ‘All joking aside, I know how you feel, but from what I’ve heard, I think you’ll have a much harder time finding a word to describe the scene we’re headed to now. Pure evil is what comes to my mind.’ He got into the SUV.

  Todd stood for a moment, dumbstruck. Truth was, he usually made more wisecracks than Bradley about the things they encountered day-to-day. His partner was right, it was a coping mechanism and, the way he saw it, a damn sight healthier than some of the other vices available to people in their line of work. But while Todd could find the dark humor in a dentist killed by his own drill, or a pimp beaten to death by a hooker, he paled at the thought of what his been-around-the-block colleague might consider ‘pure evil’.

  When he and Bradley arrived at their second crime scene of the day – this one just off a roadside close to the holiday town (and Todd’s old childhood haunt) of Clearwater Beach, at first he thought there were three corpses: one in the truck, one behind the truck and one by a tree. Two appeared small and he immediately felt his gut clench. He hated working cases involving kids.

  As he climbed out of the SUV, he was trying to figure out what had happened. At first, it looked like the truck had crashed into the tree and the children had been thrown backward. Maybe they’d been in the truck bed? A parent driving recklessly with kids in the bed of a pickup was certainly idiotic, heinous even, but evil?

  Maybe if it had been intentional –one of those tragic murder-suicides. If so, it was a lot more creative than using a gun.

  Todd took a deep breath before he and Bradley got any closer to the carnage. Wouldn’t do to look weak in front of the uniforms. In addition to being the partner of one of the best forensic investigators in his field, he had the added pressure of the Forrest name and reputation to contend with. Somehow, it made people automatically expect Todd to be smarter, tougher and more capable, as if his dad had discussed cases in detail with him since childhood.

  When they were still a few yards away, Detective Julie Sampson stepped in front of them, her pretty face full of warning. ‘Watch out.’

  ‘What?’ Todd started to ask, then noticed what the crabgrass had partially obscured. Someone had lost their lunch. ‘Who’s the rookie?’

  Julie scowled. For a petite brunette with a baby face, she could look fierce when she wanted to. ‘The officer who shot the man in the driver’s seat actually, Mr Insensitive.’

  It didn’t take a genius to figure out who she was defending. ‘Not my fault your boyfriend has a sensitive stomach,’ he shot back.

  Julie looked at him warily. ‘How’d you know I was talking about Ralph?’

  ‘Word around the station is he’s a fast shooter . . .’

  It took a second for the insulting innuendo to register, and when it did, Julie’s cheeks turned bright red and her temper flared.

  Bradley had already moved on, leaving Julie’s partner, Mark Reed, to handle the situation. ‘Enough flirting, we have a serious situation on our hands here.’

  ‘Flirting?’ Julie sputtered. ‘With him? I’d never . . .’

  Todd let that slide since, in fact, she had. They had. It was the oldest story in the book. Their eyes met, the attraction was instantaneous and they’d tumbled into bed just a few hours later. And that, of course, had led to ‘You never called. You said you’d call.’ Todd had tried explaining that he’d been in quarantine after being exposed to a toxic virus from a corpse he’d examined. It sounded
like an excuse and she’d never forgiven him for it.

  ‘Fact is, I wouldn’t lose my cool about shooting some moron driving like a maniac with his kids in the back of his truck.’ Todd didn’t bother to mention that he wouldn’t have been stupid enough to draw on an unarmed man in any case. There was a whole other department that would take care of that.

  Julie’s indignant expression was quickly replaced by confusion. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Those two kids.’ Todd gestured toward the remains.

  ‘I think you’d better have a closer look,’ Mark said softly.

  Todd squinted and saw the chains that Bradley was currently examining. Then the pieces clicked into place and he realized what had disturbed Bradley so much upon taking the call.

  The remains weren’t in fact a couple of kids, but pieces of a single body torn asunder.

  His jaw tightened. ‘Well then, Ralph should’ve cheered, not puked, after shooting the sicko who did that.’

  ‘You don’t get it, Todd.’ Julie’s eyes flicked toward the crime scene and then away. She’d seen quite a bit since joining homicide so the look spoke volumes. ‘The guy in the driver’s seat didn’t do this, but we didn’t know that at the time. The girl was still alive when we arrived. The truck started to move and Ralph did what he thought was right. He shot the driver.’

  ‘The way the driver was tied up, his foot was propped on the accelerator.’ Mark picked up the story. ‘When his body went limp, the accelerator depressed and . . . well, you can imagine the rest.’ He swallowed hard.

  ‘Shit . . .’

  As Todd tried to visualize how it had all gone down, he followed Bradley to where the arms of the girl’s body – which had come apart from the torso – lay. But all thoughts vanished from his head as his gaze rested on the face of the victim. Her pretty visage was contorted, jaw still open in a silent scream.

  And he immediately thought again about the little Russian doll.