by Mary Burton
Without warning, the killer had spared her hand and left her to bleed to death, alone, locked in the tiny basement room.
Even now, she remembered the cold cement floor pressing into her back. She’d tried to stand but every move intensified the agony. She’d screamed until her throat burned. But no one had come.
Blood had seeped from her wound and she quickly didn’t have the energy to stand. Her limbs had grown cold as life seeped from her.
In the darkness, there’d only been the drip, drip of a pipe and the scurry of rats. Time had lost meaning and she passed out.
And then the door had opened and light shone on her face. She’d thought for a moment the Guardian had returned and she’d balled up her good hand, praying she had the strength to fight.
Warwick’s face had loomed over her, his shock as palpable as her own. His large hands had gently touched her face. ‘Jesus, it’s Kendall Shaw. Kier, call for paramedics.’
‘He tried to kill me,’ she’d whispered. ‘To cut off my hand.’
Immediately, Warwick had run his hands down the length of her arms and to her hands. ‘He didn’t take your hand.’
What little fight she’d mustered had vanished. She’d nodded and closed her eyes. The iciness had called, beckoning her to let sleep take her.
‘Kendall!’ Warwick’s sharp voice had cut through the fog.
Her eyes had fluttered open. Fierceness had mingled with fear in his eyes. She’d moistened her lips but couldn’t seem to hold on to consciousness. God, but she had been tired. Her eyes had slipped closed.
‘Open your eyes,’ he’d commanded. ‘Help will be here soon. Hold on.’
Hold on. It had sounded so hard. It would just have been too easy to let her grip slip.
‘Listen to me. You are a better fighter than this.’
‘I’m not.’ She’d been fighting for so long – against her mother’s illness and past secrets – suddenly she had become tired of struggling.
‘Listen, you bitch,’ he’d hissed by her ear. ‘Open your goddamn eyes.’
Bitch had been what had gotten her attention. Her eyes had opened and she’d felt a rush of fire and outrage. ‘Jerk,’ she’d muttered.
Satisfaction had gleamed in his eyes. ‘Good girl.’
The paramedics had arrived seconds later. They’d rushed her to the hospital and the doctors had taken her into surgery almost immediately. She’d not seen Warwick since.
And now as Kendall faced him she felt a rush of embarrassment. He’d seen her well-cultivated veneer shatter in that basement. He’d seen her terror. She’d given up.
She could play the badass diva reporter for everyone else, but Warwick knew under it all she had cracked in that basement room. Shame had her straightening her shoulders until they were ramrod straight. No one, especially Warwick, would ever see her so vulnerable again.
As if sensing her, Warwick turned. Their gazes locked. The scene around them faded and she saw only his intense gray eyes. For a moment she imagined she saw regret. And then just as quickly it vanished.
Warwick’s gaze shifted from her to Mike, who taped the scene. The detective strode toward the crime scene tape, ducked under it, and headed toward her. He wasn’t happy. She’d snuck into his crime scene and there was going to be hell to pay for it.
Kendall preferred his anger. She could deal with that. She turned to Mike. ‘Aim the camera right toward Warwick. And if he kicks us out, lower your camera but keep it on. You never know what we’ll pick up.’
‘There’s the Kendall we all know and love.’ Mike swung his camera around as Kendall rushed toward Warwick. He stopped and let her close the gap between them.
‘Detective, can you tell us who was murdered?’ Kendall asked.
He tossed a brief glance at Mike and then focused on her. ‘How’d you get down here? The road is sealed.’
‘There’s another path a half mile down the road. We hiked in.’
He glanced toward the uniformed cops, his frown telegraphing his annoyance.
‘Can you tell us who died?’ she repeated.
He shifted his attention back to her. ‘We aren’t able to release that information yet.’
This close she remembered just how tall he was. ‘Was the victim male or female?’
‘No comment.’
‘How old was she?’ This was a guess to see if he reacted to the pronoun.
Warwick’s expression gave nothing away. ‘We’ll release a statement soon.’
‘Can you tell us how she died?’
‘No comment.’
‘Was it a suicide?’
‘Time to go, Ms Shaw.’ He nodded toward the uniforms. ‘Leave or I will have you escorted out.’
‘What about sexual assault?’ Kendall asked. She could hear footsteps behind her and knew she was about to be moved back to the main road.
Warwick’s jaw tensed a fraction as he turned and strode away from her.
Kendall started after him. ‘What was the color of her hair? Was she tall or short?’
He kept moving, completely ignoring her. Getting information from Warwick was like getting blood from a stone.
Two uniforms stopped within inches of her. ‘Ma’am, you’re going to have to move back to the main road.’
She kept her sights trained on Warwick, who paused to talk to an older uniformed officer. She couldn’t hear what Warwick was saying but he was pointing at her and frowning.
‘Now, ma’am,’ the officer said.
‘I’m going,’ she said, though she made no move to leave.
‘Now,’ the officer ordered.
Kendall knew when it was time to retreat. ‘Let’s go, Mike.’ Round one goes to Warwick.
Mike lowered the camera, but she noted the red record light remained on as they started back up the dirt road.
Grinning, Mike shook his head. ‘Warwick looked like he could spit nails at you.’
Kendall grinned. ‘Nonsense. He really thinks the world of me.’
Warwick had better get used to her because this story’s coverage was far from over.
Nicole’s belly felt heavy and her bones ached as she climbed the carpeted stairs to her second-floor photography studio, located in a one-hundred-year-old building in the heart of the historic Carytown shopping district.
The baby kicked her in the ribs. The girl was an active kid. She’d likely grow up to be a soccer player.
Grow up to be. Stupid to be thinking about what the girl would be when Nicole knew she couldn’t raise the child.
The baby thumped inside her, as if she knew what her mother was thinking. ‘Enough, kid. Enough.’
Each time the baby moved in her belly she thought about her late husband. He’d been insane. He’d been a monster.
And she was having his child.
What if the baby was like her father? And could she really love a child who had been created in anger and violence? What if she ended up hating the child and making its life miserable?
The questions had weighed heavily on her mind for months now. They kept her up at night, robbed her of joy and her appetite.
She continued up the stairs, her breath puffing with each step. Last summer, she’d looked at the space on a lark when she’d been shopping and spotted the FOR RENT sign. At the time, the seven-hundred-dollar-a-month rent had seemed so far beyond her means. In those days, she’d been hiding from Richard and had barely any money to her name.
It had been a humbling moment to realize she couldn’t afford the rent. When she’d lived in San Francisco, she’d owned a successful business. All the Bay Area gallery owners knew her name and quirky landscapes and she’d quickly developed a following. The money had come in so easily in the early days. It was amazing how much she didn’t think about money when she had it.
Then her marriage had started to deteriorate and, in an effort to save it, she’d let the business go. The money had dried up. When her husband had turned violent she’d fled, penniless, to a Richmond friend.
She’d been given a second chance. And she was trying to move on. But reclaiming the vibrant, original photography style that had been her trademark now eluded her. She couldn’t seem to produce anything that was gallery worthy.
The baby kicked inside her.
The tables had so flip-flopped in the last three years. She’d started her career as an artist and she’d lived an impulsive, selfish, and reckless life. There’d been no worries about consequences or money.
Now, she was all about consequences and money. Her desire to create art had vanished and she took portraits to make ends meet. Jobs she’d have scoffed at three years ago now paid the rent. Bridezillas, screaming kids, eccentric families, and even business portraits were all welcome.
Though she’d discovered she had a real knack for working with people, she longed for the days when life had been so easy. She wanted to be able to grab her camera and drive into the mountains and camp so that she could rise at dawn and capture the rising sun, as she once had. She wanted to stay up late drinking wine with friends and critiquing the latest art show. She wanted to be able to button her old jeans, sleep on her stomach, and not have to pee every five minutes. She wanted her body and life back.
Nicole shoved out a breath as she dug the keys out of her pocket and unlocked the door to her studio.
She’d chosen this space not for its trendy location, low price, or history. All of which were great. She’d picked this studio space because of the light. Six floor-to-ceiling windows on the north and south sides of the room let in the most delicious light. Heavy shades allowed her to control how much came into the studio during a shooting, but most days she kept them wide open. She loved natural light. It brought with it nuances that man-made light didn’t quite have.
Nicole dropped her keys and mail on a battered desk she’d bought secondhand. A high stack of papers filled her in-box, and her appointment book was filled with miscellaneous papers she still needed to file. Paperwork – another hallmark of this new life she was struggling with.
She shrugged off her coat, laid it on the chair behind her desk, and opened the shades. Even on this gray day sunshine still seeped into the studio. There were a white chaise, a couple of wooden chairs, and a stool she used for portraits. On the back wall was a selection of six backdrops that hung together. Her most recent portraits covered the bare white walls of the space. In the back of the studio was a door that led to her darkroom. The room was small, not more than five by five, but it was enough space for her to work in.
Cupping her hand under her heavy belly, she crossed the room to the darkroom. She flipped on the red light and glanced at the pictures drying on the line. So many photographers used digital now, but she loved the flexibility of film. It added richness to her work that nothing could duplicate.
But she wasn’t so nostalgic that she ignored the digital side of the market. She’d managed a small business loan so she could invest in computers and software and create portraits quickly. Being adept at both forms of photography translated into more revenue.
She sat behind the desk. The answering machine’s green message light blinked the number three, signaling she had messages.
Nicole pressed the PLAY button. The first message was from a bride she’d met with last week to discuss her wedding. ‘Nicole, this is Callie. I’ve set the date. December twenty-fourth. I’d love for you to do my photography. Call me. My number is …’
The wedding was a big-budget project. Nice. December. The baby would be eleven months by then. Nicole tried to picture what the child would look like in eleven months but couldn’t.
She played the second message. This one was for an engagement picture of a young couple. They’d climbed Everest together and wanted a quirky portrait to reflect their adventurous life. Good.
And the third message. ‘Nicole, I saw you today. You looked lovely. So, so radiant. I hope all is well with the baby.’
Something in the man’s voice set her nerves on edge. Who was it? She replayed the message, thinking she’d missed his name. She hadn’t. He’d not left one. She replayed the message again, this time trying to identify the voice. She couldn’t figure out who it was.
I saw you today …
Where had he seen her? She’d come straight from home to the studio.
I saw you today …
She glanced at her prized large windows. Who the hell had been watching her?
Chapter Four
Tuesday, January 8, 4:10 P.M.
Jacob dropped his keys on his desk. His office was ten by ten, furnished with county-issue furniture, and a set of bookcases filled with technical manuals. No pictures on the wall or knickknacks on his desk.
Except for the stack of files in his in-box, the office looked as it had the day he’d moved into it two years ago.
At any point he could walk out for good and know he’d not left anything special behind. That’s the way he lived his life. He was always ready to pick up and leave at a moment’s notice. He knew enough about psychology to guess that the quirk stemmed from his childhood. His mother had been a drunk and an addict and they moved around a lot because she always fell short on the rent. He’d landed in foster care by the time he was twelve and found stability, but the pattern had already been ingrained for life.
He opened the bottom desk drawer and pulled out a premixed protein shake. He popped the top and drank it down. Hardly satisfying but it would get him through the next couple of hours, and it was far healthier than the burger he’d been tempted to grab on the way back from the crime scene.
His cell rang and he removed it from the holster on his hip. ‘Warwick.’
‘It’s Tess. I’m at the morgue. Jane Doe has been delivered and is in a drawer.’
‘Good.’
‘I’ve also collected Jane Doe’s clothes and bagged them.’
‘Anything catch your eye?’
‘Not yet. But I’m on my way back to the lab to process them.’ She sounded tired.
‘Good. What about the coroner? He going to take care of Jane Doe today?’
‘Not likely. He has a backlog. Two of the doctors are out sick with the flu or something. But he expects to do the autopsy in the morning.’
Impatience crept into his voice. ‘And he’s going to call me when he’s done?’
‘He has his marching orders.’
Jacob’s chair squeaked as he leaned back. ‘What about the fingerprints?’
‘I’ve rolled them and will run them through AFIS when I get to my office.’ AFIS was the Automated Fingerprint System, a database that held literally millions of fingerprints on file. ‘If Jane Doe had ever been printed she’d turn up in the system.’
‘You’re fabulous, Tess.’
‘I know.’ He could hear the smile in her voice. ‘I’ll call you when I have something new.’
‘Do me a favor. No talking to the press on this one.’
‘I don’t anyway.’
‘Good.’
She hung up.
Jacob absently set the phone back in its holster. All the wheels were in motion. Time and a little luck and they’d have an identity on their Jane Doe.
His mind turned to the riverbank where the victim had been found. There’d been no footprints leading up to her body. The snow had hit the city on Sunday and kept the survey crews away since last Friday. The body easily could have been out there for seventy-two hours.
He made a note to search boat landings within a twenty-mile radius of the site.
Zack appeared in his doorway. He had two cups of coffee in hand and set one on Jacob’s desk before taking the seat opposite the desk. ‘Any word from Tess?’
Jacob’s chair squeaked again as he leaned forward and picked up the cup. The heat felt good against his bruised fingers, which still ached from the cold. ‘Thanks.’ He gave Zack th
e rundown. ‘If our victim is in the system we should know about it by closing time. If she’s not, it could take a while to find out who she is.’ He shifted the cup to his left hand and flexed it.
Zack sipped his coffee. ‘I heard you won the boxing bout.’
‘Yeah.’
Zack shook his head, his expression serious. ‘So why do you keep pounding the crap out of people?’
Jacob smiled. ‘Since when did you become the department shrink?’
‘Just asking, man.’
‘You’re one to talk. You ride that damn bike like you’re possessed.’
That coaxed a half smile. ‘Point taken.’
Boxing had given him so much. He was most at home in the gym. And giving up the sport meant surrendering the best things in his life.
‘Your hands are going to turn to hamburger at the rate you’re going.’
Zack’s comment struck a nerve in Jacob. His foster father had said the same thing during one of their last meetings just before he died. Jacob had done his best to hate the old man after the truth came out, but he’d never quite managed it. He’d been so pissed. Felt so betrayed. A couple of times he’d stood at the guy’s grave and railed at him. But to his shame he’d never been able to extinguish the love he’d felt for the old guy.
The old guy had saved him from God knows what kind of life and deserved his loyalty. But he never talked about the guy, not even to Zack. He let his arrest record do the talking.
The phone on Jacob’s desk rang. He punched the button for line one and picked up the receiver, hoping it was Tess with identification on the victim. ‘Warwick.’
‘Detective. You’re a hard man to catch up with.’
The soft feminine voice belonged to Dr Erica Christopher. She was the department shrink. Crap. She handled the mandatory mental health evaluations for the department and his number had come up more than a few times since last summer. He’d played by the rules and had gone to her counseling sessions but this last month he’d slacked off. She was getting a little too close to matters he didn’t want to discuss, so he’d canceled his last session. He had promised to reschedule but hadn’t. She’d been after him since, but so far, he’d done a good job of dodging her. And he planned to keep ducking. He was tired of digging deep into his thoughts.
