“Huh?”
“Nothing,” he readily dismissed. “Never mind.”
“I just meant how’d you get assigned to Cold Case?”
“Oh, I’m not a cop.” He looked amused at the suggestion. “My background is in forensic pathology.”
“That’s like the science of death, right?”
Stanley nodded. “I wanted to be a medical examiner, but I guess I got sidetracked on the way to the morgue.”
He laughed at his own joke.
“Been doing it long?” I asked.
“Five years, ten months, six days.”
“But who’s counting, right?” I joked.
Stanley didn’t share in my humor. I thought his brain worked on a higher plane, or perhaps he just enjoyed my befuddled looks.
“We’re here,” he announced.
I peered out the passenger window as he parked the miniature car. Ours was the only vehicle in the parking lot and there was no signage to announce our location.
“Where exactly is here?”
Before I could get clarification, Stanley was out of the car and striding towards the warehouse structure. I unfastened my seatbelt and quickly followed.
Stanley used a key from his crowded key ring to unlock a padlock. He bent at the waist and lifted the sliding metal door. The gears and chains clanged noisily, announcing our arrival.
“Welcome to the Freezer, Detective.”
I stepped inside the warehouse and looked around. I felt comfortable in my t-shirt and jeans. Knowing that I’d be digging around a dingy warehouse that day, I’d kept my professional clothes at home. “It’s not that cold,” I observed.
“Oh, it’s not the temperature—we keep that at a steady 64 degrees for the integrity of the archived evidence. We call it the Freezer because it’s where the cold case files are stored.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“Just me,” he admitted. “But do you get it? Freezer? Cold case? Cause freezers are cold?”
“Uh huh. I get it.”
I let Stanley take the lead as we entered the storage facility. Overhead lights shone down brightly on the aisles. We walked among rows and rows of storage shelving that extended to the building’s tall ceilings. The tall shelves were filled with white archival boxes, each labeled with a sequence of numbers and dates. It was larger than what I’d expected—brighter and cleaner, too. The cement floor looked free of debris and there were no cobwebs or other signs of inactivity.
“Are each of these boxes an unsolved case?” I asked, taking it all in.
“Sometimes. Sometimes cases have been consolidated into one box, other times we’ve got more than one box to a particularly complicated case.”
He pulled a seemingly random box off of a shelf and removed its lid. “Here’s a pretty standard example of the kinds of cases we deal with.”
He retrieved a slim folder from the box and handed it to me.
I scanned the folder’s contents while Stanley explained.
“Victim was found dead in her home when her husband returned from work at the end of the day. The coroner confirmed the multiple stab wounds to her abdomen were the cause of death. She had been shopping at The Mall of America earlier that day. Bags were still in the trunk of her car.”
“Interrupted burglary?” I proposed.
“Maybe. Either way there was no signs of forced entry and no DNA collected from the scene.”
“No signs of struggle? Cuts on the victim’s hands or forearms?”
Stanley shook his head. “Nothing. And her fingernails were scraped for DNA, but the original homicide detectives found nothing.”
“Isn’t it always the husband?”
“Typically, but his alibi had him at work all day.”
Stanley grabbed another file from the same open box. “And then we’ve got this case that’s been open since 1995. Jilted lover sets fire to his ex-girlfriend’s apartment with her inside. He confesses to police, but then recants. The judge throws out the case because the Fire Marshall used outdated techniques and then decides we can’t retry the boyfriend. But someone set that building on fire. Someone killed that woman. And so the case sits here as unsolved.”
He pulled down another box, almost as if gaining momentum. “And this one is from 2001. Male victim found in his apartment, gun shot to the head. Would have been ruled a suicide, but there was no gun found in the vicinity. No leads.” He retrieved another stack of files. “Or 2010, parents file a police report when their teenage daughter doesn’t come home from school. Police find her clothes in the woods, but don’t find her. No DNA on the clothes.”
Stanley continued to chatter, but his voice became white noise. I gazed around at the innumerable boxes on their shelves, each containing who knew how many unsolved cases. An invisible weight pressed down on my chest.
“That’s a lot of dead ends,” I murmured.
“I prefer to call them cul-de-sacs,” Stanley quipped. “Actually—fun fact—did you know that most murders in America happen on cul-de-sacs?”
“I think you and I might have different definitions of ‘fun,’ Stanley.”
+ + +
Julia swept her hand across her forehead and displaced a few stubborn strands of hair that dared defy her. “You’re very quiet tonight.”
We sat across from each other at her dining room table. Candles flickered from the center of the table. Light music floated into the room. The setting was intimate, romantic, and my girlfriend was achingly beautiful, but my thoughts were still with Stanley in the Freezer.
“My brain’s been busy.”
I pushed a rogue brussel sprout across my plate. It joined a half-eaten cut of steak—cooked to a perfect medium rare. I had chewed more on my lip than on my dinner.
“Anything I can help with?” she asked.
I shook my head. “I’ve got to figure it out for myself.”
It wasn’t the kind of response she liked to hear. I knew she liked to help me work through things whether it be my job or my PTSD.
Julia wiped away the residual lipstick that marked the rim of her wine glass. “Well, I’m here if you need me,” she said simply.
“I know. And thank you. And I’ll try not to be a downer when you take me out on such a fancy date.”
She smiled over the rim of her glass as she took another short drink. “You’re right. I went all out. The least you can do is make for pleasant dinner conversation.”
I leaned forward, enjoying the way the candlelight played across her features. How I’d convinced her to be with someone like me was still a mystery. “How do you keep track of so many clients at work?”
“I don’t. That’s what computers and file cabinets are for.” She set down her wine glass. “Is that what’s bothering you? Working multiple cases at once?”
I resumed pushing my food around my plate. “I’m a beat cop. The only thing I’ve had to keep track of is where I parked the squad car.”
“You’ll figure it out with time,” she assured me. “Nothing’s worth doing if it’s easy all the time.”
I couldn’t help a juvenile grin. “I’m easy.”
She shared my smile. “Only when you’ve had enough to drink and you don’t let your brain get in the way.”
I raised my empty wine glass. “I suppose I should keep drinking then,” I joked.
“You know where the wine fridge is.”
“I’m half surprised there’s not a hidden stash under your bed.”
“Unlike the empty beer bottles under yours,” she returned.
“That was once!” I protested. “And I picked them up the moment you said something.”
“The fact that I had to say something though, my dear.” Julia looked amused rather than annoyed.
I let out an exaggerated sigh. “I guess it’s time to clean up.” I grabbed Julia’s dinner plate and stacked it on top of mine. “And look, I’m doing it without you having to say something.”
“I knew there was hope for you yet.�
�
Julia watched me from the dining room table and continued to slowly sip her wine. She made no effort to help me, which I took as a personal victory. Apparently she trusted me to get her dishes clean enough for her standards. I dumped the dirty dishes into the kitchen sink and turned the faucet to hot. Julia had a dishwasher, but its presence was an affront to her sensibilities.
“Maybe one of these nights we can have dinner at my apartment,” I called over the running water. “I haven’t gotten to cook for you yet.”
Julia twisted her wine glass by its stem and remained noncommittal.
Her silence on the subject caused me to bristle. I scrubbed harder on a baking dish. “I know, I know. You don’t want to go slumming.”
“Darling, there’s nothing wrong with your apartment.”
“Then why do you never come over?”
“My place is bigger,” she reasoned. “We’re not on top of each other.”
“You weren’t complaining about me being on top of you last night,” I grumbled to myself.
I wasn’t sure if she’d heard me over the running water and the clang of pots and pans at the bottom of the sink.
I heard her high-heeled shoes before I felt her hands on my hips. “I suppose things have been a little one-sided lately.”
I continued to clean the dishes. “I don’t mind. Not really.”
Julia was silent. She pressed the full length of her body against mine and rested her chin on my shoulder. ”You pick the night, and I’ll let you cook dinner for me at your apartment.”
I stopped cleaning to look at her. “And you’ll spend the night?”
She laughed, low and throaty. “Yes, I’ll even sleep over.”
I turned away from the sink and grabbed her with wet, soapy hands. “I didn’t say anything about sleeping.”
I moved in for a kiss, but Julia’s next words had me pulling back.
“My friends want to meet you.” She pressed her lips together. “They think I’ve made you up.”
“You have friends? I thought you’d made them up, too.”
Julia looked unamused. “Most of us live in different cities now, but we get together every few months. It’s the same group of women who let Brent and Rich charm their way into sitting with us.”
“Don’t sound so annoyed. I think that worked out pretty well for us,” I remarked.
“Alexa might give you a hard time. She went home with Rich that night, and I’m fairly certain he never called her after that.”
I rubbed at the back of my neck. “Yeah. That sounds like him. Should I bring something?”
“Red wine wouldn’t be turned away.”
“So they’re exactly like you,” I teased. “When is this get-together with your not-so-imaginary friends?”
“Tonight, actually.”
I dropped my hands from her hips. “Tonight? As in tonight tonight?”
She nodded.
“Why didn’t you say something earlier?”
“I didn’t know if you’d be in the mind-space to meet people so soon after starting your new job. It’s really not a big deal if you’d rather stay in.”
I raked my fingers through my loose curls. “I dunno. I mean, am I even dressed for this kind of thing?”
“It’s not the prom, darling.”
“But if your friends don’t like me, are you gonna change your mind?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she clucked. “You’ll be fine.” She pressed her lips together as if rethinking her initial assessment. “Although you should probably bring those bottles of wine, just in case.”
+ + +
I shut the passenger-side door to Julia’s Mercedes with a little bit too much force.
I shoved my hands into the back pockets of my jeans and stared up at the skyline. “Cute neighborhood.”
Her friend Michaela—who was hosting the party we were attending that night—lived in the Lowertown neighborhood in St. Paul. The enclave had the reputation of being an artist hub and was home to a number of new and trendy restaurants, which was real estate speak for a neighborhood that had recently been gentrified. The area had once been the warehouse district and ghost signs of former businesses could still be seen painted on the tall, brick buildings that were now luxury condos.
Julia grabbed onto my bicep in lieu of holding my hand. “You barely spoke on the way here. Are you nervous?”
I nodded grimly. “Maybe a little.”
“I’m sorry if you feel ambushed. We can go back if you’d like.”
I sucked in a deep breath. “No. We’re here. Might as well do this thing.”
Red wine in tow, we let ourselves into the lobby of an upscale condominium. The former residence of a farm and feed warehouse had been converted into market-price condominiums with exposed brick and HVAC systems.
Julia pressed the intercom button next to the printed last name of McCarthy.
“Come on up,” a female voice called through the building’s intercom. “I’m on the third floor.”
I stared at the ceiling of the elevator during our short ride to the third floor.
Julia’s fingers tightened around my bicep. “Just remember to smile,” she encouraged me. “Be yourself. You’ve nothing to worry about.”
The hallway outside of the elevator was empty. I followed Julia off the lift to the front door of her friend’s apartment. She knocked on the door and we waited.
“Shit, it’s the cops!” I heard faux whispering from the other side of the closed door. “Hide the drugs and prostitutes!”
“I should preemptively apologize for my friends,” Julia told me. “They stop pretending to be adults once the workday stops.”
I smiled tightly. Julia’s words reached my ears, but did nothing to placate my anxiety. I was acutely aware that having a cop at a party could be a bit of a buzz-kill, unless you were at a party entirely made up of cops—and then it was a bona fide riot.
I heard the unlocking of a deadbolt and the apartment door opened. A flash of pale skin and long, red hair rushed toward us and enveloped Julia in a tight hug. My girlfriend momentarily stiffened, but then accepted the enthusiastic embrace.
“I’m so glad you made it!” the woman squealed.
She quickly discarded Julia and hugged me next, pinning my arms to my sides. “And you’re here, too!” she yelled in my ear. I could smell the distinct scent of alcohol on her breath.
“Michaela, dear, you’re suffocating her,” I heard Julia’s slightly amused voice.
The arms around my ribs loosened, and the woman released me with a quick apology. “Sorry! I’m just so excited you guys could come.”
Now that I could breathe again, I was able to get a better look at the demonstrative woman. She was slight, with thin limbs and narrow shoulders. A spray of freckles covered her cheeks, and a pair of bright green eyes bounced eagerly between my face and Julia’s.
I handed her the bottle of red wine Julia had suggested I bring. The gesture earned me another girlish shriek and bone-crushing hug.
“Come on in, you two. You’re the last ones to show. Fashionably late like usual, Jules,” she tossed over her shoulder as she disappeared deeper into the home.
“What just happened?” I asked Julia. “I think I blacked out from lack of oxygen.”
“Michaela’s apparently been drinking for a while. She gets very high-pitched and very hands-on the more alcohol she consumes.”
“Are they all like that?” I worried aloud.
Julia’s hand in the center of my back ushered me into the apartment. “No. Michaela’s always been the exception to the rule.”
I routinely scanned my surroundings as I crossed the condo’s threshold. The entryway opened up to a large, common room that functioned as living room, dining room, and kitchen. Exposed silver heating and cooling registers ran across the vaulted ceilings. Everything was high-end in a granite, stainless-steel décor, more industrial than cozy.
A group of women stood around the kitchen is
land, all eyes trained on our entrance. For a brief moment I lamented my casual outfit of dark skinny jeans and a buffalo-checked shirt. All of the others were dressed similar to Julia—pencil skirts, button-up blouses, and tailored business suits.
“Now the party can officially start,” a brunette woman in grey linen pants and a silk sleeveless shell said.
Julia, as if sensing my doubts, slipped her arm through mine. “You’re the sexiest person in the room,” she spoke directly into my ear.
She addressed the rest of the room before I could react. “Everyone, this is Cassidy,” she announced to her friends. “Cassidy, that’s Denise, Alexa, Carrie, Beverly, Iris, and Alana. And you’ve already met our hostess, Michaela,” she said, gesturing to the pretty redhead.
“Shit. That’s right; I’m the hostess. What can I get you to drink, Cassidy?” Michaela offered. “I’ve got wine, an assortment of mixers,” she began to list. “I might even be able to rustle up a beer or two.”
I waved her off. “I’m okay. I’m driving.”
Michaela arched a skinny eyebrow. “Not even one drink?”
I offered a weak smile and scanned the room once again. Everyone else had a glass in her hands. It felt like high school all over again, desperately wanting to be one of the cool kids. “No, thanks.”
Michaela held up her hands. “Okay, okay,” she placated. “I won’t try to peer pressure you anymore.”
“I wouldn’t say no to a soda though.”
She nodded. “You’ve got it. Jules, red wine I assume?”
“Please,” my girlfriend confirmed.
I hovered close to Julia’s hip as we took a spot around the kitchen island. Presumably some or all of these women had been at the bar with Julia on the night that we’d met—the night I’d made a first impression by knocking over our drinks twice.
I couldn’t be blamed for not recognizing any of the women though; that night I’d only had eyes for Julia. I had already forgotten everyone’s names except for Michaela’s. I hoped there wouldn’t be a quiz later.
“So you actually exist,” one of the women observed. She was a leggy woman with meticulously flat-ironed, light blonde hair.
Cold Blooded Lover Page 4
