Her Perfect Bones: A totally addictive mystery and suspense novel

by Ellery A Kane

  Termite guffawed. “Then why would I wait until after the hearing? Huh?”

  “Get out of here, man.” Deck stepped into the slim space between her and Termite, forcing Olivia to take a step back.

  “Careful, Detective. I heard Benny Boy ain’t doin’ so well in the joint. It’s a real depressing place. I’d hate to see him end up hanging from a bedsheet.”

  When Fr. Frank appeared, his eyes wide, and cleared his throat, Deck retreated. Even Termite’s fists unclenched. The priest gestured down the hill to the casket. To the grave yawning beneath it. “Ready, my dear?” he asked Olivia.

  Olivia took a breath and nodded at Fr. Frank. As if she could ever be ready for this.

  “I can’t believe Dad had so many secrets. I wish I could’ve known him better.” Emily dropped a white lily onto the top of the redwood casket, while Olivia looked on. Everyone else had left, including Termite. After the service, he’d tromped back up the hill without a word, revving his engine as he’d ridden away.

  “He liked ketchup on his pickles. He took me to Rollerama for my seventh birthday and taught me how to skate backward. He knew all the words to ‘Billie Jean’. And he literally jumped up on the visiting room table when Mom told him she was pregnant with you. The COs took him out in handcuffs.” They both laughed, Emily wiping at her eyes. “For all his flaws, he did some things right.”

  Emily leaned her head against Olivia’s shoulder. Textbook little sister move, tugging at Olivia’s heart. “Want to walk down to the river?” Em asked.

  Olivia heard the burbling of the water nearby. It beckoned, soothing as a lullaby. But the ding of her phone alerted her to a new email from Marcus Boon, the officer who’d escorted her father to that ill-fated holding cell, who’d been the one to cut him down. “I’ll meet you there.”

  Before she plucked her phone from her purse, she laid her own white lily down, said softly, “Love you, Dad.”

  She hoped, wherever he’d gone now, he could still hear her above the roar of his mighty Harley.

  To: Olivia Rockwell

  From: Marcus Boon

  Date: March 9 11:15 AM PST

  Subject: Re: Death Investigation

  I’m sorry about the loss of your father, but I’m not sure what more I can tell you about that day. As I explained to Dr. Plunkett, following the conclusion of the hearing, I placed your father in a secure holding cell. I had assumed that, per our standard procedure, one of the other officers escorted him back to the Sensitive Needs Yard a short time later. We had a number of gang-affiliated general population inmates in the other holding cells. Though I can’t provide you their names, for obvious reasons, the Oaktown Boys were represented.

  As to whether I knew your father or thought he might be depressed, I can only tell you what I’ve learned in my twenty-five years working as an officer at Valley View and a lifetime spent in law enforcement. A man can live forever with no hope. But give him a glimmer of hope and take it away… you may as well put the bullet in his head yourself.

  Twenty-Eight

  Olivia hated proving her sister right about always distracting herself with work. But after the funeral, she did just that. Driving straight to the prison, leaving Em alone at the house. The same way she had the day they’d buried their mother. She’d been running away back then. Now, it felt purposeful. Necessary even.

  With her head down, Olivia fast-walked toward her office in the Mental Health Unit at the end of the long hallway. A few inmates called out to her. But she couldn’t afford any distractions before her three o’clock appointment. She had to be on her game.

  She unlocked the door to the MHU, grateful that the place seemed quiet. That Leah still had eight weeks left on her maternity leave. If anyone could see through her, Leah would.

  Sergeant Shanice Weber poked her head up from the computer at the officers’ station. “Hey, Doc. Didn’t think you were comin’ in today.”

  It had been three months now since Sergeant Weber had transferred from the control booth, and Olivia still hadn’t grown used to seeing her there, with her tight braids and cheerful grin.

  “I’ve got a new patient who I didn’t want to reschedule.”

  “That him?” Sergeant Weber nodded her head at a figure wearing out the floor at the back of the MHU lobby. Even with his back to her, she could read him. Reminiscent of a caged animal, the tightness in his shoulders scared her. His muscles loaded, ready to strike. “When the CO escorted him down here, the first thing he told me was he didn’t ask to meet with a psych doctor. And he doesn’t need any help.”

  Olivia selected a push-button alarm from the box and clipped it to her waistband. “That’s what they all say.”

  Sergeant Weber gave a solemn nod. “Let me know if you need me.”

  She approached the patient with caution. She’d lied to get him here, scheduled him herself. But her father—the man who relied on no one—had trusted him. That gave her hope. As she drew nearer, he spun around. The eyes, she recognized.

  Still, she asked anyway. “Benjamin Decker?”

  Ben didn’t sit in the chair reserved for her patients. Instead, he glared at it as if it had spat in his face. “Why am I here?”

  From her seat across the desk, Olivia studied this darker version of Deck, clad in a white SNY jumpsuit that branded him a target. His hair, buzzed short. His body, leaner. His face, all angles. Like prison had sharpened him to a point.

  “Officially, or unofficially?”

  The way he cocked his head and frowned, impatient, felt familiar though. Best to meet it head on, with an honest answer.

  “Officially, I ducated you for an appointment with a psychologist. That’s me. Doctor Olivia Rockwell. Unofficially, I need to know who killed my father, Martin Reilly.”

  “This is some crazy shit. I’m leaving.” But he didn’t move. Just stood there staring down at her, waiting for her next move. Still every bit a cop.

  “My dad was looking out for you.”

  “I’ve got no clue what you’re talking about, lady.”

  “I asked him to look out for you.”

  Ben’s jaw clenched.

  “Your brother, Will, told me to ask him to look out for you.”

  She had his attention. His lips turned up in an incredulous smile. He barked out a laugh—a single discordant note.

  “Now I know you’re messing with me. My brother has never had my back.”

  “Never? He asked Warden Blevins for your transfer. He sent his hard-earned money somewhere so the Oaktown Boys wouldn’t stick a shank in your neck. So…”

  Deck would certainly not approve of her speaking any of that out loud. Much less using it against his brother. But, desperate times.

  “Are you trying to get me killed?” Ben’s eyes darted over his shoulder to the empty MHU. “I don’t have to listen to this.”

  She continued anyway. “My father once worked as an informant for yours. Did he tell you that?”

  His hand reached for the door, leaving her no choice but to beg.

  “Please. I know he didn’t kill himself. The Oaktown Boys did it. I just need proof.”

  “I can’t help you.” He paused and turned to her, and she froze under the weight of his gaze. She thought of Rochelle Townes, the woman he’d shot, pinned by those same eyes before she’d taken a bullet. “You go looking for that kind of proof, you end up one of two ways. Empty-handed or dead.”

  Twenty-Nine

  After the funeral, Will headed to meet the CSI techs at the cabin on Wolver Hollow Road where Shelby’s body had been discovered. While he drove, he downed the last dregs of the coffee he’d bought at the Stop-and-Shop, hoping to clear the cobwebs. He felt like a dog chasing a rabbit—one lead to the next—only to discover he’d been after his own tail.

  Even with Trish’s revelations about Shelby’s loser boyfriend, Will still liked Winters for the murder. But DAs wanted more than a body. A murder weapon and a motive at least. Thir
ty-five years later, it would be tough to prove a case with just a few photographs and a hunch. The same way he couldn’t prove Blevins had orchestrated Ben’s sudden transfer, waiting for the opportunity to call in his favor, to cash in on his quid pro quo. Will feared he’d made a deal with the devil. But at least Ben was safe for now.

  Will frowned at the Fog Harbor PD cruiser beside the crime tech van. He threw his truck into park, grabbed a pair of latex gloves, and made quick work of the front porch steps. Ducking under the yellow tape, he groaned the moment he set foot inside the cabin. Two techs Will recognized as Li and Munroe busied themselves with the set-up, arranging the camera on a tripod and preparing the bottle of Bluestar, a reagent that Will hoped would shed literal light on his crime scene.

  Graham Bauer greeted him with a smirk, gloveless hand on hip. As usual, his hair had been gelled to within an inch of its life. “’Bout time you showed up. We already did the basement.”

  “What are you doing here, Graham? Nobody invited you.”

  “Steve-o did. Didn’t ya, buddy?”

  In the semi-darkness, Steve Li peered from behind the camera. “Detective Decker, I was told you were running quite late and might not make it after all. Graham suggested he could fill in for you.”

  “I got here just in time then.” Will cocked his head at Graham. “Go find yourself a bicycle theft to investigate. I don’t need you traipsing on my scene, contaminating it with your fingerprints, and blabbing about it all to Heather Hoffman.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you don’t. Now that the chief’s on to you and your reporter girlfriend.” Will conjured the mental image of Chief Flack, scalpel in hand, removing Graham like a cancer. “Hoffman’s just using you, you know. JB told me she once sliced a woman’s tires to steal a story. Better watch your back.”

  “Whatever, man. This voodoo spray isn’t gonna work anyway. It’s been thirty-five years. Get a grip.”

  No surprise that Graham had a lame comeback. Or that he didn’t know his ass from his elbow. He’d obviously slept through Evidence Collection 101. Blood evidence had been detected in hundred-year-old crime scenes. “We’ll see.”

  “Yeah. We’ll see… nothing.”

  Graham finally got the message when Steve cleared his throat and directed a question to his partner, Kelly Munroe. “Ready?”

  Atomizer in hand, Kelly hunched over the hardwood in front of the fireplace, coating a small section of the floor and the stones with Luminol. She worked carefully and methodically while Steve snapped the pictures.

  Will’s heart thrummed in his ears as the past seemed to come alive in front of them. A blue glow on the hardwood formed a light-puddle in front of the fireplace and in between the floorboards. Just below the location where Winters had described the abstract painting in Shelby’s last photo. On the phone yesterday, Grimaldi had confirmed he’d hung a picture there that his daughter had painted in her fifth grade art class.

  Someone had spilled blood beneath that painting. A lot of blood.

  Will examined the owl-shaped andiron to the right of the fireplace. The first time he’d noticed the set of two on the hearth, the eyes—made of reflective green glass—had chilled him. Now, he felt a full body shiver as the entire head of the owl lit up with luminescence.

  Graham harrumphed. “Probably a false positive. I heard that stuff can react to just about anything.”

  Will celebrated his victory in silence. Certain he’d found the murder weapon, he wouldn’t dare let Helmet Hair rain on his parade.

  “Detective, check it out.” Steve drew his attention to the paneling just beside the hearth. Blue dots spattered the wall like paint.

  “Could be anything,” Graham insisted, pressing his hand to the wall before Will could stop him. Though Will knew better, he half expected Graham’s hand to come back smeared with blood.

  “Actually…” Steve approached the blood spatter. “These look like cast-off stains. The kind that occur when an assailant swings a bloody object back before he inflicts another blow. I see at least two arcs here.”

  “That seems consistent with Doc Clancy’s findings. There were three major head wounds.”

  Muttering under his breath about junk science, Graham retreated toward the kitchen, pouting like a schoolboy in the corner, while Kelly took swabs from the floor, the hearth, and the far wall. The andiron was loaded into the back of the van for further testing.

  After Steve and Kelly finished up inside, Graham followed them out without a word. Relishing the quiet, Will peeled off his gloves and wandered through the cabin once more, revisiting the rooms he’d seen in Shelby’s photographs.

  He gazed at the hearth that gave away none of its dark secrets, his father’s voice bending his ear. If you know the victim, you know the killer.

  Now that he’d met Shelby’s mother and wallowed in her pain awhile, he felt he understood Shelby better. She’d been a typical teenage girl, always skirting the edge between promise and disaster. Between rebellion and conformity. If her life hadn’t been cut short, he felt certain she’d have come out on the other side.

  Will shut the door behind him, leaving Shelby’s ghost alone again, and joined Steve and Kelly at the van.

  “What’d you find down there? In the basement.”

  Kelly scrolled through a few of the long-exposure photos on the digital camera. Just a few specks of blue light on the stairs. “Given the conditions—the dirt floor, the length of time that’s passed, the multiple owners moving in and out—it’s not ideal for reagent use. In fact, even if we had seen a strong reaction, I’d be concerned about false positives. Fecal material in the soil, that sort of thing. There were some large droplets on the steps, though, and a few more in the kitchen. The kind of passive stains that result from the effects of gravity on a wounded victim. I took samples of those as well. Nothing on the walls.”

  Will nodded. “So, here’s my working theory. The guy kills her in the living room. Hits her over the head with the andiron owl. Then, he transports her body—maybe on a sheet or a tarp—through the kitchen and down into the basement, which explains why we don’t see much blood there. He loads her in the barrel. Fills it with sand and seals it up. Maybe he intended to move her but never got around to it. Fast forward thirty-five years.”

  “Assuming what we found today is the victim’s blood, that certainly fits the evidence.”

  “Right.” Will sighed, still feeling lost. “That only leaves two little problems.”

  They waited politely for his answer.

  “The who and the why.”

  When Will returned to the station, he found JB hunched over the computer, scrolling through photographs of a lavish Mediterranean-style villa.

  “House hunting?”

  JB guffawed. “I wish. Remember our Vengeful Wife from Grimaldi’s film, Victoria Ratcliffe? These are her digs. Her and her husband, Reid, have themselves a ten-thousand-square-foot monstrosity in Sea Cliff. And I dropped the letter Shelby wrote to her mother off at the lab. Tammy said she’d put a rush on it, as long as I toe the line.”

  Will nodded, dully, slumping into his desk chair. At least JB’s reconciliation with Tammy had given them a leg-up at the crime lab.

  “You okay?” The way JB looked at him, there was no hiding it. “How was the funeral?”

  Will shrugged, intending to avoid the subject entirely. It pained him to picture Olivia, sitting beside her father’s casket. No dimple in her cheek. The light in her eyes, doused. “One of the Oaktown Boys showed up.”

  “Hopefully you sent him packing.”

  “Tried. But Fr. Francis had other plans.” Will half-smiled. “It’s hard to argue with a priest.”

  “That’s exactly why I never got married in a church.”

  “Vegas? All four times?”

  “Double down and let it ride, City Boy.” Grinning, JB pointed back to the computer screen. “I did some research on the Chained cast. Turns out Brenda Samson is MIA.
Hasn’t shown up in a police database since the spring of ’86. Her last known address is now a strip mall.”

  “Any relatives?”

  “A brother. Earl Samson in Pomona. Didn’t pick up the phone.”

  “What about Eggerton?”

  “The Unfaithful Husband? He got arrested a couple times for possession of cocaine. Otherwise, he’s been off the radar and living in LA for the last twenty years with his wife and kids. He owns an adult bookstore called the Hollywood Vixen. But that sounds like the most exciting thing about him. I hope you found something better at the cabin.”

  “Other than Graham violating police procedure, you mean?”

  JB let out an exasperated breath. “Again? Why am I not surprised?”

  “There was one little thing.” Will slipped his cell out of his pocket and smugly displayed the photo he’d taken of the andiron. “The murder weapon.”

  Thirty

  Olivia needed a beer. Or two.

  And a number five.

  With an extra-large side of mac and cheese.

  She’d come to the Hickory Pit straight after work. Do not pass go. Because sometimes, even shrinks required a healthy dose of unhealthy coping. As soon as Jane, the bartender, slid a frosty mug her way, Olivia headed back to the booth she thought of as theirs now. Hers and Deck’s. Thoughts like that were risky, she knew. But the way Deck grinned at her from the vinyl bench seat, they couldn’t be helped.

  “Fancy seeing you here.” He polished off the last bite of a spare rib, discarding it in the paper tray. She raised her brows at the carnage.

  “So, you too?”

  “A number five, side of mac and cheese, kind of day apparently.”

  “Extra-large mac and cheese.” She returned his smile as she slid into the booth opposite him. “Believe it or not, the outlaw half-brother I never knew existed turning up at Dad’s funeral was the least of it.”