Will didn’t need to ask who he meant. He flung open the door, just as Heather flicked the light off and strode out of the dark living room, ducking beneath the yellow tape. With a smirk, she dropped the key into Will’s outstretched hand.
“No need to go to blows, gentlemen. I’m all done.”
“Done with what, exactly?”
Heather shrugged and flipped her hair over her shoulder, descending the steps in her three-inch heels. “I needed a look at the crime scene. That’s all. No biggie.”
“‘No biggie’?” Will groaned. “You’re trespassing. Not to mention, it’s dangerous. We don’t know who killed Shelby Mayfield. Or why.”
“That’s why I brought an officer of the law.”
Graham followed after her like a puppy desperate for a belly rub.
“Some of my viewers are real crime buffs, Detective. You never know, I may help you solve this case.”
“I think we’ve got it covered.” Will watched her toddle through the damp grass toward her car. “If I catch you out here again, you’re leaving in handcuffs. And I don’t want to see any photos of this place on your show tomorrow.”
“You watch my show?”
He sighed when she looked at him, doe-eyed.
“I’d never,” she insisted. “Besides, it’s the darnedest thing. Someone stole my camera.”
Script: Good Morning, San Francisco
Cue Heather
Good morning, San Francisco. It’s 5 a.m. on Tuesday, March tenth. Time to rise and shine.
Roll intro music
Today we bring you our Murder in the Bay segment on location from the quaint seaside town of Fog Harbor, where I cut my journalistic teeth, so to speak, as a reporter for the local newspaper, the Fog Harbor Gazette.
Roll segment intro
Just behind me, you’ll see the police station, where detectives are heads down, working the brutal murder of the young pregnant woman whose body was discovered here last week. Though police are awaiting DNA confirmation, sources close to the investigation have identified the victim as Shelby Mayfield, a sixteen-year-old runaway, who fled her home in San Francisco. Why did she run to Fog Harbor? What evil did she meet here? And how did she end up bludgeoned to death, with a barrel for her resting place?
Cue Shelby Mayfield yearbook photo
Good Morning, San Francisco obtained exclusive video of the cabin’s living room, believed to be the crime scene, parts of which reportedly tested positive for blood evidence.
Roll video of cabin
When we return from commercial, we’ll be joined via satellite by Donald Eggerton, owner of the Hollywood Vixen bookstore in Los Angeles. In an interview exclusive to Good Morning, San Francisco, Mr. Eggerton will share his experiences working with person-of-interest Maxwell Grimaldi, as an actor in Chained, a never-released film which by Mr. Eggerton’s account could only be described as garish. Can he shed light on Shelby’s killer? Stay tuned to find out.
Cut to commercial
Thirty-Five
Will sat on the edge of his bed, half-dressed, with his cell pressed to his ear. He clicked off the television, grateful to be rid of Heather Hoffman’s lying face. Though he figured she’d insist she hadn’t been untruthful. Still, a video wasn’t what he’d had in mind when he told her no photos.
“Good morning, Detective. This is Victoria Ratcliffe. You tried to reach me in reference to a homicide in Fog Harbor?”
She sounded way too put together for five thirty in the morning. Hell, Will never sounded that put together. The voice, though, had the same clipped timbre of the Vengeful Wife—You will be punished for what you’ve done, you little hussy!—barking at poor Brenda before she’d brought down a whip.
“Yes, ma’am. We’re investigating a homicide that took place here, likely sometime in the spring of 1986.”
“I saw it on the news. Good Morning, San Francisco too. It chilled me to the bone to think I’d been there. In that cabin. You don’t think Max Grimaldi was involved, do you?”
“We’re following all leads. That’s as much as I can tell you. So, you were in the film called Chained, correct?”
Will took advantage of the long pause to tug on one arm of his shirt. “Goodness. How embarrassing. I had hoped that thing would never see the light of day. Then, I turn on my favorite morning show, and it’s right there. In all its grainy horror. Back then, I had stars in my eyes. Obscura Studios was in need of a young actress. I applied, and Grimmy hired me on the spot.”
Of course he had. Grimaldi had compared Victoria to a young Rita Hayworth. If Rita had starred in Sharknado, JB had quipped. “You only did the one film?”
“Have you seen it?”
Will chuckled, caught off guard by her unexpected humor. He shimmied into the other arm, practically pulling a muscle to do up the first button without dropping the phone.
“I’ll take that as a yes. The whole experience was a little traumatizing, to be honest. But I went along. Thank God my husband was there. Though I’m sure he’d deny it.”
“Why is that?” Will knew exactly why. He’d heard the name even before he’d googled them, trolled them both on Facebook. In her profile pic, Will saw the face her family’s money had bought her. Unnaturally smooth, like stretched leather.
“My husband is Reid Vance. City councilman. My family owns Ratcliffe Chemicals. Surely you’ve heard of it.”
“Sounds vaguely familiar.” Only one of the wealthiest families in San Francisco. Which explained why she hadn’t taken Reid’s last name. “Your husband wasn’t listed in the credits.”
“Reid fancied himself a director. He preferred to work behind the scenes. He had helped Max on a few other projects. I guess you might say we both had silly Hollywood ambitions until our Jacqueline came along, and we started thinking about the kind of legacy we wanted to leave. Kids will make you grow up fast.”
Will made a noise of polite agreement. Gave up on his buttons and leaned against the dresser. He needed to focus now. “Did you know Brenda Samson was a prostitute? That Grimaldi allegedly kidnapped her?”
Victoria sucked in a breath. Will pictured her behind a cherrywood desk, her perfectly manicured fingers clutched to her chest. “Heavens no. He told all of us she’d auditioned for the part. But it doesn’t shock me. Grimmy used to spend a lot of time in North Beach. He liked trashy women.”
“Young and trashy?”
Victoria’s laugh cut right through him, sharp as a blade. “What man doesn’t? But never underage. Not that I knew of anyway. Reid and I wouldn’t have stood for that. But Grimmy is a good man underneath all the bravado. I can’t imagine him mixed up in something as untoward as kidnapping.”
“So, you’d never heard of Shelby Mayfield?”
“Not until yesterday when my assistant fielded a call from that reporter. Naturally, she politely declined an interview on my behalf and directed her to Ratcliffe Chemicals’ PR division. But all I could think of is that girl’s poor mother. The loss of a child, a grandchild too. That’s something you never get over. If I ever had to bury my Jacqueline, they’d have to dig two graves.”
Will thought of Trish, holed up in her trailer in the woods. Give it some years, the vines would swallow it whole, sink it like a casket into the ground. It takes a long time to die of a broken heart.
Thirty-Six
Fifteen minutes late for their first post-baby breakfast at Myrtle’s Café, Leah flumped into the booth opposite Olivia, looking bone-tired. As she directed her red-rimmed eyes at the menu, she rolled the stroller back and forth alongside the table with Liam napping inside.
Myrtle leaned in, cooing at him. “Does your mommy need a cup of coffee?”
“Mommy needs a caffeine drip.”
After Myrtle had taken their orders, Leah sat back and shook her head. “Girl, this baby is doing a real number on me. I got two hours of sleep last night. My eyes feel like sandpaper. And my brain is mush.” She held up a blue plastic rattle. “I tried to put this in the ignit
ion.”
Olivia laughed.
“It’s not funny. If he wasn’t so damned adorable, I’d have no choice but to give him back. This morning, he smiled, and I swear I started crying.”
“He is pretty cute.”
Just then, Liam started to fuss. Leah shook the rattle, and his eyes widened. “Cute and ruthless.”
“Thanks for coming to the funeral yesterday. It meant a lot to me and Em.” Olivia’s chest ached when she thought of her sister leaving that morning under the cover of darkness and piloting her rental car back to San Francisco. It never got easier letting her go.
“Of course. I still can’t believe you never told me about your dad being in prison. I would’ve understood.”
“I know you would’ve. I just got so used to hiding it that it was easier to keep it a secret. Especially working at the prison.”
“Speaking of, I assume the whole place has fallen apart in my absence?”
“Absolute shambles.” They both chuckled. Though the Mental Health Unit had been a lot less sunny without Leah’s smile. “Hey, don’t you have a guy named Brandon Simpkins in your domestic violence group?”
“Yes…” She drew out the word, narrowed her eyes. “Is he giving the intern trouble?”
Olivia shrugged, noncommittal. “What’s your take on him?”
“The usual domestic violence perp, I’d say. A repeat offender with about as much insight as a rock. He tries, though, for what it’s worth.”
When the bell on the front door jingled, Olivia glanced over, then to Leah, and back again for confirmation. The ball cap and sunglasses wouldn’t work in a town this small. “That woman is everywhere.”
“Who?”
“Heather Hoffman.”
“The reporter?”
Olivia nodded, watching as Heather found a seat at a table in the back corner already occupied by an unfamiliar middle-aged woman. “Deck and I saw her at the Pit last night, too.”
Leah wiggled her eyebrows.
“Don’t say a word.”
She held up her hands in mock surrender. “Never. What could I possibly have to say about your totally platonic friendship with a very attractive male detective?”
Looking past Leah, Olivia frowned at the envelope Heather slid across the table. Showing no restraint, the woman snatched it up and opened it, counting out the crisp bills before she slipped it into the purse at her feet. The way she moved, desperate and unashamed, set her apart among the usual morning crowd at Myrtle’s, a mix of white-haired busybodies and professional folks on their way to work downtown.
Olivia willed herself to stay seated. But her muscles tensed with an urgent need to know. Without thinking, her hand gripped the stroller.
“Can I borrow your baby?”
Olivia kept her focus on Liam’s cherub cheeks and his sky-blue eyes, that shock of brown hair—damned adorable, Leah had been right about that—as she pushed the stroller down the aisle toward the bathrooms. With a baby in tow, she hoped Heather wouldn’t recognize her. But she needn’t have worried. Still hiding behind her sunglasses, Heather didn’t glance up from the handheld recorder placed in the center of the table.
It seemed impossible, but the strange woman in front of her—witch-black hair and haunted eyes and a smattering of ink on every inch of visible skin—had Heather enraptured. Their voices, too low to make out.
After Olivia passed the corner booth, she dropped Liam’s rattle. It skittered farther than she’d intended, knocking up against the woman’s cheap flip-flops. While Olivia panicked, a pair of slender legs slid out from beneath the table. A hand, with chipped black polish, reached for the toy. An arm extended toward her.
Olivia barely looked up. Just snatched the rattle and muttered thanks, while she studied the available evidence. The woman’s forearm marked with a faded pink skull tattoo. Her red purse set atop the linoleum, the envelope of cash protruding from its insides. On it, Heather had written a name: Drea.
A pot of coffee, two scones, and Leah’s amused expression awaited Olivia when she returned to the booth with Liam. He’d fallen asleep again, snug in the stroller beneath his teddy bear blanket.
“Well?”
Olivia shrugged. “It could be nothing. But I think she just paid a source related to the barrel case Deck’s investigating.”
“Isn’t that frowned upon?”
“Who says Heather Hoffman does anything by the book?”
Leah checked on the baby, her face softening as she watched his eyelashes flutter. “How’d my boy do?”
“A flawless performance in his first undercover operation. You should be proud.”
Thirty-Seven
Will followed JB into the bowels of Crescent Bay State Prison, already on edge. For one thing, a call from the lab had caught him halfway to the station, confirming that the ancient blood they’d swabbed in the cabin did indeed belong to Shelby. Not that he’d doubted it, but the thought of her bleeding out in the cabin next door brought him no comfort. Two, he hated feeling like he owed someone. Especially a phony like Warden Blevins. But he’d brought it upon himself, asked for it even by begging the warden for a favor with Ben. Now, he had to live with that nagging shadow, with the smug look on Blevins’ face, when he greeted them outside the administrative office on their way to interview Brandon Simpkins.
“Another murder suspect here on my turf? It seems we can’t keep you two detectives away from our fine establishment.” Blevins shook both their hands, taking his time to look Will right in the eyes. “Though it’s always a pleasure to see you both.”
After Blevins had swiped his access key card and gone in ahead of them, JB dipped his head to Will, muttering under his breath. “A murder suspect in a prison. Who would’ve thunk it?”
“He’s not a suspect,” Will called to Blevins, fast-walking to catch up. “We just want to talk to him.”
“No skin off my back either way, Detective.” He came to a stop in front of a closed door, where a CO waited outside. “But let’s try to keep the inmate inside the prison this time, shall we?”
As Will expected Shelby’s ex-boyfriend, Simpkins, had a permanent scowl on his face. He’d lost the Mohawk, his bald head gleaming under the fluorescent lights, and put on twenty pounds of belly fat. Prison food will do that to you. But the attitude still belonged to the nineteen-year-old boy Will had seen in Trish’s photo. As far as criminals go, he figured to be about as cooperative as Cy had been on his way to the vet a few weeks back; legs splayed and claws unsheathed, howling bloody murder, Will had battled for twenty minutes to force the tabby into his newly acquired pet carrier.
This was certain to be twice as long and half as fun. All the more reason he and JB had agreed to tag-team the interrogation. To wear Simpkins down with their good cop–bad cop routine.
Will stood by the door, watching. He’d let JB have the first crack at him, get him warmed up.
“Good morning, Mr. Simpkins. We appreciate you agreeing to speak with us.” JB smiled, effusive as a game-show host.
A grunt and a nod from Simpkins. “I gotta be at work at nine.”
“A working man. Impressive. My partner and I don’t want to waste your valuable time, but we sure could use your help.”
Simpkins leaned back, resting his palms on his thighs. His knobby knuckles a far cry from the blade-like fingers in Shelby’s last photograph. “I watch the news. I know exactly what this is about, and I’ll save you the trouble. It ain’t me you’re looking for.”
“Who are we looking for then?”
“Hell if I know. That broad went and got herself killed. It’s not my fucking problem.” Once he’d spit the vile words out and had a chance to consider them, his sour face softened. “Pisses me off, though, about our kid.”
“I’ll bet. So, you knew about the baby? It was yours?”
“He, right? I heard that reporter say it was a boy. He was mine. As far as I know. That’s what Shelby told me.”
JB nodded. “And you wanted a kid?
”
“Thought I did.” Simpkins shrugged. “Figured I could at least do it better than my deadbeat dad.”
“What did Shelby want?” Will spoke up, finally. As he said her name, he studied Simpkins’ eyes. No flinch. No regret. Nothing.
“She wanted to get rid of the baby.”
Will frowned, ready to poke the bear. “Really? I heard she was pretty hung up on you.”
“Shelby thought she was too good for me. That she was going places.” Simpkins laughed, all breath and irony. “Guess she did go someplace. Just not the place she thought.”
“If she wanted to have an abortion, how’d she end up nine months pregnant?” And dead. Will left that last part unspoken for now. He’d take Simpkins down one rung at a time. “Why’d she tell somebody else she was giving the baby up for adoption?”
“All I know, she made an appointment at one of those clinics. We had a fight, and I refused to go with her. But Drea told me she didn’t go through with it. She disappeared a couple days later. I never saw her again. Until the photo on that morning show took me right back.”
JB gave Will a look before he laid it on thick. “I’d have been mad as an old wet hen if my woman had ever threatened to get rid of my baby. Nobody touches my girl. Ain’t no tellin’ what I would’ve done. How did you get through that, man?”
Simpkins was unmoved. “I’m sure you’ve already talked to Shelby’s mom. And I figure she fed you all kinds of lies about me. That woman never liked me.”
“Can you blame her?” Will asked. “Her sixteen-year-old daughter dating you? By that time, you’d already been locked up in youth authority for slinging dope. Then, her daughter shows up with a bruise on her face and an unconvincing story. Not exactly the future she had in mind for her little girl.”
Her Perfect Bones: A totally addictive mystery and suspense novel Page 15
