“My money says she’s not talking.” JB gestured to the sheaf of papers. “That’s what you call graveyard love.”
“Graveyard love?”
“Till death do you part.”
Will let that settle into his bones. Cold and hard, it felt like the truth. Even so, he jotted down Drea’s most recent known address.
“Did you see this one?” JB asked, sliding a 2013 arrest report back to Will’s desk. “Second paragraph. Remind you of anything?”
Victim reported being secured with zip ties by suspect before he assaulted her. Reporting officer observed bruises on victim’s wrists consistent with her statement. Will grimaced, recalling the splotchy marks Chet had observed on Shelby’s wrists during the examination.
Lieutenant Wheeler poked his head from his office. “Good to see you boys still standing. Just got a call from one of your Chained trio, Donald Eggerton, in reference to the barrel case.”
“Put him through.” Will raised his eyebrows at JB, pushed a notepad in his direction. He wondered what Eggerton would have to say for himself, spilling his guts on a television show. “You’re on speaker, Mr. Eggerton.”
“Alright.” The voice faltered, not nearly as confident as the one Will had heard answering Heather Hoffman’s questions that morning.
Do you think Max Grimaldi is a killer? she’d asked.
That voice hadn’t wavered. With what I know, it’s certainly possible.
“We saw your interview on Good Morning, San Francisco. Any reason you went to SFTV with your story first?”
“Well, I’ll be honest, Detectives. The adult bookstore business is not what it used to be.”
JB scrawled a note. With a smirk, he pushed the pad to Will. Does this guy know porn is free on the Internet?
“I’ve got one kid in college and another in grad school. This old belt can’t get much tighter. When that reporter called and offered me cash for an exclusive, it was pretty hard to resist. Especially after she told me she’d mention the bookstore on air. You can’t beat that kind of publicity these days.”
Will stifled a groan. “You do understand we’re not running a TV station here? We don’t work for a competing network. We’re investigating a brutal murder. A young girl, an unborn baby. If you had information that could help solve this case, why wouldn’t you call the police?”
“I get it, I get it.” Eggerton sighed. “That’s why I’m calling now. I do want to help.”
Will paused to read JB’s scribble—Only if we agree to a bulk purchase of edible panties—and chuckled under his breath.
“Okay. So, let’s start with what you told the reporter. Apparently, you knew Brenda was on the film set against her will. That Max Grimaldi had kidnapped her. Is that right?”
“Not at first. But I figured it out pretty quick. He kept her chained up between takes, and she had no scripted dialogue. Honestly, she seemed really out of it. Like she might’ve been on something.”
“Did you confront Grimaldi about it?”
“Heck, no. I was young, and I looked up to him. I took a couple of his film classes at San Francisco Art College. Anyway, Max kept saying he wanted the film to feel authentic. He told us Brenda was just method-acting.”
Yikes. JB punctuated his note with a grimace.
“A few of the scenes in the film are quite realistic. Whips, blood, screaming. Was Brenda harmed on set?”
“Not that I recall. Aside from being chained to the wall, of course. Max was his own prop master and makeup artist. He had everything the big studios did. It’s all fake blood packets and camera angles. For one scene, Max put a sponge on her back, filled it with red colored water. Instant blood spray.”
Will conjured it in a flash. With a fearsome yell, Victoria had brought down the whip, sending a red mist into the dank air of the basement.
“What about the other actress, Victoria Ratcliffe? Did she know Brenda had been kidnapped?”
“She must’ve.” Eggerton paused. “Her husband—Reid, if I recall correctly—was the one who helped Max find her.”
Forty-Two
The shingled house at the end of Alder Street belonged to Drea Marsh now. It sat on a small fenced lot at the edge of town. Behind the bare wood planks, a dirt path led down to the Earl River, the burble of the water audible in the late-afternoon quiet. Standing there, inside Drea’s screened porch, Will closed his eyes for a moment. But he only saw Shelby’s hand reaching up from her barrel tomb. Only heard the risky promise he’d made to Trish. To find the bastard who’d done it and make him pay.
“Still can’t believe you didn’t out Bauer to the Chief.” JB rang the bell for the second time.
“Why? Because I’m a snitch?” Will hated that word. But then again, sometimes he hated himself.
“C’mon, City Boy, you know me better than that.” JB frowned at him. “Because he’s an incompetent ass. An ass who dated your doctor.”
Will shrugged, hating himself even more. Because even with all JB’s razzing, he had never used Will’s past against him. And yet Will had repaid his loyalty by throwing it in his face. “Well, she’s not my doctor. She’ll probably never speak to me again. And with enough rope, Graham will hang himself.”
“With enough rope, Graham will have us all strung up like fish.”
Will nodded, feeling antsy. Drea hadn’t answered their calls either. “Looks like she’s avoiding us.” He paced to the edge of the porch, peering around the side of the house at a small shed, grown up with weeds. “Wanna poke around a little? Talk to the neighbors?”
“Nah. This old man needs to save his energy.”
“Another tennis date with Tammy?”
“We’re going five sets.” JB raised one scraggly eyebrow and mashed the bell once more. “And I don’t mean on the tennis court.”
While JB waited on the porch, Will wandered to the side of the house. Though the weeds had grown thick with neglect, a well-worn path led him to a dilapidated shed on the edge of the property.
Will opened it with effort, dragging the door through the thick grass. The sunlight streamed in, spotlighting the dirt floor and the table at its center. On it, a heap of clay, half-formed into a wilting rose. Several shelves had been affixed to the dusty walls, where Drea’s disturbing clay creations had been displayed. Misshapen bodies, skulls with bullet holes, snakes with fangs protruding. Drea had found a way to give life to the brokenness inside her.
Will leaned his head inside, searching for something more. As if Drea herself might be there, a wisp of the girl she’d been, hidden in the shadows.
“You lookin’ for the gal that lives here?”
Will started at the voice over his shoulder. He peered at the old man in the neighboring yard through a hole in the fence wide enough for a body to squeeze through.
“Do you know her?” Will turned himself to the side, shimmied between the planks and flashed his badge.
The old man nodded. “She’s a loner. But then, so am I. I heard she’s got herself a fella up at the prison. So did the last one that lived here. I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me. Young ladies today like the bad boys, don’t they?”
Will chuckled.
“You know, for a hot minute I thought you might be that reporter who’s been snoopin’ around here.”
Before Will could spit out a follow-up, JB cried out.
“Hey, stop!”
Unholstering his Glock, Will hurried back through the fence and around to the porch. Empty. The front door still closed and locked.
“JB?”
“Back here.”
Will rounded the side of the house and dashed across the yard, where he found his partner struggling to climb the back fence, red-faced and out of breath.
JB pointed toward the river, huffing. “Went… that… way.”
“Drea?”
“Probably. I didn’t get a clear look.”
Will scanned the wood planks until he located the hinges of the back gate, hidden behind a small rusted-out fish
ing boat which had been leaned up against the fence. He pushed through it to the weeds on the other side, jogging a bit until he’d reached the clearing by the river. Looked to his left and right and across the roiling water.
The only sign of life, a gull riding the wind on its way to the sea.
By the time Will returned, JB had taken a seat on Drea’s front porch step, dabbing sweat from his brow and nursing his bruised ego. “I told you, City Boy. I don’t do fences.”
“How ’bout gates? Do you do those?”
JB extended his middle finger.
“Male or female?”
“Can’t say for certain. The person had a ball cap on, dark sunglasses.”
“Heather Hoffman? The neighbor said she’d been snooping around.”
JB shrugged. “Might’ve been. Might’ve not.”
Will’s phone buzzed in his pocket. What now? His eyes fixed on the number, tempted to let it go to voicemail. Because a conversation with his ex-fiancée, Amy, struck him as a bad idea. Especially now, when he had the emotional bandwidth of a petulant teenager. Still, duty called.
“How can I help you, Inspector Bishop?”
With laser precision, Amy’s laugh jabbed him right in the heart. The broken part he’d patched together with duct tape and time and good old-fashioned avoidance. “‘Inspector Bishop’? Must be a rough day if Will Decker is busting out formalities.”
It rankled how well she could read him. “Did you need something?”
“Okay. A really rough day then.”
He fought back with the only weapon he knew would bring her to her knees. Silence.
“I’m calling about one of your suspects. I figured you’d want to know. But, if it’s a bad time—”
“Just spare me the bullshit and spit it out already.”
“Chuck Winters’ parole agent called. He skipped town.” Will barely had time to register his surprise. “And one more thing. Get over yourself, Detective.”
Forty-Three
Olivia left her work clothes in a heap at the foot of the bed and slipped on her sneakers, intent on running this day into the ground. Fueled by worry and regret and half a turkey sandwich, she set a blistering pace, following the trail behind the house down to the Earl River, every step a reckoning. Every breath a repentance.
By the time she’d reached the water, she’d hit her stride. She didn’t dare slow down; her demons would catch her. Didn’t make her usual turn to the west that would’ve ended her up at the beach near Little Gull after a couple of miles. Instead, she headed east, following the gentle tug of her heart.
The river narrowed, darkened. The grove of redwoods shaded its banks.
She sprinted up the last hill, relishing the burn of her muscles, before she stopped. Put her hands behind her head and sucked in the spring air that had turned cool in the twilight.
Olivia walked a few steps, peering through the dense tree cover toward the rustic cabins that lined Wolver Hollow Road. She counted them off as she went, pausing at the back gate of 248. The dense forest closed in around the house, nearly blocking it from view. A shiver ran through her, imagining sixteen-year-old Shelby in the bedroom, the Mary Jane doll clasped to her chest as she slept. How lonely she must’ve felt. How afraid.
A sudden wind kicked up, sweeping the sweaty tendrils of her hair from her neck. The redwood branches, too, surrendered to its mercy, stirring and rustling, while it moved among them like a ghost. Suddenly cold and on edge, she rubbed her bare arms and listened.
A dog barked somewhere in the distance.
Closer, in the brush, a twig snapped, and she commenced running. Full speed ahead, up the path toward the cabin next door. As silly as it was, she didn’t dare look behind her. Here, the thistle weeds had been cut back, leaving the dirt trail clear. The grass, neatly trimmed. As she rounded the side of the house, she spotted a light from beneath the half-opened garage, heard the thwack of gloved fists on leather.
Leaning down to look inside, she saw Deck, shirtless and out of breath. Then, and only then, did she feel safe.
Forty-Four
Spent, Will stripped off his gloves and leaned against the truck. He wiped his face on the T-shirt he’d discarded five three-minute rounds ago and tossed it on the tailgate, watching the heavy bag sway with the impact of the last relentless flurry of punches that had finally quieted the chatter in his head.
Usually, when he pummeled the bag, he pictured somebody’s face—Drake Devere, Ben, even his father. But today, he’d had no need for faces other than his own sorry mug. He’d let Simpkins get under his skin, then made a fool of himself at the prison. And worst of all, he’d come no closer to getting the answers Trish Mayfield deserved. After searching the woods behind Drea’s house with patrol for over an hour, he and JB had called it a day.
Will contemplated throwing one last bare-knuckled bunch, but Cy drew his attention instead. The cat’s good eye trained on the garage door he’d left partway open to let in the breeze. Sky-blue running shorts and a pair of toned legs dead-ended into Nikes, the soles covered in trail dust and freshly cut grass.
Against his better judgment, his heart leapt at the sight.
“Olivia?”
She poked her head beneath the door, looking sheepish and windswept. Cy stretched and meandered toward her, weaving between her feet. “Did you out me?” she asked him, scratching behind his ears.
Cy gazed up at her, purring in response. Traitor.
“Yeah. He’s a real guard cat. No psychologist or rodent gets past him.”
He hoisted the door the rest of the way, bringing her fully into view. Her ponytail. Her flushed cheeks. A wry smile and the dimple he hadn’t seen in a while. He searched for the right thing to say. I’m sorry would’ve been a good start, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not after she’d lied by omission.
Olivia shifted from one foot to the other, staring back at him. Finally, he realized, grabbed for his shirt, and she laughed. “You really need to cover those abs, Detective. No one likes a show-off.”
Forty-Five
Tongue-tied, Olivia found a seat on the tailgate while Deck grabbed a clean shirt from inside. When he returned to join her there, he smelled suspiciously good. Even if he still looked pissed at her. She scooted further away, trying to wriggle clear of the danger zone. That two-foot radius within which she felt tempted to put her lips on his.
“So…” He sighed. “Do you want to glove up first?”
She frowned at him, puzzling.
“I figured you came here to hit something. Namely me.” He leaned his chin in her direction, offering his stubbled jaw. “Go on. Take your best shot.”
“Tempting.” She gave his shoulder a teasing push, just to touch him. Ignored the lights and sirens in her head, the vortex pull of him. “But I’m the one who should apologize. I was wrong for talking to Ben without telling you. Talking to him at all, really.”
“Yeah. You were. It’s dangerous enough for a cop on the inside. You know that. He doesn’t need you putting a target on his back.”
Olivia hopped off the tailgate, her blood instantly simmering again at Deck and his monumental hypocrisy. She considered the gloves he’d tossed on the floor nearby. Maybe she should’ve taken him up on his offer. “But it’s okay to bust into my office like you own the place?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay to put a target on my dad’s back? He protected Ben because I asked him to. And look what happened.”
“That’s not what—”
“Also, for the record, I defended you to your brother. I told him he was way out of line to blame you for his mistakes.”
“Timeout.” He reached for the gloves he’d discarded, offering them up with a hangdog look. “Please, just put these on and beat the hell out of me for three minutes. That would be preferable. That, I could take.”
She relented and laughed a little, all breath. “Is that your version of an apology?”
“You know, for a ther
apist, you sure do argue a lot.”
Emily had told her the same too many times to count. “No, I don’t.” She gave him a wry smile.
“You really defended me?”
“For some stupid reason.”
“Uh, thanks, I think.” His frown didn’t hide his amusement. “Did he say anything helpful about your dad?”
“In a roundabout sort of way.”
“That sounds like Ben.”
Olivia returned to the tailgate, half-smiling. But she avoided Deck’s eyes—the gateway to the danger zone—looking down at her lap instead. “By the way, what’s a Radovsky?”
A sudden crack reverberated through the cabin, cruel as a whip, and Olivia clutched her chest. As Cy darted beneath the pick-up, cowering behind the wheel, she envied him his hiding place.
“What was that?” she asked, fearing the answer.
Forty-Six
Will recognized the unmistakable sound of gunfire. Two shots in quick succession. Then, several more. “It sounded like gunshots.”
He headed for the door, intent on retrieving his Glock and a flashlight. Glanced back over his shoulder to Olivia. “Come inside and call 911.”
Pale-faced, she nodded, following him through the entryway and into the kitchen. She plucked the old-school phone from the receiver and started to dial.
Another shot sounded from outside, clear and sharp and undeniable.
Will left Olivia there, securing his weapon as he darted out the front door into the darkness. His heart drummed in time with his feet. Fast but steady. His mind singularly focused on the gunfire that had come from the cabin next door.
With only the thin beam of his flashlight to show the way, he slunk into the forest, grateful for the tree cover, and crept with purpose toward the light in the window.
When he neared the break in the woods, his stomach churned. The bedroom windowpane had been splintered. The door left open. Parked alongside the house, a familiar red Corvette.
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