by Lauren Carr
The door opened.
A forensics investigator, April Warner, stepped into the suite. Upon seeing Dani in her gown, the short, plump, middle-aged woman stopped. “I know this is a formal investigation, but I didn’t know we had to dress up.”
“Detective Derringer was just leaving.” Mac pointed at the door. “Now, Derringer. That’s an order. Don’t make me arrest you for impeding an investigation.”
With a “humph” noise, Derringer stomped out. She almost knocked April over when she got too close to the door while taking her camera out of its case.
“Someone is having a rough night,” the forensics investigator said in reference to the detective’s snit.
“Not as bad as the bride and groom.”
As had become her custom, April clandestinely admired Mac’s attractive features while preparing her camera to photograph the scene. She considered the detective, who was at least twenty years younger than she, to be eye candy. Between his tall athletically slender build and wavy auburn hair, with just a touch of gray at the temples, April loved nothing better than to be called out to a dead body when Mac Faraday was leading the investigation. The only thing she considered more irresistible than his piercing blue eyes was his tight butt.
If I was only twenty years younger …
“Cause of death is pretty obvious. Shot multiple times.”
His smooth deep voice drew her out of her fantasy about being trapped on a tropical island with a naked detective swimming in a chocolate pool under a milk chocolate waterfall.
Squatting next to the bodies, Mac examined Brie’s body, which was stretched out on her stomach. “I’m counting three gunshot wounds—looks like two of these are exit wounds. She had been shot in the stomach. The third shot was in the back.”
April positioned herself on the other side of the bodies to snap the crime scene pictures. “When was the last time they were seen alive?”
“According to Captain Jeffries, the limo brought them here from the church an hour and twenty minutes ago.” Mac stood to write a note in his notebook. “I want to see all of the wedding pictures. If the killer was a perp from a past case, maybe he went to the wedding to wait for just the right time to get his revenge.”
Snapping away with her camera, April said, “If one of them had arrested him, why would they have let him into the suite.” She turned around and snapped a picture of the door and entryway. “I don’t see any sign of forced entry or a struggle by the door.” She lowered the camera. “Which means they had let the shooter inside.”
Mac was aware of her watching him while he glanced around the room—taking in every minute detail. “He was shot four times. He was probably shot first because he’d be considered the bigger threat.”
“Downstairs, I heard some of the uniforms saying there was a witness.”
Mac jerked his head around to look up at her. “A witness? What witness? Why didn’t they tell me?”
“Don’t beat me up,” she said. “I’m not the one leaving you out of the loop. I’m the one telling you. They said the woman in the suite across the hall heard the shots. She thought they were champagne corks. By the time Kassandra sounded the alarm and the cavalry arrived, she was gone. Whoever this witness was, she had a master key. She’d let Kassandra inside to find the bodies.”
“If she had a master key, she was possibly a regular here at the hotel.”
“They think she’s a paid escort,” April said. “Harrington and his guys from vice are trying to track her down.”
“This isn’t their case,” Mac said with a moan. “If they catch up with her first, they could contaminate her testimony.”
“I’m only telling you what I heard the guys saying outside.” She turned her attention to photographing a soda bottle on an end table. “Vice is out for blood.”
Mac knelt to the floor and placed his cheek close to the carpet. He studied the champagne flute that Brie clutched in her hand. Did it all go down so fast that she didn’t have time to drop her drink to defend herself? He sniffed the flute. Champagne. He pressed his gloved fingers into the moist carpet and brought them to his nose.
April squatted next to him. “Find something?”
“Make sure you get a detailed analysis of the blood and liquid, including the splatter patterns in the carpet.” He rose to his feet. “Homicide’s been dealt a major blow too. Pratt had a great future ahead of her. Her father was one of the best in homicide. He trained me when I first made detective. I can only imagine what—”
“Vice lost Gordon only six months ago. Then Brie and Trevor. It’s been a rough year for the precinct.” She gestured at the groom. “You are aware that Detective Bruce Gordon was Trevor’s partner.”
“Since the Gordon murder is one of my cases, I’m very aware of that.”
“Here’s something you may not know,” she said with a coy grin. “Detective Derringer, the bridesmaid you just tossed out of the crime scene, had been Gordon’s partner in vice before she transferred to homicide. After she left, Gordon was paired up with Polk. Three months later Gordon got blown away during a stakeout of the Scorpion’s meth lab.”
“I’m well aware of that,” Mac said.
“Do you know why Derringer requested a transfer out of vice?”
“She was ambitious and wanted to move up.”
“Yes, she is that,” April said. “She was also sleeping with her partner and Harrington found out. One of them had to transfer out. She saw an opportunity to move up, so she grabbed it.”
“She did a very good job of keeping her personal relationship with Gordon under wraps.” Mac took note of wet spots on the wall near the victims’ bodies. “I’m surprised Harrington didn’t tell me that.”
“You would think he would have,” April said. “Two detectives. Partners. Murdered six months apart.” She let out a soft gasp. “Only the Yurievichs would have the guts to whack two detectives in a hotel filled with cops. Gordon and Polk arrested Malykhin Yurievich. Pratt was probably collateral damage. Can you imagine a better way to send a message?”
“Maybe.” Mac gestured to the floor. “As wet as this carpet is, I think the glasses were full.”
He noted the plastic ice bucket containing an opened bottle of champagne on the table. He peered inside to see that the ice was only slightly melted. A lone champagne flute rested on the table next to the bottle. He bent over to peer into the glass. It was so clean that it sparkled in the light of the room. “Can you take a picture of the champagne and the ice bucket? Make sure you get a picture of the glass, too.”
April crossed the room from where she was placing evidence markers around the bodies to photograph the champagne bottle, ice bucket, and glass in the precise position as they had been found.
After she had finished, Mac picked up the green bottle to examine it while being careful to not disturb any fingerprints. Its gold label read, “De Margerie Grand Cru Brut.” It was stamped with the year 1988. The bottle was half-filled and still cold.
“This bottle must have been delivered, opened, and the champagne poured into their glasses before they were shot.” He carefully placed it back in the bucket and examined the glass.
“A complimentary bottle of champagne and two glasses come with the room.”
“The killer had to have come in right after the champagne was delivered or he or she brought it. There’s no sign of a break in. They’d let their killer in.” He knelt to look under the furniture. There was a champagne flute on the floor next to the bed.
“What about the murder weapon?” April asked.
“I’m not finding any,” Mac said. “How many champagne flutes are there in this room?”
They counted three glasses. The overturned glass next to the bed. The clean one next to the ice bucket. The third was in the bride’s dead fingers.
“Doesn’t that strike you as an odd number?” Ma
c asked April. “I’m thinking there were already two champagne flutes in the room—comes with the bridal package. Two more glasses were delivered with the bottle.”
“And one glass left with the killer,” April said, “leaving three.”
“Make sure forensics checks everyone’s weapons—every officer and detective, who came to this wedding. We need to check each one to find out if any have recently been fired.” He studied the size of the bullet wounds. “We’re talking about a big caliber weapon.”
While April moved on to take samples of the blood and other liquids soaking the carpet, Mac knelt next to Brie’s body to once more examine the champagne flute in her hand. He pressed his gloved finger into the tiny bit of liquid that had pooled in the lowest point of the glass and tasted it.
Definitely champagne.
He continued pressing his hand against the carpet, taking note of the moist areas around the bodies, and sniffing his hand until he found an area against the wall and on the floor where the scent and taste was noticeably sweeter.
Mac closed his eyes to identify the liquid. Ginger ale. Interesting. He took note of the soda bottle on the end table that April had photographed earlier.
After two more crime scene investigators arrived to work the room, Mac waded through his colleagues to get to the elevator.
Before the doors shut, Detective Rico Sanchez slipped onto the car. The doors closed behind him. “Hey, Faraday, can I ask you for a favor?”
Mac cut him off with a shake of his head. “I can’t tell you anything about the crime scene, Sanchez.”
“That’s not what I’m asking, Faraday. I’m not a rookie. I know you need to question everyone and everyone is a potential witness. Clarissa’s sick.”
Confused by the seemingly off-topic remark, Mac squinted his eyes and cocked his head.
“My wife, Clarissa,” Sanchez explained. “She’s throwing up. Came on out of the blue. I think it’s the emotional trauma. She’s not used to this type of stuff.”
The elevator doors opened.
Sanchez followed Mac into the lobby. “Listen, you know me. Can I take her home and you take our statements in the morning?”
Mac followed his gaze into the banquet room where a petite, exceedingly slender woman sat at a table. When she lifted her face from her hands, Mac could see that her eyes were red and swollen. Based on the strain he saw in her face, she was traumatized.
“Sure.” Mac patted Sanchez on the arm. “Take her home and stay with her. I’ll get your statements in the morning.”
Detective Sanchez hurried across the room to collect his wife.
Mac fought every thought and inclination of emotion. He had to keep it together—stay focused on the case. The best way to do that was to distance himself.
Brie Pratt had started out in homicide as his trainee. His protégé. His friend. He owed it to her father, a retired police captain and—
Her daughter.
He turned around to come face to face with Gina Johansson. Upon learning the news of her mother’s death, the girl had escaped the conference room to find someone, anyone, to tell her that it was all a bad dream. She had only made it as far as the lobby before coming upon Mac Faraday.
Like the Angel of Death, his presence confirmed the gut-wrenching truth.
“Uncle Mac,” Gina said in a voice barely above a whisper, “it’s true? She’s gone. Mom is gone.”
Mac looked at the adults behind her. Rod seemed to have aged decades in one hour.
“I’m sorry, Gina.”
The girl threw herself at Mac, taking him into a tight hug, as if the strength of his body could keep her from falling apart. She wailed into his chest. Her body quaked in his arms.
“I’m so sorry, Gina,” he said while holding her. “I am truly sorry. She loved you so much.”
After she had gathered herself together, she peered up at him with her tear-filled eyes. “You’re going to get who did this to my mom, right? Right, Uncle Mac? You’re going to get him. Promise me.”
In his years of being a homicide detective, Mac had learned that it was unwise to make such a promise. So many factors could prevent him from keeping that promise. Still, looking down into her face, he felt compelled to oblige.
“I promise, Gina. No matter what, one day, I am going to find out who killed your mom and they will pay.”
Chapter One
Present Day - Spencer Police Department, Spencer, Maryland
In the resort town of Spencer, the police force consisted of a dozen officers. The department’s offices were housed in a three-story log building that blended into the surrounding woods. With its stone fireplace in the reception area, four speed boats for patrol docked along the lake shore, and fleet of ATV’s and dirt bikes, the police department resembled a sports club.
On that chilly autumn day, a fire was roaring in the fireplace when Police Chief David O’Callaghan arrived bearing a box of donuts and a big bottle of coffee creamer. With the grocery bag in one hand and his valise tucked under his arm, he propped the door open with his shoulder for his canine “partner” Storm, a sable Belgian shepherd, to enter. She made a beeline around the reception desk to greet the desk sergeant.
Storm had been a gift from an investigative journalist. Extremely attached to David, the seventy-five-pound dog had become his constant companion. While she was well behaved, she was not a trained law enforcement canine. Upon seeing the large dog with the police chief, most folks immediately fell in line. If they only knew that Storm was more likely to lick their face off than chew on them.
“How’s my sweetheart?” The desk sergeant pushed back her chair to allow Storm to greet her with a tongue bath on her face.
“I’m fine. How are you, Tonya?” David flashed her a wide toothy grin while depositing his valise on the counter. He crossed the reception area and went down the hallway to the break room to set out the donuts and put the cream away.
“You’re not my sweetheart.” Tonya wrapped both arms around Storm’s thick furry neck. “Is he?” She kissed the dog on the snout. Storm responded by wagging her tail as fast as it could go.
Tonya had lived on the lake her whole life. Many suspected the long hours she put in at the station were an excuse to not go home where she lived with two of her three grown children. She considered her four dogs more self-sufficient than her offspring.
David had to only open the box of donuts before Bogie, his deputy chief, swooped in from his office to snag the Boston cream-filled pastry. “It’s about time!” He took a big bite and uttered a groan of pleasure. “If that doesn’t hit the spot.”
Deputy Chief Art Bogart, called Bogie, was a mountain of a man whose muscles were as hard as rocks. His thick mustache and hair were touched with gray. The lines on his strong face told of a man who had lived a hard sixty-five years.
David’s late father, Patrick O’Callaghan had been Spencer’s previous police chief. Bogie had been his closest friend and colleague. When David took over as chief of police, Bogie was the first officer he called to be his deputy.
“If you’re going to be spending your nights with Doc Washington, the least she could do is feed you breakfast before you come in to work,” David said.
“Jealous,” Bogie said before taking another big bite that left less than half of the donut. “Doc has a friend working at WVU hospital who is dying to give you a lesson in biology.”
“Not interested. I’m taking a break from women for the time being.”
“She’s a doctor. Your pappy always wanted you to marry a doctor.”
“No.” David’s cell phone vibrated on his hip. After snatching the phone from its case, he read the caller ID. “Mac.”
Mac Faraday. His half-brother.
David put the phone to his ear. “Hey, M—”
“How much do you love me?” Mac’s tone was high pitched—
not his usual smooth controlled self.
“That sounds an awful lot like a loaded question.”
“I hate loaded questions,” Bogie mumbled before draining the last of the coffee in the carafe into his mug.
“There’s been an incident involving the mayor,” Mac said.
David could hear the roar of the engine to Mac’s sports car. “What kind of incident? Is he hurt?”
“He’s fine. Can’t say the same for his opponent, though. Dave, it’s bad.”
“How bad?”
“I need you to get rid of a body.”
After instructing the police chief on how best to cover up the homicide, Mac Faraday turned his sports car off the road on Spencer Mountain. The scenic overlook provided a panoramic view of Deep Creek Lake down below. They were only a few minutes from the Spencer Inn, which rested at the top of the mountain.
Mac glanced over at the hundred-pound German shepherd in the passenger seat of his convertible sports car. Whining, Gnarly pawed at his snout. Drops of blood seeped from the deep cat scratches. Tuffs of fur had been torn from his forehead.
Mac removed a wad of paper napkins from the glove compartment and doused them with water from his drinking bottle. “Come here, old boy. We’ll get you fixed up.”
His face filled with misery, Gnarly draped his upper body across the console and lay his head in Mac’s lap. More concerned about Gnarly than his tailored slacks and sports coat, Mac dabbed at the wounds on the dog’s big head.
“Neither of us saw that coming, did we?” He wet the napkins and continued to clean the dog up. “It’s okay. It was self-defense. Granted, that cat was five times smaller than you, but what did he expect you to do when he attached himself to your face?” He examined a couple of puncture wounds on Gnarly’s scalp. It looked like a serious bite.
“What is Ms. Kleinfeld thinking bringing feral cats to Spencer Point to live outside next to a house with a German shepherd?” Mac examined Gnarly’s head. The bleeding had finally stopped. “Then, she blames the dog for chasing her cats—as if dogs haven’t been chasing cats for thousands of years.” He adjusted Gnarly’s rhinestone collar. “It’s probably your fault, too, for forcing her cat to hide in the bushes next to our front steps to launch his attack.”
