Reid turned down the music but kept her fingers on the knob. “Where’d you go to college?”
Chestnut-brown eyes met hers in the rearview mirror. “Why do you want to know?”
She shrugged. “Curious.”
London looked away. “Harvard.”
Figured. “How long were you in patrol?”
“Eight years.”
She raised an eyebrow, surprised the rookie had lasted that long. A few weeks in homicide should be enough to send her packing. Homicide was a very different world—much too dark and sinister for a wholesome, doe-eyed rookie.
“What about you?” London piped up from the back. “How long were you—”
Ignoring her, Reid turned up the volume, tapped her thumbs against the steering wheel to “Livin’ on a Prayer,” and focused on the road once again. She had no intention of sharing any information about herself whatsoever. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Her storefront was closed for business and had been for quite some time. Which is why she worked best alone.
With no cases to work and no clear destination in mind—her sole mission had been to make a quick getaway—she headed for her favorite coffee shop near the Common. She’d just banged a right on Tremont when she saw the old woman in the middle of the road.
Nobody was stopping or even slowing down. Vehicles rushed past, completely disregarding the disoriented elderly woman in her pale green bathrobe and fuzzy slippers. For all intents and purposes, the woman looked real enough. But Reid knew she wasn’t.
Her body had perished and was most likely somewhere nearby. What Reid now saw standing in the road was merely the old woman’s ghost.
Damn. With the rookie underfoot, this one could prove to be tricky. She pulled to the side of the road and switched on the emergency light bars in the front and rear windows. She grabbed her travel mug from the cup holder, turned in her seat, and held it out to London. “Can you grab me a refill?” She dug in her pocket for some cash and nodded toward Peet’s Coffee. “Grab yourself one, too. On me,” she said, holding out a twenty-dollar bill.
“You won’t get any points for originality if you drive away while I’m on a coffee run. Remember, that was my idea.”
“Car stays here. You have my word.”
London accepted the cash and narrowed her eyes. “Where will you be?”
“Just right there. Tadpole Playground. Mug needs to do his business,” she lied. Reid had a feeling that’s where she’d find the old woman’s body.
“At a kids’ playground?” London asked, her tone disapproving.
Reid reached inside the glove compartment and held up a plastic grocery bag. “I always pick it up.”
Just two weeks out from Thanksgiving, there was now a frosty chill in the morning air. She glanced at her watch: 8:42 a.m. It was still too cold this early to bring kids to the park, but the sun was out and it was supposed to warm up soon. Their arrival was imminent. She had no intention of letting a child stumble upon the old woman’s corpse.
She opened her car door and stood, walking around to the passenger’s side to let Mug out. “Meet you back here in fifteen,” she said as she held the seat forward for London.
“You never told me.”
“Told you what?”
“How you like your coffee.”
London climbed out from the cramped back seat space with considerable grace, Reid noted, impressed. “No need. They know me there.”
“Right. But I’m not you,” London replied, looking at her like she was missing the obvious.
Reid pointed to the travel mug in London’s hand. “They’ll know that.” The mug had been with her since her days at the academy. It had survived countless tumbles to the pavement from the roof of her car as she drove off in a hurry. The original blue color had mostly peeled away. With countless scratches and dents, it looked like it had once been the target of a mallet-wielding psychopath.
London held the mug up for inspection and grimaced. “You like this thing so much you named your dog after it?”
“His name is Mugshot.” She attached the leash to his collar as he sat and waited patiently. “Mug for short.” Without another word, she turned and headed toward Tadpole Playground.
Thankful to be out of the rookie’s company, Reid let out a breath. No one had ever guessed that before. She had, in fact, named Mug after her lucky mug. It was lengthened to Mugshot by default when Cap and the other detectives assumed that was his full name.
Looked like this rookie was even smarter than a smarter-than-average bear.
She made sure no one was around when she cupped her hands around her mouth and called to the old woman in the middle of the road. “I can see you. There. Standing in the road.”
The old woman gazed back at her with a look of surprise.
“Yes. You.” She waved the old woman over. “Walk with me.”
She watched as the old woman shuffled across the street in her pale green bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, oblivious to the cars that passed right through her. Hazel eyes were now focused on her.
Reid fought to keep her feet firmly in place on the sidewalk. Once she acknowledged a spirit, she felt drawn to them like an industrial-sized magnet to iron. It had taken her years to resist the urge to go to them. Instead, she now waited until they came to her. It was safer that way, particularly when a spirit was standing in the middle of a busy road.
The old woman stepped over the curb and stood beside her on the sidewalk. She gazed up, her face stitched with concern. Something awful happened, dear.
“I’m here to help,” Reid assured her. “Let’s go for a walk.”
The old woman nodded. This way, she said, already leading Reid through the gates of the playground.
They walked in silence. Reid glanced over her shoulder to make sure London wasn’t following. Satisfied the rookie was stuck in a long line of coffee lovers by now, she turned back to the old woman. “Can you tell me your name?”
It’s Beatrice, dear. Beatrice McCarty.
“Nice to meet you, Beatrice. I’m Detective Sylver. This is my partner, Mug.” Mug wagged his tail at the mention of his name and looked directly into the old woman’s eyes. Reid knew from their years on the streets together that Mug saw spirits just as clearly as she did. As far as she could tell, this wasn’t the norm for dogs. She had an inkling Mug’s close brush with death as a pup had something to do with it. But she would never know for sure.
Kind of an ugly mug, wouldn’t you say?
“He’s beautiful, once you get to know him.”
Before she knew it, they were standing in front of the old woman’s body. She’d been duct taped to one of the park’s sand-colored slides, clad in the same pale green bathrobe and fuzzy slippers. She was lying down with her arms raised above her head and her eyes closed. Her face had been molded into an expression of joy. Whoever did this had staged the scene to make it look as though the old woman was enjoying herself on the playground slide.
The staging was obviously significant.
Careful not to touch anything, Reid ordered Mug to stay put and stepped over to get a closer look. Judging from the sunken-in cavities below the frontal bone, it appeared the old woman’s eyes had been removed and her eyelids sewn shut. There were no other visible wounds on Beatrice’s body. “Can you walk me through what happened?”
I was taking my mail out of the mailbox and felt a sharp pain in my back. Then another. And another. I fell down on my porch. She looked over at Reid. That’s all I remember.
Sounded like Beatrice was stabbed in the back, which would explain why there were no visible wounds on the front of the body. But she’d have to wait for the ME’s report to know for sure.
She stood, careful not to disturb the mulch underfoot as she returned to Beatrice’s side. “Did you see who did this to you?”
Beatrice shook her head. I’m afraid not. The last thing I remember seeing was a yellow envelope from my granddaughter. I think there was a birthday card inside. She smiled proudly. Megha
n always remembers my birthday.
Reid suspected the murder had occurred sometime in the past twenty-four hours. Rigor mortis was in full swing. Beatrice’s body was as stiff as a tree trunk. Most people weren’t aware that there were two stages to rigor mortis: the rigor stage, where the muscles stiffened gradually over a period of about twelve hours and maintained that rigidity for another twelve hours, and the flaccid stage, where the muscles gradually became more relaxed over the next twelve hours. A corpse could effectively go from a state of unyielding rigidity to squishy pliancy in a thirty-six-hour period.
Reid cleared her throat. “Do you remember what day it was when you checked your mail?”
Of course, dear. It was Saturday. I play bingo every Saturday at Saint Mary’s. It’s in Waltham, she added as an afterthought. I checked the mail that night as soon as I got home.
“Around what time was that?”
I’m not sure, exactly. Beatrice thought for a moment. Around ten, I think.
If Beatrice was, in fact, murdered Saturday night, her body should have entered the flaccid stage by now. She frowned. Something wasn’t adding up here. Maybe the ME would shed some light on the time discrepancy. “Do you remember your address?”
Well, I should hope so! I’ve lived in that house for over half a century. Beatrice recited her address without skipping a beat.
Instinct told Reid the killer was on the outer periphery of Beatrice’s life—someone with whom this woman was probably unfamiliar. She couldn’t explain how she knew this, but her instincts were usually right. At times, she wondered if these feelings were just thinly veiled psychic abilities. She was often tempted to open her mind to other information, but she fought it. There was simply no room in her life for more weird shit. Communicating with dead people was where she drew the line. “Can you think of anyone who’d want to hurt you?”
Beatrice shook her head as she gazed down at her body. No one I know would ever do something like this.
“Is there anything else you can remember?” Reid asked. “Anything at all that might help me find who did this to you?”
Beatrice thought for a moment. Her face lit up as she met Reid’s gaze. Even spirits could have an aha! moment. Someone left a single white rose on my porch a few days ago, she recalled. It was the most perfect flower I’d ever seen.
“Was there a note?”
No note. Just the flower. I thought it was odd. I never did find out who left it there.
Interesting. “Did you keep it?”
The old woman nodded. I put it in a vase and gave it some water. It’s on my kitchen windowsill.
Reid made the call to dispatch, reported the body, and requested patrol officers for a perimeter around the park. With any luck, the park would be locked down before long. She ended the call and slipped Mug a biscuit from her pocket.
Will you catch him? Beatrice asked. Before he does this to someone else?
She shared Beatrice’s concern. Instinct kicked in once again, warning her there’d be more victims. “Truth be told, you’re not giving me a lot to go on here, Beatrice. I’ll do the best I can.” She cleared her throat self-consciously as she saw London approach from the corner of her eye.
London handed her the battered mug and froze, wide-eyed, as she stared at the old woman’s body. “She’s dead?”
“Looks like that Ivy League education paid off.”
Ignoring her, London quickly surveyed the park. “Who reported it?”
“Me.”
She turned her attention to Reid. “You sent me for coffee when you knew there was a body?”
“I didn’t know anything,” Reid said in her own defense. “I found her like this.”
“You expect me to believe you pulled to the side of the road on a whim and just, what, stumbled upon this crime scene?”
Reid shrugged. “Believe whatever you want.”
London narrowed her eyes as she took a sip from the disposable cup in her hands. “Who were you just talking to?”
“Dispatch. I called it in.”
“No. I saw you end that call and put your phone in your pocket. Then you said something to someone named Beatrice.”
Shit. Reid tried to think on her feet but came up empty. Best way out of this one was flat-out denial. Before she could open her mouth, two BPD bike officers raced toward them, braked in unison, and gaped at the body.
She held out her badge. “Detective Sylver,” she said, grateful for the well-timed rescue. “Block off all entry points. Make sure no one gets in.”
The female officer glanced over her shoulder. “Channel Four News was right behind us.”
The last thing she needed was help from an ambitious reporter. She already had her hands full with an ambitious rookie. Reid sighed. “Just keep them the hell away from my crime scene.” The minute local news learned a killer was targeting the elderly, all hell would break loose. Frightened senior citizens would be banging down the precinct doors.
Nodding, the patrol officers mounted their bikes and raced toward the park’s entrance.
“We’re taking this case?”
“I’m taking this case. It’s in my jurisdiction and obviously a homicide.”
“But what if it’s not?”
“Not what?”
“A homicide,” London said, studying the body.
“You think the victim just duct taped herself to the slide, removed her own eyes and stitched her eyelids shut, and then—what—died of natural causes?”
“What if she died of natural causes and then someone brought her here?”
“Why the hell would someone do that?”
“I have no idea. My point is, we won’t know it’s a homicide until the ME decides cause of death.”
“Cause of death was—” She stopped herself, realizing she’d almost gone too far.
“Was what?” London prompted, stepping toward the body for a closer look. “No signs of external trauma, from what I can see. Am I missing something?”
“We’ll know soon enough.” She watched as the forensics team unloaded their equipment from a white van and carried it over.
“So”—London started to shiver—“what now?”
For the first time since they’d left the precinct, she realized London wasn’t wearing a coat. She’d no doubt left it behind in her attempt to beat Reid to the car. “We wait,” she replied calmly, unaffected by the cold.
Chapter Four
London had no idea why Reid was trying to pull the wool over her eyes. Reid had parked on the street and sent her on a bogus coffee run so she could check out the park by herself. At least that much was clear. But how did Reid know there was a body in the playground? Had someone tipped her off? None of it made any sense.
She flashed back to Reid’s conversation with someone named Beatrice. Something told her the name was important. Reid had ended the conversation in a hurry as soon as she’d approached. Like she was hiding something.
London intended to find out exactly who Beatrice was. Maybe Beatrice was in on this somehow—whatever this was.
* * *
Still shivering, London piped up from the back seat, “Where are we going now?”
“To the precinct. To get your coat.”
“How did you know?”
“The blue lips and violent shivering gave it away.”
“No, not that.” London sighed. “You were so sure it was a homicide before they even flipped the body over. What did I miss?”
“Nothing. Just a gut feeling.”
“Does that happen a lot? You get a gut feeling, and it turns out to be right?”
This was one nosy rookie. “Any cop worth their weight in salt gets gut feelings after the first few months on the job,” she said evasively. She pulled up to the BPD, climbed out, and walked around to the passenger’s side. Mug scooted over to the driver’s seat as she reached inside and held the passenger’s seat forward.
London looked up but made no move to exit the car.
“
Coat. Remember?” Reid prompted.
“Are you coming inside, too?”
She shook her head. “Mug and I will wait here.” But she had no intention of waiting. She and Mug would be peeling rubber in about ten seconds.
London sat back in her seat and refastened her seat belt. “No.”
“No?” Reid repeated, incredulous.
“I am not getting out of this car without you.”
“I’m already out of the car. It’s you who’s still inside the damn car.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I don’t. Enlighten me.”
London locked her chestnut gaze on Reid. “I’m not going inside that building without you.”
“And why the hell not?”
“Because as soon as I walk in, you’ll drive away and leave me here.” She paused, searching Reid’s face. “You have a plan up your sleeve, something you’re itching to do that’s relevant to the investigation. I intend to be there to see it. I’m here to learn from you, Detective Sylver. Not read about how you solved the case later in some report.”
Damn. London was on to her. “Suit yourself.” She pushed the seat back, and Mug returned to his rightful place.
Having this rookie around asking endless questions and scrutinizing her every move would only slow things down and hamper the investigation. How the hell was she supposed to work under these conditions?
She walked to the driver’s side and slipped behind the wheel once again. For the time being, it seemed they were glued at the hip. The way she saw it, she had three choices—find more creative ways to lose the rookie, keep working the case with the rookie underfoot without giving anything away, or leave the job altogether. She’d just reached her twenty-year mark a few months ago. Retirement was always an option.
London leaned forward from the back seat and was promptly rewarded with a quick lick to the nose from Mug.
Sylver and Gold Page 3
