When Shadows Fall
J.T. Ellison
“The best yet in the series… a standout in the romantic thriller subgenre." Publishers WeeklyDear Dr. Owens,If you are reading this letter, I am dead and I would be most grateful if you could solve my murder…Forensic pathologist Dr. Samantha Owens thought life was finally returning to normal after she suffered a terrible personal loss. Settling into her new job at Georgetown University, the illusion is shattered when she receives a disturbing letter from a dead man imploring her to solve his murder. There’s only one catch. Timothy Savage’s death was so obviously the suicide of a demented individual that the case has been closed.When Sam learns Savage left a will requesting she autopsy his body, she feels compelled to look into the case. Sam’s own postmortem discovers clear signs that Savage was indeed murdered. And she finds DNA from a kidnapped child whose remains were recovered years earlier.The investigation takes Sam into the shadows of a twenty-year-old mystery that must be solved to determine what really happened to Timothy Savage. Nothing about the case makes sense, but it is clear someone is unwilling to let anyone, especially Samantha Owens, discover the truth.“Ellison excels at imaginative and terrifying plots, and this thriller is a fine example that sucks readers in and spits them out at the end, emotionally drained.”RT Book Reviews
Dear Dr. Owens,
If you are reading this letter, I am dead and I would be most grateful if you could solve my murder…
Forensic pathologist Dr. Samantha Owens thought life was finally returning to normal after she suffered a terrible personal loss. Settling into her new job at Georgetown University, the illusion is shattered when she receives a disturbing letter from a dead man imploring her to solve his murder. There’s only one catch. Timothy Savage’s death was so obviously the suicide of a demented individual that the case has been closed.
When Sam learns Savage left a will requesting she autopsy his body, she feels compelled to look into the case. Sam’s own postmortem discovers clear signs that Savage was indeed murdered. And she finds DNA from a kidnapped child whose remains were recovered years earlier.
The investigation takes Sam into the shadows of a twenty-year-old mystery that must be solved to determine what really happened to Timothy Savage. Nothing about the case makes sense but it is clear someone is unwilling to let anyone, especially Samantha Owens, discover the truth.
Also by New York Times bestselling author J.T. Ellison
EDGE OF BLACK
A DEEPER DARKNESS
WHERE ALL THE DEAD LIE
SO CLOSE THE HAND OF DEATH
THE IMMORTALS
THE COLD ROOM
JUDAS KISS
14
ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS
Look for J.T. Ellison’s next novel
available soon from Harlequin MIRA
When Shadows Fall
J.T. Ellison
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
For my mom, who asked every day if the words were any good.
And for my dad, who assured me they were.
And, as always, for Randy
Contents
Prologue (#u92623c99-6417-590b-9d86-f8d7c4f01346)
FRIDAY (#ua6b17b74-e1ff-5a8a-87cd-ef03f9c3e59a)
Chapter 1 (#u24648e1a-27e3-5d91-a93d-bf1c489cae70)
Chapter 2 (#uf1e02bdd-f924-582c-9ff7-7eb1aa8169c9)
Chapter 3 (#u6c78f653-2678-556b-bbb2-7a4d3a40c1c6)
Chapter 4 (#uadaa2831-4a03-52de-acd5-554e8b0f12a2)
Chapter 5 (#ue154198d-8fbb-5e75-904e-ccf35c6fa6f6)
Chapter 6 (#u019db481-cd7f-5ead-bc74-6eff959e870f)
Chapter 7 (#u50325df1-9168-5c53-9265-1815e9b2f424)
Chapter 8 (#u9f647a30-2920-5c82-b44e-70cdf97454c6)
SATURDAY (#u8ae6559a-919e-58dd-8f55-fd50ddcb51aa)
Chapter 9 (#ua4babfbc-23da-5301-879b-e31e325cae81)
Chapter 10 (#ubc588184-d9f1-55c4-ba1a-1274d1e28c51)
Chapter 11 (#u01787630-5ac1-55a8-a68c-f439ea193406)
Chapter 12 (#uf17d57c0-2f80-5e76-b643-a0d1cd87e760)
Chapter 13 (#u837d0f77-435d-5caf-b40c-0929473c07ea)
Chapter 14 (#u04a4b53e-3d8b-5bb6-ba3a-27441f63f87a)
Chapter 15 (#u6d7278ac-2c70-576a-a5dd-c88c2355d7bd)
Chapter 16 (#ud31e9a28-7db9-52cd-8548-bce618d1654c)
Chapter 17 (#u73df84f9-73b4-52cd-b0b4-6b04f43db9e4)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 41 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 42 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 43 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 44 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 45 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 46 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 47 (#litres_trial_promo)
SUNDAY (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 48 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 49 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 50 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 51 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 52 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 53 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 54 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 55 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 56 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 57 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 58 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 59 (#litres_trial_promo)
MONDAY (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 60 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 61 (#litres_trial_promo)
TUESDAY (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 62 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgments (#litres_trial_promo)
Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue
SOMEONE IS FOLLOWING ME.
I hear the footsteps coming closer, quiet on the thick, wet leaves of the forest floor. I duck behind a white pine tree, then realize it’s big enough to hold my weight and scramble upward, hands pulling me into the branches, where I cling to the trunk like a monkey, praying they haven’t seen me. The steps stop, but the forest isn’t tricked; the birds are silent as the grave, the squirrels frozen in their perches. They know evil has come to their world.
My breath is too loud; sweat is prickling on my brow. I see the blood then, on my hands—his blood—and swallow hard against the sudden spike of nausea.
He is gone. He is gone, and now I am alone.
Tears drip down my face, fall off my chin. I swipe my jaw against my shoulder so they don’t splatter onto the leaves below and draw attention to my hiding place.
A starling bursts from the brush fifteen feet to my left, and startles me. I nearly fall out of the tree but hang on. Even my fingers know the danger of letting go.
This dance, inextricably tying us together, is entering its final moments.
They have come for me. I will not let them take me alive.
FRIDAY
“A human being is only breath and shadow.”
—Sophocles
“You are a human being, and so you must honor thy mother; she is the life of all things, the soul of your breath, your stars, your moon, the bringer of air, the guide of the tides. I am your mother, your breath, your sight and your feelings. Honor not me, but what I can be for you.”
—Curtis Lott
Chapter
1
Georgetown University School of Medicine
Washington, D.C.
DR. SAMANTHA OWENS stared out the window of her office, admiring the view she’d be enjoying for the next several years. Trees. Lots and lots of trees. The Georgetown University campus was landscaped to perfection, bringing the joys of wildlife and green space to their urban oasis. Maples and willow oaks, zelkovas and ginkgo, viburnum and holly, and more she had no names for. In truth, this deep into the warm, wet D.C. summer, everything was so green it made her eyes hurt. It was all so bloody alive.
And so different from her anonymous, stainless-steel office in Nashville. A welcome change. A change she’d openly pursued, sure to the core she no longer wanted to work in law enforcement. The idea of keeping herself separate from the hurt and fear and messiness of the real world appealed to her.
Her new reality: she was the head of the burgeoning forensic pathology department at Georgetown University Medical School. Her first classes would start the following week, though students were already on campus doing their orientations. And now that she was here, the sense of adventure and excitement were gone.
Looking out at the tree-lined campus, she couldn’t help wondering, yet again, if she’d made a mistake. The freedom she’d hoped for, planned on, felt like a noose around her neck. Even though she was calling the shots, she was increasingly feeling trapped. So many people were counting on her. She’d developed the forensic program, made a commitment to the university, even signed a contract. She was stuck.
No longer a medical examiner, no longer a part of organized law enforcement. She was a teacher, with two class sections of doctors who wanted to help solve crimes. Students who seemed so young, teenagers, almost, though many were in their twenties, and even thirties. Untouched by tragedy; unknowing of the world’s painful embrace.
They’d learn soon enough, especially with her at the helm. She’d seen more than most in her career, especially during her tenure as the Chief Medical Examiner for the State of Tennessee. Her job was to teach them everything she knew so they could stride out into the world in pursuit of justice.
The way she used to do.
Sam turned from the window to her desk, a thick slab of oak polished to a high gleam, and casually straightened the stack of papers in her out-box. Her OCD was under strict rein, especially in front of all these new people, but there was no need for things to be messy.
She should be eager for this new life to begin. She honestly had been, until a few weeks ago, when her friend John Baldwin, from the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit, sat her down and threw a bomb into her world. Sent her spinning, unsure of all the choices she’d made over the past few months.
He’d come to town for a case two weeks earlier, taken her out for lunch and, before the food arrived, got straight to business.
“I wish you’d talked to me before you made this drastic change.”
“It’s the best thing for me. I don’t want to be out there anymore, Baldwin. I paid my dues, with more than I care to remember.”
“Which is why I’m here. We want you to join the FBI.”
She choked on the water the server had set down. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. We need your mind.”
She laughed. “I’m a medical examiner, Baldwin, or I was. Not a field agent. For starters, I hate guns.”
“I know. That’s not a problem. You’d be an official consultant, mostly with me and my team, but with other parts of the Bureau, too, depending on the cases. You’d need to go through some training at the Academy in Quantico, to make it all official, but you’ll be able to work on cases again. Sam, you can’t tell me you don’t miss it.”
“I don’t. Not at all.”
“You’re lying to yourself.”
Watching the students wander the campus, Sam wondered if he was right. Did she belong here? Innocent faces glued to smartphones, earbuds firmly embedded in ears, an insouciant walk; these kids didn’t seem to have a care in the world. What if she wasn’t cool enough for them?
“Right. There’s the thing to worry about. Being cool.”
She settled at the desk and opened her laptop. Debated putting in her own earbuds; decided she was being silly. She knew her lesson plan cold, but giving it one more look wouldn’t hurt; she hated using notes. Regardless of the doubt she was feeling, she was here to engage these young doctors, intrigue them, but also allow them a glimpse into the real world of forensic pathology. Not the exciting, tumultuous world they saw on television, but the bloody, messy, heart-wrenching process of dissection, both of bodies and of lives. To show them the hardest truth of all: the dead have no secrets.
But the living do.
Forget the notes. Maybe she’d just read for a bit, settle into her office. Adjust to the sights and sounds of her new life.
She was deep into an article on forensic ballistics when a soft knock pulled her from her review. She looked up to see Xander in her doorway, a grin on his face.
“Hey,” he said.
Her stomach flipped, as it always did when he caught her unawares. A biological response to an emotion none truly understood. An emotion she was grateful for, because she knew the depth of it had saved her from sinking into the deepest abyss.
Alexander Whitfield. Known to his parents and family as Moonbeam, or Xander Moon. A true misnomer for a tough former army ranger. And Xander was still a ranger through and through: intense, alert, always combing the background for unseen threats. Romantic, and a fatalist. Just like her.
He was a different man now than the one she’d met several months before. More open, more forgiving. Happier. They’d settled into a version of domestic bliss, splitting their time between her Georgetown town house and his cabin in the backwoods of the Savage River Forest.
He’d separated from the army the previous year after the terrible cover-up of a friendly fire incident that had killed one of his best friends. He’d run to the woods, disengaged from the world and would have stayed there, lost and alone, if it weren’t for Sam. Two broken souls, made whole by their joining.
Xander wasn’t fully ready to reenter the world, but he was coming back, a bit at a time. Though he’d done his best to hide it, she knew he was happy she had turned down Baldwin’s job offer.
“Hey,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought I’d bring you lunch. I know how you can lose yourself in your work. What is it today? Blood spatter?”
“It’s eerie how you do that.” She turned the laptop around and showed him the article. “I was just starting the section on backspatter.”
He didn’t pale, but his lips tightened together in a grim line. He’d spent most of his life behind the trigger; he was more than familiar with the concept.
Sam glanced at the screen, saw the full-color image of a man at the wrong end of a shotgun and slammed the laptop closed. “Sorry. What’s this about lunch?”
Xander’s dark hair flopped onto his forehead. “You’re not one of those M.E.s who can eat a tuna sandwich standing over a corpse, are you?”
“Highly unethical behavior, tuna eating. I’d stick with cookies or crackers myself. The crumbs are easier to brush away.”
He laughed, deep from his belly, which made her smile. She loved his laugh.
“I wouldn’t kick you out of bed for eating crackers.” He glanced over his shoulder at the open office door. “Maybe we should inaugurate your office.”
He kissed her, long and lingering, and she was damn close to saying lock the door when another knock sounded, this one accompanied by a high-pitched throat clearing. They jumped apart like teenagers caught making out on a porch, and Sam smoothed her shirt down—good grief, one of her buttons was undone; how had he managed that?—before turning to see who’d so rudely interrupted them.
It was one of her new T.A.s, Stephanie Wilhelm, a slight blonde with a sharp sense of humor to match her highly unorthodox look—today a black Metallica concert T-shirt under a black men’s pin-striped jacket and dark jeans tucked into leather combat boots. Sam liked the girl. Her independence among the clones had landed her the coveted T.A. position in the first place.
“Forgive me, Dr. Owens, but this letter arrived for you. It’s marked urgent. I thought I should bring it to you right away.”
Her words were directed to Sam, but her eyes were locked on Xander, who was sitting on the edge of Sam’s desk, arms crossed on his broad chest, vibrating in amusement as he watched her fumble with her button.
“Thank you, Stephanie. I appreciate it.”
“If you need anything else...” She dropped off, winked lasciviously.
“Out,” Sam said, and Stephanie left with a grin.
“I’m hot for teacher,” Xander said, and Sam swatted him with the letter.
“Quit it. The last thing I need is a reputation for looseness among my students.” She sat on the desk next to him and opened the letter. Thick strokes of black ink, the words slanted to the right. A man’s handwriting.
She read the first line, felt the breath leave her body. “Uh-oh.”
Xander caught her tone. “What’s wrong?”
She scanned the rest of the letter. “You need to hear this.” She read it aloud, vaguely noticed her voice was shaking.
“Dear Dr. Owens,
If you are reading this letter, I am dead. I would be most grateful if you would solve my murder. I know how determined you are, and talented. If anyone can figure out this mess, it’s you.
I’ve compiled a list of suspects for you to look at, and set aside some money to cover your expenses. I fear your life may be in danger once they find I’ve contacted you, so I urge you to take every precaution.
Yours,
Timothy R. Savage”
“Let me see that.” Xander took the letter from her, barely touching the corner between his thumb and forefinger. Sam watched his face as he read it, saw the darkness draw over him like a shroud.
“Who the hell is Timothy Savage?”
“I have no idea. But it’s a pretty sick joke. Who would do such a thing?”
“I don’t know. John Baldwin, maybe? Trying to draw you into a case against your will?”
She opened her mouth to deny the possibility, but stopped herself. She’d known Baldwin for many years. He was engaged to her best friend. He was a good man, a no-nonsense cop in addition to being a talented profiler. He wouldn’t resort to manipulation. Would he?
“No. It’s not him.”
Xander shrugged. “Where’s the envelope?”
In her surprise, she’d dropped it on the floor. She pulled a tissue from the box on her desk and picked it up, careful not to directly touch any part of it. Ridiculous, she’d already gotten her prints all over it, so had Stephanie and countless others, but she had to treat it as evidence now.
“Return address is Lynchburg, Virginia,” she said. “Let me plug it into my laptop, see if it’s real.”
He read the information to her, and she entered it into Google. The name Timothy Savage popped up, along with a map of his address, and a death notice from the local Lynchburg paper.
“Oh, no. Xander, Timothy Savage really is dead.”
Xander breathed hard out his nose. “Then Sam, honey, you better call Fletcher. This might not be a joke, after all.”
Chapter
2
Kenilworth Aquatic Gardens
Anacostia
Washington, D.C.
D.C. HOMICIDE DETECTIVE Darren Fletcher was knee-deep in marsh water, standing over the body of a male Caucasian, approximately twenty to twenty-four years of age, who didn’t appear to have a mark on him. But he was dead, without a doubt, staked to a small canoe dock ten feet offshore, bobbing in the gentle tidal flow of the Anacostia River. Fletcher stared at the boy—he really was too young to be called anything else—and thought of his own son, only a few years younger, and promised to be a better father. He’d lost count of how many times he’d stood over deceased young men and made the same fervent prayer.
He slapped at a mosquito, brought his hand away from his neck with a smear of blood on his palm.
Murder. It came in all forms.
But this, who would kill a man this way? Tying him to a stake in a river, leaving him to drown? Had the killer watched as the tide slowly rose, waiting to see the results of his handiwork? Watched the terror of his victim, the dawning knowledge that death was coming for him? The boy’s eyes were open, caked in mud, as if he’d looked at someone in his last moment. The water had spilled over his head, then receded, leaving its filthy, choking mark.
Fletcher shook off a chill, glanced around for cameras and saw none.
Lonnie Hart, his longtime partner, came down the path to the water. He gave a sharp, clear whistle.
Fletcher’s head snapped up. “What’s the matter?”
Lonnie waved for him to come back onto dry land. He headed off, not unhappy to have to get out of the marshy water. It smelled, fecund and ripe, and the body’s bloated rawness wasn’t helping.
When he got closer, Hart said, “We’re in luck. Another five feet out and it would belong to us, but you’re standing on federal land. I called the Fibbies, told them to get their pretty little behinds over here. National park, it’s their jurisdiction. We’ll let them take over.”
“Thank God for small mercies, eh, Lonnie?” And to the body: “Sorry, dude. Red ties are coming. They’ll treat you right.”
He squished up the bank, climbed out of the muck. Hart stuck out a hand and helped tow him onto the small wooden dock. Once on dry land, he shook like a dog, spraying droplets of water on Hart, who punched him on the shoulder and nearly toppled him back into the river.
“Ugh. Come on, man. That’s gross.”
Fletcher grinned at him, then stripped off his socks and wadded them up, stowed them in the pocket of his gym shorts and slid his dry loafers back on his feet. It was a stroke of luck his gym bag was still in the car, sheer laziness on his part not taking it into the house after his workout last night. He hardly wanted to ruin his good pants getting into the nasty water.
“Not sure if I’m happy about this being a Fed case. Haven’t seen one of the strange ones lately. I could have used a challenge.”
“Fletch, you’ve seen enough weird for two lifetimes.”
“True that.”
He cast a last look toward the boy, shrugged and started back up the hill into the park. There were two patrol officers guarding the scene, both sweating in the steamy August heat, plus several others milling about, waiting for Fletcher and Hart to tell them what was what. It might rain this afternoon, a welcome storm to cool things off for the evening, but now the air was still, hot and sticky, and Fletch was thankful he wasn’t in uniform.
Hart grabbed the logbook and signed out of the scene. Fletcher followed suit, then said, “Heads up, kids. The Feds will be coming. Once they’re here, you can release the scene to them.”
The patrols nodded miserably, the lights from their patrol cars flashing red-and-blue streaks across their faces.
He ignored the rest of the masses, went to his car and stripped off his gym shorts. Splashed some warm water from a bottle in his console across his skin and wiped his legs down with a dirty towel. Got back into his lightweight summer slacks. He debated about the shorts, just trashing them, but ended up wringing them out and stowing them with the socks in the trunk of his vehicle.
Fletcher heard a woman calling his name, hurriedly buttoned his fly. No privacy left in the world, especially for a cop.
He turned and saw Lisa Schumann, a crime reporter from The Washington Post who was too pretty for her own good, and not afraid to use that to her advantage, making a beeline across the gardens toward him, determined as a bull facing a red cape. He stifled a groan. Hart took one look at her and peeled off, back toward the patrols.
“Ass,” Fletcher said after him, then squared his shoulders to meet Schumann, who looked as fresh and frisky as ever despite the heat. He didn’t know how she managed; all of his people looked like puddles.
“Detective Fletcher, can I get a statement?”
Fletch shook his head. “You’ll have to talk to the Feds, Schumann. This one’s not ours.”
Her eyes were practically glowing. “Come on. Give me a little something. I won’t attribute it.”
“Yeah. Nice try.”
“Fletcher.” Her voice dropped an octave, and she shifted so he could see she wasn’t wearing a bra under her white button-down. She licked her lips and cocked her head to the side like a puppy. “I heard it was gruesome. If you’d just let me get a peek, I could be convinced to let you buy me dinner.”
He resisted pulling his best Scottish accent and saying, Keep looking at my crotch like that, you man-eater, and it will gruesome more, and shrugged instead.
“Is it true that she’s staked to the dock naked?”
“I don’t know what you’ve heard, but the victim is male, and he is not staked to the dock naked. Sorry, but I’ve got to run. You take care.”
“Oh.” She actually sounded disappointed, and then her fervent grin returned. The audacity of youth and ambition. She flipped a page in her notebook and stared at him expectantly, her water-blue eyes locked on his. He could see the thoughts scrolling by on her face. Naughty thoughts. She was going to get herself in trouble one of these days, telegraphing like that.
“So, see ya,” he said, and deliberately jangled his keys.
“Oh,” she said again, this time truly surprised. She dropped the notebook to her waist. “Yeah. Call me if you hear anything, okay, Fletch? Thanks.”
He watched her cross to the patrols, which sent Hart scurrying back to him. He didn’t like Lisa Schumann at all, not after she’d attributed a deep background quote to Hart in the paper. Not smart. Never screw your sources. Hart wouldn’t get within twenty feet of her now, and Fletch had to admit, he wasn’t keen on giving the girl any information, either. He had plenty of reporters he could trust, and an oversexed coed with a byline wasn’t one of them.
“Did you hear what she said?” Fletch asked.
“No, too busy humming the theme to Jaws. What’s the scoop?”
“She flat-out propositioned me.”
Hart’s eyebrows rose. “Well, you’re a handsome lad, and she’s pretty, if you can get past the bubble gum. Why not? A weeklong course of penicillin would clear things up quick.”
Fletcher snorted. “Penicillin and a million dollars. I wouldn’t get near her with your—”
“Hey, now. Overtime for everyone.”
“Ever the optimist.”
Fletcher’s cell phone rang. “That’s Sam. Hang on a sec.” He put the phone to his ear. “What up, buttercup?”
She laughed, and a tiny piece of him, the piece he’d shoved away into the darkest corners of his heart, constricted. He really liked that laugh, and liked to be the one who brought it forth. She laughed more and more lately; she was very different from the hard, closed-off woman he’d first met in the spring. She’d come back to life, it seemed, and Fletcher liked to think he had something to do with that.
“Heya,” Sam said. “You got a minute?”
“You know me, I’m just standing around with my, um, twiddling my thumbs.”
She laughed again, deeper this time. But he heard the strain in her voice; she was putting up a good front. He immediately went on alert. “What’s the matter, Doc?”
“I received a letter from a man who claims to have been murdered. He wants me to look into his death.”
“Creepy. You think it’s for real, or someone pulling your chain?”
She sighed. “It may be real, Fletch. There’s definitely a man with the same name who’s recently dead. I found an obituary for him. Matches the return address on the envelope. Out of Lynchburg.”
“Are you at home?”
“No, at my office in Georgetown. The letter came here.”
“Good. If it had come to your house, we might be dealing with a nut job.”
“We might be, anyway.” Her voice was soft, the voice of a woman who shouldn’t have to deal with these kinds of things.
Sam, you’re gaining quite a reputation. He stopped himself from saying it aloud; she knew that, and didn’t need to hear it from him.
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Hang tight.”
“Thank you, Fletch.”
He hung up and looked at Hart. “I’m gonna take a ride. I’ll call Armstrong from the car, tell him what we found down here. Have fun with the Feds.”
Chapter
3
Georgetown University School of Medicine
Washington, D.C.
SAM HUNG UP the phone. “Fletch is on his way,” she said.
“Good,” Xander said. “There’s no sense in you becoming involved with this. Even though the letter was sent to you, this is a job for law enforcement. Shall we eat something before he comes? I did bring you a tuna sandwich.”
A job for law enforcement. Which she most decidedly was not. She had to admit, the casual reference stung.
Stop it, Sam. You made your bed.
“Considering what seems to happen anytime Fletcher comes around? Yes, let’s eat something now, in case he bundles me off to give an official statement and I never come back.”
They settled in to their lunch. She took a bite of the sandwich, realized she wasn’t hungry anymore. Her eyes drifted to the letter—she couldn’t help herself. It was disconcerting to have a stranger say he knew her determination. Yes, she’d managed to land herself in the papers on more than one occasion, being quoted regarding a case, and recently, the whole incident with the Metro terrorist, but the familiar tone of Savage’s missive freaked her out.
Not to mention the warning accompanying the request. I fear your life may be in danger....
Why her? Why did these bizarre situations keep finding her? Was it some sort of psychic retribution for getting on with her life? Karma, pissed off and wanting her pound of flesh?
You’ve already taken everything from me. What more do you need?
She glanced at Xander, who was staring out her windows with a look of private joy on his face. The view clearly pleased him; he loved anything to do with nature, the outdoors. She took advantage of his distraction to admire his dark eyes and dark hair, broad shoulders, capable hands. A man who could build a cabin with just an ax and his time, shoot a deer and skin it for dinner and love her in the darkness—she put down the sandwich and cleared her throat, suddenly both embarrassed and exceptionally turned on.
She loved the man. There was no question. He’d asked her to marry him, and she’d managed to put him off, citing the fact that he was under the painful influence of a gunshot wound and thought he might die.
But Xander wasn’t a man who would wait for long. What he wanted, he got. And for some odd reason, he’d decided he wanted her. Problem was, just the idea of marriage, after what she’d been through, was enough to make her lace up her running shoes and take off for parts unknown. But this was Xander. He was different. Everything was different now.
Quick as a rabbit in the brush, he turned to her. “Are you eyeing me, or coveting my sandwich?”
She dropped her gaze and smiled. “Eyeing your sandwich, coveting you.”
His voice was husky. “How late are you planning to work today?”
“I could be convinced to knock off early.”
His eyes locked on hers, the sandwich forgotten. “What shall I do to convince you?”
A throat cleared. “Would you two get a room, already?”
Fletcher was standing in her doorway, half-exasperated and half-amused.
Sam got up and gave him a hug. “Hey, Fletch. Thanks for coming over.”
“No worries. You saved me from a nasty crime scene. I left Hart there, waiting for the feds to show. What’s this about a letter?”
Xander shook Fletcher’s hand and handed him the letter. “Thanks for coming. Here it is.”
Sam watched Fletcher read the letter, a couple of times if his eye movements were to be trusted, and when he finished, he set it gently on her desk as if it might explode.
“Weird, huh? Do you think it’s for real?” she asked.
Fletcher frowned, making a deep groove between his eyebrows. “Threatening is more like it. Who the hell is this Savage character?”
“Here’s the obituary, it was in the Lynchburg News and Advance, the local paper.” She handed him a printed sheet of paper. “It’s not comprehensive at all.”
Fletcher read the obit aloud. “Timothy R. Savage, 45, resident of Lynchburg, died Tuesday. A memorial service will be scheduled later in the month. In lieu of flowers, please direct donations to the Wounded Warrior Project, a cause near and dear to Timothy’s heart. You’re right, there’s not much to go on. It doesn’t say how he died, either.”
“We thought it best to let you handle this,” Xander said.
Fletcher shot him a look. “Gee, thanks.”
“Better you than me, friend. Or Sam.”
Fletcher stared at him for a moment, eyes narrowed. “I’ll take the letter to the lab. It’s probably a hoax. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“Not worry about it?” Sam said. “You’re joking, right?”
Fletcher folded the letter and placed it back in the envelope. “Sam, you’re going to get this kind of attention for a while. Your name was plastered all over the papers and the web after your stunt in Colorado, so of course, some crazies are going to come out of the woodwork. Let me look into it, and I’ll let you know. Okay?”
She watched him for clues that there might be more going on here, something he might be hiding from her. Both Fletcher and Xander had a default overprotective mode toward her that could sometimes be stifling. But she didn’t see any ripplings below the surface.
“Fine,” she said finally. “You want to come over for dinner Friday?”
“What are you making?”
“Lasagna. Lots of it. Bring Andrea. We’ll open some wine and catch up.”
Fletch smiled. “Assuming my week isn’t shot to hell, and she’s actually in town, will do. I’ll call you when I know something about this, all right? In the meantime, enjoy your new gig. I like the digs. Very professorial.”
“You should see the classrooms.”
“Yeah, think I’ll pass. I can head down to the morgue any time of day for that particular brand of excitement.”
Sam hugged him again. He nodded at Xander and left, and the tension left with him.
Sam waited until she was sure Fletch was out of earshot. “I wish you wouldn’t poke at him, Xander.”
He mocked surprise. “What? Me? I didn’t do a thing.”
She rolled her eyes. “Please. And now that he’s back to D.C. Homicide and off the Joint Terrorism Task Force, he and Andrea Bianco have started dating. Sort of. I think they’re a good match.”
“Doesn’t mean he won’t be making eyes at you anymore.”
“Quit grumbling. Fletcher does not make eyes at me, Xander. He’s a friend. A good one. I don’t have a lot of people I trust in my life—he’s up there. Okay?”
He kissed her, softly, and ran his thumb across her lip. “Okay. Listen, I have to run. I’ll see you back at the town house, okay? I thought we could head to the cabin early tomorrow morning, get some fresh air over the weekend, before classes start. Sound good?”
It did. Nestled in the Savage River Forest, his cabin was more than an escape. It was nirvana.
“Thor must be homesick,” Sam said. The gorgeous German shepherd seemed content, but he was used to running the hills and chasing squirrels, something severely lacking from her renovated Georgetown town house where they’d set up base camp. The look on Xander’s face made her wonder if he, too, was missing his undomesticated life on the mountain.
“Better missing home than missing Daddy. He’s fine, he’s a tough dog. I’ll take him for a run along the canal this afternoon. That will cheer him up.”
“See you at six, then.”
When he left, Sam waited until she saw him striding across the quad toward the city. She admired the view for a moment, then went to her laptop and looked up the name Timothy Savage again. She glanced at her watch—2:00 p.m. She knew she needed to leave it alone, let Fletcher handle things, but maybe a quick phone call wouldn’t hurt.
She had a friend who was an assistant M.E. in the Virginia Office of the Chief Medical Examiner. If there was anything interesting to hear about how Timothy Savage died, Dr. Meg Foreman would be all over it.
Chapter
4
MEG FOREMAN ANSWERED her phone on the first ring.
“Sam Owens, as I live and breathe. How the hell are you? How long’s it been, three years?”
“Too long, that’s for sure. I’m good, Meg. Working in D.C. now, running the new Forensic Pathology department at Georgetown.”
“You left Nashville? I can’t believe it. How’d you convince Simon to move?”
Sam stopped short. Meg didn’t know. The huge, oppressive weight of sorrow smashed her in the chest, taking her breath away. As she struggled for air, her mind scrambled to think how long it had been since she and Meg had talked—yes, it had been three years ago, at the annual conference for forensic pathologists.
Before.
She reached for the bottle of Purell in her purse without even thinking about it, poured out a huge dollop and started rubbing her hands together. The old words marched through her head, at once comforting and embarrassing. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi. Simon, Matthew, Madeline.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. Serves you right for sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong.
“Sam? Are you still there? Is everything all right?”
Sam stared at her hands, cleared her throat. “Meg, I’m sorry. I thought you knew. Simon passed away. With...with the twins. Two years ago. The flood, in Nashville—”
How she’d managed to get those words out, she didn’t know. It wasn’t something she generally discussed with people. Hi, my name is Sam, and a random act of God made me a childless widow.
Meg reacted immediately, her voice overwhelmingly sad. “Oh, my God, Sam. I didn’t know. I am so sorry.”
“Of course you didn’t. Don’t apologize. How would you know? I haven’t exactly advertised it. Took me a while to accept it myself.”
“And have you accepted it? Are you coping? Sleeping, eating? Seeing a therapist?” It was the clinical voice of a doctor overlaid with the kindness of a friend. Sam blurted out the truth before she could think not to.
“It’s... Well, things aren’t okay, but they’re better. This isn’t something you ever get over, not really. Work helps. Moving away helped, too. There are no daily reminders anymore. And I’ve met someone. He keeps me going.”
There was an awkward silence, then Meg said, “That’s good, Sam. Is there anything I can do to help?”
Sam’s voice was stronger now. The past couldn’t be undone. It was something she’d only recently come to terms with.
“Here’s how you can help me, Meg. You can tell me if you’ve handled a case recently. Timothy Savage, out of Lynchburg. Obit said he died on Tuesday, but there wasn’t any indication how.”
Meg sounded relieved. For people who lived with death, day in and day out, medical examiners weren’t the best with handling grief. “The name’s not ringing a bell, he wasn’t one of mine this week. Let me look in our database.”
Sam heard her typing.
A few moments later, Meg said, “No, nothing here. It doesn’t look like we autopsied him.”
“You’re sure?”
“I am. Definitely. It must have been a natural death. You may have better luck with the funeral home who buried him.”
“Thanks, Meg. I appreciate it.”
“No problem. Listen, Sam—” She broke off, then said, “Will you be at the conference this year? We can have dinner. Or better yet, we can skip dinner and I can get you drunk.”
Sam smiled, remembering why she liked Meg Foreman. “I may. Let me look into it, and I’ll let you know.”
“Either way, you’re close to Richmond now. If you aren’t coming to the conference, let me come up there. We can have lunch, catch up.”
“I’d like that,” Sam said. She reeled off her new contact information and hung up, setting the phone softly in the cradle.
Jesus.
She stashed the Purell back in her bag, feeling guilty. It had been a while since she’d been caught off guard like that. It wasn’t like Simon and the twins were ever far from her mind—she’d fled Nashville to get away from the loneliness she felt, the strange dislocation of losing everything and still waking up every morning, air filling her lungs, even when she was sure she’d never take a breath again. Their memory was what held her back from Xander, from giving all of herself to him. He knew it, understood it deeply, more than anyone else in her life, but at some point, she had to let go and move on.
Yet every time she thought she was there, ready to take a step forward, something like this happened and shot her right back to the person she was for so long after they died—lost, and so very empty. Too empty even to cry.
She slapped her hand on the desk. She needed a drink. Or something. She knew herself well enough; she would be useless the rest of the day. And she hated herself for her weakness.
She packed up her Birkin bag and headed out. The house was only a ten-minute walk, ten minutes that would allow her to wrestle her demons back into their box. Maybe instead of pouring a Scotch, she’d go for a run with Xander and Thor, try to sweat the sorrow out of her. A healthier response. It showed her she wasn’t lost, not all the way.
And then she’d begin again, as she had done so many times before. Handling grief was almost like quitting smoking, or drinking. You do well for so long, then suddenly you slip, and indulge. And in the cold light of morning, you have to start counting the days all over again.
She stepped out into the glorious sunshine, trying to ignore the words that rolled through her mind in time with her steps. The words she used in succor, dampening the horror of her wounds.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four.
Chapter
5
XANDER HAD ALREADY taken off with Thor for parts unknown when she arrived home.
Disappointed, Sam poured herself a finger of Laphroaig, added two ice cubes and went out onto the covered patio that edged the backyard. The previous owners of her town house had redone the place, removing any feature that could be mistaken for traditional and replacing it with modern to the extreme. Everything was sleek and stark, stainless steel, marble, glass—if she were in an unforgiving mood, impersonal—but it suited her new life. Outside, they’d landscaped with fervor as well, putting in a small Japanese garden, which bordered a lap pool with an automatic current, so they could swim in place and still get a workout. The pool was hidden from the neighbors with a large screen of bamboo, and concealed from the street by a tall wooden fence. The illusion of privacy in the heart of the city.
Suddenly hot, Sam set the Scotch on the edge of the pool, shimmied out of her clothes and slid naked into the water. The sweat and grime and craziness of the day washed clean, she set out at a languorous pace, breaststroking the length of the water. The endless current drove her crazy, so she rarely turned it on; it felt like she was expending so much effort, yet never really going anywhere. Xander loved it, put his head down and swam and swam.
Timothy Savage swam with her. A natural death; no autopsy needed. So why would the man write to Sam and ask her to investigate his murder?
The pool was out of the direct sunlight now, and she got chilled. She ducked her head under, swiped her hands along her face to get her hair slicked back then stepped dripping from the water.
She jumped when she saw Xander sitting by the edge of the pool. He’d snuck outside, silent as a cat.
“I like the view.”
Their eyes locked, and she gestured toward the water. “Are you interested in a swim?”
He shook his head and started toward her. She held her breath. The way that man moved, sinuous and graceful, the unconscious warrior in him always alert and ready, drove her wild. He had his shirt off after two steps, his shorts a heartbeat later, and then their skin touched and he put his mouth on hers. She was shocked by his warmth. He was hot, so hot, his skin overheated from his run, slightly sweaty and damp, and his mouth was hotter still, ravenous for her.
He was much bigger than she was; she could just reach her arms around his body. She pulled him closer, and closer still, until he picked her up as if she weighed no more than a leaf, and her legs wrapped around his waist. He went to his knees and bent her backward into the grass, and she wanted him, wanted him so badly. She didn’t care that people were walking down the street five feet away, on the other side of her fence. She wanted him now.
He knew it, but held back, his hand running the channel down from her throat, between her breasts, over her stomach and down between her legs. He stroked her, and it didn’t take long. He knew exactly what she liked, and had her at the edge within seconds. He kissed her again, long and sweet, and laughed quietly when she whispered, “Now, please. Oh, God, Xander. Now.”
Oblivion. She bit his shoulder to keep from crying out. He lost himself moments later, arms wrapped tight around her, a hand in her hair, shaking, tense in silence.
The grass was soft under her back, and the shouts and beeps of the Georgetown traffic became loud again. A mockingbird scolded them from the pear tree. Xander was giggling slightly, trying to hold it together. He always laughed after, some bottomless well of joy unleashed, and it made her laugh, too.
Sam put a finger across his lips and hushed him. “You cackle like that, everyone will know exactly what we’re doing back here.”
“I don’t care. Let’s do it again.” He reached for her just as Thor came bounding through the back door and launched himself into the pool. His splash drenched them both, and this time Xander couldn’t stop laughing. He grabbed Sam in his arms and rolled them both right into the pool.
* * *
It was dark when the message came.
They were in the kitchen, finishing off a light dinner—prosciutto and melon, fresh buffalo mozzarella, sweet basil torn from the small herb garden out back, a loaf of crusty bread. They might have had too much to drink; there was maybe an inch of wine left in the bottle. Thor was snoozing on his green plaid flannel bed. It was a normal night, a happy night.
The knock at the door made Thor leap to his feet and go tearing into the hall. He was too well disciplined to bark, but stood at attention, yellow eyes fixed on the door. Xander tensed. He didn’t like unscheduled visits.
“Don’t answer it.”
“Don’t be silly.” Sam snapped a dish towel at him and went to answer the door.
The man on the step was gray. Gray hair, gray suit, gray skin, gray shoes. Probably gray eyes, but it was hard to tell in the dim light of the streetlamps. He was small, his eyes were even with Sam’s and his hands shook slightly, a distinct resting tremor Sam immediately identified with Parkinson’s disease.
Thor growled, deep in the back of his throat, and Sam instinctively took a step back.
The gray man didn’t move.
“Can I help you?”
“Dr. Owens? Dr. Samantha Owens?”
“Who’s asking?” Xander stepped next to Sam, one hand on Thor’s ruff, the other hidden out of sight, tucked behind his right thigh. Sam knew it held a SIG Sauer, the gun he kept stashed in the small drawer in the foyer desk.
The man was apparently used to causing alarm when he knocked on doors. He took one look at Xander and Thor, smiled and held out a white business card. “Rolph Benedict, with Benedict, Picker, Green and Thompson, out of Lynchburg. I represent the estate of Timothy Savage. Ah, you are familiar with his name, I see. Good. May I come in?”
A lawyer.
“It’s late, Mr. Benedict. You couldn’t have called ahead?”
The little man shook his head. “I apologize, sir. My cell phone died on the drive up. I would have been here earlier, but I took a wrong turn, managed to hit 66 going out of town instead of into the city.”
His tone didn’t sound very apologetic, but Sam shot a look at Xander, who sighed and made a show of putting the gun in the waistband of his jeans before he stepped away from the door. A rumble of thunder sounded in the distance.
“I suppose you better come in,” Sam said to Benedict. “Can I get you something to drink?”
Chapter
6
SAM FIXED BENEDICT a cup of tea, served it to him at the dining room table. Allowing him to settle into one of the comfortable leather chairs in the living room felt too welcoming, too personal. This was a business call, and the lawyer didn’t seem to mind her treating it as such. The table was a round of thick glass surrounded by six Eames chairs in white ash. Beautiful, functional, comfortable enough.
Once settled, Benedict set out a pad, a Montblanc fountain pen and a document backed by blue paper. He took a sip of his tea, gave Sam a nod of thanks. Understanding the challenges of Parkinson’s, she’d given him the mug with the biggest circumference and handle, and hadn’t filled it all the way. He managed well, though soon enough he’d have trouble. Without aggressive treatment, resting tremors didn’t improve, only steadily worsened, and it was probably too late for him already. His age, the advance of the disease: he didn’t have much time left.
Xander was through with the niceties. “What’s this about, Mr. Benedict?”
“I’m not sure we’ve met, Mr....” He trailed off expectantly.
Xander cleared his throat. “Whitfield.”
“Ah. Mr. Whitfield. Thank you. Now. Mr. Savage hired my firm last week to prepare a trust to handle his estate.” He turned to Sam, eyes shrewd and assessing. “He named you as executor, Dr. Owens, and left you a respectable amount of money.”
“What? Me? Why? I don’t even know him.”
“Be that as it may, he insisted. He said you’d understand why, when the time came. I must admit, the situation is curious, but understandable. Many people wish to clear up loose ends before they, well, leave this life on their own terms.”
“Is that even legal, putting a stranger in charge of your estate?” Sam asked.
“It certainly is. And better a named stranger than a faceless government drone whose only interest is taking as much as possible for Uncle Sammy.” His lips moved into an approximation of a grin.
Sam felt a chill run down her spine. This dead stranger, this lawyer on the edge of the grave, this whole situation—it was too much. Xander picked up on her discomfort, reached a hand to her under the table. She squeezed it, then stood and murmured, “I’ll be right back. I need a sweater.”
Sam picked up her favorite cashmere pashmina from the living room couch and wrapped it around her shoulders. Feeling much less exposed, she marched back into the dining room in time to hear Xander say, “I think you need to explain yourself, Mr. Benedict, and quickly. Who exactly is Timothy Savage?”
Benedict ran a shaky finger along the rim of his mug. “You are aware, of course, of the circumstances surrounding Mr. Savage’s death?”
“Enlighten us.”
“Oh. You really don’t know.” Benedict’s voice took on a classic Southern ghoulishness, horror and delight coupled in a high-pitched whisper. He leaned forward as he said, “He killed himself. With a very nasty chemical agent he cooked up in his kitchen. Detergent suicide, is what they call it. Very big in Japan.”
Benedict’s earlier words hit Sam then. Left this life on his own terms. “But Mr. Savage was—”
Xander put a hand on her knee and stopped her. “A suicide. And he retained you last week to draw up a will, and named Dr. Owens as executrix. May I ask, who is the beneficiary? Does he have an heir?”
Another gummy grin from the ghoul.
“There are several people named in the will, but he’s left the bulk of the estate to a Mr. Henry Matcliff.” He was silent for a moment. “Unfortunately, Mr. Matcliff is proving difficult to locate. We wanted to alert you to the situation, and locate the primary beneficiary before contacting the rest of the heirs. We were hoping you would know where he is.”
This was getting ridiculous, and Sam wasn’t in the mood. The letter this morning had upset her terribly, and now this? No. She wasn’t going to let this go on a moment longer.
“I’d never heard of Mr. Savage until this morning. And I have no idea who this Matcliff character is. I’m sorry, Mr. Benedict, but I respectfully decline the offer of handling Mr. Savage’s estate. I trust your practice will do right by him.” She stood, and Benedict stood also in reflex, a look of shock on his face.
“But Dr. Owens, you’re the only one Mr. Savage trusted to handle things for him.”
“I said no, and I meant it. It’s late. I believe it’s time for you to go.”
“But—”
Xander stood and took three steps toward the front door. Benedict gathered up his things and followed. Once in the foyer, he said, “There’s more. You need to know he’s asked for you to do an autopsy on his body.”
Sam felt another chill down her back despite the pashmina. “What?”
“I’m afraid he was very specific. He clearly thought all of this through. He wanted you to be involved, Dr. Owens. He’s begging for your help...from the grave.”
She shook her head. “Stop trying to manipulate me. I don’t want anything to do with this.”
Benedict nodded grimly. “I understand you don’t want the responsibility, and there will be forms you’ll need to sign, declining the executor role. I will have them drawn up and sent to you. If you’re absolutely sure, that is.”
“I’m sure. You can send them to my office. And next time, Mr. Benedict, please be sure to call first. I could have saved you a long trip today.”
He hesitated, hands shaking silently, then shrugged and said, “I can’t force you to do something you don’t want to do, Dr. Owens, though I hope, once the shock has passed, you’ll reconsider. Perhaps we can speak again in the morning.”
“Perhaps not.”
Undeterred, Benedict said, “In the meantime, there is one last detail. Mr. Savage wanted you to have this.”
He dug in his pocket and dropped a small silver key into her hand. “He said you’d know what to do with it.”
Sam tried to hand it back. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to be involved at all.”
Benedict ignored her, tipped a finger to his forehead in a goodbye salute then walked down the stairs and disappeared around the corner onto P Street.
* * *
Xander closed the door and watched Sam, clearly upset, stalk into the dining room and begin clearing the cups away. He didn’t like this, not one bit. For a stranger to seek her out was one thing, but to get her involved in a legal predicament, to write letters claiming she was in danger because he was contacting her and now this, leaving her holding the bag with his estate inside? If Timothy Savage weren’t already dead, Xander would have killed him himself.
He thought back to Savage’s letter. He said he’d compiled a list of people who could have murdered him. Who were these people? And why, if it was clearly a suicide, did Savage try to rope Sam into his world with the claim of murder?
There was something rotten in Denmark. Without a doubt.
The crash of broken china came from the kitchen. He hurried in to see Sam with a finger in her mouth, cursing under her breath.
“You okay?”
She shook her head. “Broke a cup and sliced my finger. It’s nothing, just an ouchy.”
She went pale as she said the words, and he knew it was a phrase she’d used with her kids. They slipped out, these motherly incantations, when she was highly upset, or drunk. This was the former—any pleasant tipsiness from the wine at dinner was long gone after the lawyer’s disconcerting visit.
“Let me see.” He went to her, pulled her into his arms. She was right; it was just a scratch, no worse than a paper cut. The bleeding had all but stopped. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the wound. “Better?”
Her shoulders began to shake. He thought there might be tears, but she was laughing quietly. She was back, pulled from the edge by his touch. She nodded.
“I’m fine. If you’d offered to kiss my boo-boo, I would have smacked your bum.”
“I might have enjoyed that. Seriously, are you okay?”
She kissed him, quick and hard, then pulled away and shut off the lights. She turned toward the stairs, let the wrap fall to the floor. “No, I’m not. Help me forget, Xander.”
And he did.
Chapter
7
SAM’S CELL PHONE rang at 10:30 p.m. Fletcher. She extricated herself from Xander’s sleeping form to answer the call. There was still something weird about being naked with Xander and talking to Fletcher. She grabbed the blue cotton button-down Xander had been wearing earlier, snuggled into it and went into the bathroom so she wouldn’t wake him, though she’d learned that as light as he slept, only an actual emergency would rouse him. Years of military training. She wished she could follow suit.
She shut the bathroom door, anyway. “Hey. You have news?”
Fletcher sounded tired, a certain weariness in his tone she understood completely. “Yeah. Did I wake you? I know you go to bed early.”
Some nights earlier than others.
“No, I’m awake. You don’t sound like you’re getting any beauty sleep, though.”
He laughed. “You know how it is. Things are popping, multiple cases, lots of craziness. Listen, I got a call back from the Lynchburg police. They say the dude, Timothy Savage, was a suicide. Took them a day to clear the air enough to retrieve the body. Detergent suicide isn’t deadly only for the victim, but for anyone else who might inhale it, accidentally or otherwise. It’s not a pretty death.”
“I know. Hydrogen sulfide gas is quite lethal. I assume asphyxiation was the cause of death?”
“I don’t know. They didn’t post him. It’s a small town, just a coroner on hand. They sent the chemicals in for testing, but he didn’t see the need for an autopsy. Apparently it was quite clear what had happened. There were warning signs on the windows, and a note, the whole shebang.”
“Lazy of them. All they needed to do was send the body to Richmond. Where is Mr. Savage now?”
“In the cooler at the mortician’s place.”
“Damn. Damn, damn, damn.” She leaned against the sink, caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her dark hair was wild, sticking up all over, and her lips were swollen. She smoothed her hair down, thinking hard. Why had Timothy Savage drawn her into his mess?
“Sam? You still there?”
“Yes. My turn for show-and-tell. I had an interesting visitor tonight. Creepy lawyer from Lynchburg. Apparently Savage named me executrix of his estate, and demanded I do an autopsy on him. He left me a key, too, though I have no idea to what. This is getting weirder and weirder, Fletch.”
“Are you going to do it?” He sounded intrigued.
“No. No way. This is a job for the police, not me. I’ll recommend his body be sent to the OCME in Richmond, and ask my friend Meg Foreman to handle the case personally. But that’s as far as I go. I already declined the legal aspect. I just want to prep for my classes and get the semester under way.”
“Don’t kid a kidder, Sam. You’re totally on the hook.”
She looked herself in the eye. Spoke to the woman in the mirror, as much as to Fletcher. “I most certainly am not.”
“Yeah, you are. Sleep on it. If you still don’t want to be involved in the morning, I’ll back off. But if you’re in, I’ll go with you down to Lynchburg. It won’t kill you to post the dude.”
Permission granted, ma’am.
She did have several days before the semester officially began and she’d have to be at the university full-time.
Don’t be an idiot, Sam. This isn’t your problem. Don’t allow yourself to be drawn into someone else’s intrigue.
But something was eating at her. Something that made her say, “Fletcher, do you really think there’s a case here? More than a loony coming out of the woodwork?”
“Honestly? I don’t know, but it’s pretty clear someone wants you involved in this case. Which is why I’m coming along if you decide to go. Cover your back. Just in case.”
“Just in case. Great. I’ll think on it, Fletch.”
“Good. Call me first thing, let me know.”
“Night.”
She dropped her cell into the pocket of Xander’s shirt and went back to their bedroom. He was still out cold. She wasn’t tired anymore. Her head was aching, a residual effect from the wine at dinner, and more. She was gritting her teeth. Her shoulders were tense and her hands balled into fists.
Why are you fighting this so hard?
She took a few breaths, slowly let herself relax and went downstairs in the dark. The rain had never come, the storm scooting off to the east without a drop, and the moon was shining brightly, reflecting off the glass and metal as it bounced through the house. Without turning on a light, she collected her cashmere throw from the base of the stairs and tossed it over her shoulders. In the small butler’s pantry they used as a bar, she poured a finger of Laphroaig and went into the living room. Thor raised his head from his bed, saw his mistress wasn’t in harm’s way and went back to sleep with a sigh.
She had to be honest with herself. Her natural inclination was to hightail it down to Lynchburg and post Timothy Savage. She was fighting it, fighting it hard, but the investigator in her was overruling the new, calm, Zen, I’m a teacher now. She wanted to see what was behind all the craziness today.
She didn’t want the bother of being the executor of Savage’s estate; that was something better left to the courts. But giving the body a once-over, how could it hurt? Detergent suicide was becoming more and more common, though she’d only seen the abstracts written in the medical journals. Having firsthand knowledge would do nothing but enhance her repertoire.
With Fletcher there to pave the way with the local authorities, she figured she could be in and out in fewer than twenty-four hours. Technically, she should have the body transferred to the OCME in Richmond, but if there was an appropriate facility in Lynchburg she could handle it herself. Hydrogen sulfide gas meant they’d have to take some precautions, but so long as the body was washed and the room well ventilated, no special biological hazard precautions would be necessary.
Fletcher was right, damn the man. She was on the hook.
“When are you going to Lynchburg?”
Sam jumped and gave out a little scream. “Xander, you scared me. Can’t you clump down the stairs like a normal man? I’ve had cats that make more noise on the stairs than you.”
He grinned, his teeth flashing white in the moonlight. “Sorry, babe. I’ll try to sound more like an elephant next time.” He sat on the couch next to her, took her hand in his easily. He didn’t seem worried, or concerned, just curious. Thor started to rise, but Xander gestured for him to stay put.
“I thought you were asleep.”
“You were thinking so loud it woke me up. Want to talk about it?”
She traced the edge of his finger. “Fletcher wants to go to Lynchburg with me, thinks I should go ahead and post Savage’s body.”
“I think you should, too.”
Her head whipped up. He was smiling at her, a lopsided grin.
“What?”
“Oh, hon. It’s a mystery, and you love a good mystery. It’s going to eat at you until you do it, so why not go? Take a couple of days, drive south with your pet cop.”
She narrowed her eyes at him.
“Teasing. Seriously, I think you should go for it. You’re ready for your classes. This will occupy all your brain matter until you figure it out.”
“I don’t know what the school will say. I’m supposed to be available in case any students need prep prior to the semester’s start.”
“They’ll be fine.”
They would. She was looking for excuses now, and she was all out of them. Only one thing left to do, and that was go. “All right. Fine. I’ll go post his body. But that’s it. Why don’t you come with me?”
“And do what? Watch while you cut the dude open?” He shook his head, tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “I love you, honey, but not that much. Thor and I will hang out on the mountain, get our forest fix, do some fishing and wait for you to come home to us.”
There was a note of melancholy in his tone, and Sam wondered if the city, her lifestyle, was getting to him. Of course it is, silly. He’s making a huge sacrifice to be with you. The least you can do is let him get away and reset. “Two days. Give me two days, and I’ll meet you at the cabin. Deal?”
He kissed her softly, briefly. “Deal. Now. Before you run off to Southern parts unknown, I have something for you.”
Sam couldn’t stop the smile. “A present?”
“Yep. Shut your eyes.”
She did, heard him rustling around, then he came back and she felt the couch sink under his weight.
“Okay. Open ’em.”
She could swear she felt her heart stop, just for a moment, then adrenaline poured through her system and it took off at Thoroughbred pace. There was a small robin’s-egg-blue box in his hand, with a familiar white ribbon tied in a lovely bow. Tiffany.
Oh, God. She looked up to see Xander smiling widely at her obvious discomfort.
“It’s not what you think. Well, not exactly. Open it.”
She was possessed by an irrational thought—run. Run, now, out the door, and don’t look back. But she took a breath and unwrapped the box.
Inside was an incredibly delicate band of diamonds set in platinum, so small, so perfectly tiny and exquisite they were nearly diaphanous. She couldn’t help herself; the words came out before she could think.
“Oh, Xander, it’s beautiful.”
“It reminds me of you. Strong, unbreakable, but fine and delicate and made of stars.” He took it from the box and picked up her right hand. “I know you aren’t ready to take a bigger step, so I had this made for your right hand. If you’re ever ready, we can move it to the left. But for now, I wanted you to have something of mine. Something of me. Something to remind you of us when you’re away from me.”
He put the ring on her finger, then brought it to his mouth and kissed it. She was speechless. The panic was gone, replaced by a warm, gentle pulsing in her chest that signaled happiness, safety. A feeling she hadn’t had in a very long time. Tears hit the edges of her eyes and she used her left hand to wipe them away, then touched her wet fingers to his lips. “I love it. And I love you.”
He was quiet for a minute. “I know you do, hon. I know.” He sighed. “Just promise me you won’t take too long.”
* * *
They didn’t see the face in the window, watching them hug, and kiss, and touch. They only had eyes for each other.
Chapter
8
DARKNESS NEVER ENDS, even in the daylight. This is something I learned when I was a child, locked away in a dark, dank room, with spiders and centipedes for companions, and the occasional rustle of a mouse, or a rat, or a snake that slipped in through the grate after its prey. I had a tattered blue blanket I assume belonged to some other child kept in the hole, which I used alternately as a pillow and a cover. There was a chipped sippy cup I could use to catch rainwater when it dripped through the ceiling. The floor was dirt, and there was a bucket in the corner. Once a day, there would be footsteps, closer and closer until they stopped. The small window in the steel door would open, and something edible would be shoved through. Bread. Cheese. Once in a glorious while, an apple. And on the special days, the days I was briefly, brutally visited, after—if I’d been good—I was given an orange.
I hate oranges.
I hate the dark.
And spiders and rats and snakes and mice and everything that reminds me of those days.
Everything but him.
I’ve often wondered how many children came before me. I don’t want to know how many came after. He told me, when we left, I couldn’t ever look back. Not to the time before, nor to my time there. Looking back would make me unhappy, and it was best to never, ever think about those dark days again. We would make a new life. A life looking forward. A life free from shadows, from pain and humiliation and sharp things in the night.
I did my best.
I always did my best.
Even before, on the special days, when they came for me, blindfolded me, walked me one hundred and fifteen steps to the cold place. They told me I was special. That I was beautiful. Perfect. And when they were inside me, tearing me open, squeezing the breath out of me with their weight hard on my flat chest, they said unspeakable words, words I shudder to remember. Words children shouldn’t know. Instructions children shouldn’t get.
Don’t look back. Don’t look back.
Every step I take, deeper into the forest, the bad words come to me. I stop, stand against a tree, take a deep breath. Conjure his face, his kind, loving face. But now the vision is marred, his skin pale and waxy, his tongue sticking out of his mouth, the emptiness of his bulging eyes, the blood on his body. I will never see him smile again, never hear him read to me, or do flash cards at dinner, or watch fireflies as they gather in the twilight.
Or chase away the nightmares.
The truth can’t help me now. I crumple to the ground, sobbing so hard my body shakes. The forest screams at me, cicadas and birds and crickets and bats in an alarming cacophony; the trees shriek and stamp their feet, waving their arms, trying to catch the wind. Leaves rain down on me, dead and yellow, and I hear them coming.
Oh, God, they’re coming. And there’s nowhere left for me to hide.
SATURDAY
“To think of shadows is a serious thing.”
—Victor Hugo
“Let not your heart be concerned with death, for the three corners of our life are at hand. Birth, life, death: this is the only cycle that matters. Death is the great equalizer. Whether your life is one year or one hundred years, you will be resurrected in me, and we shall all live forever when the shadows at last fall.”
—Curtis Lott
Chapter
9
Georgetown
SAM WOKE EARLY to the sun streaming in the bedroom windows. Xander was gone, a note on the bed saying he was out for a quick run. She remembered last night in a sudden rush and stared down at her right hand. The delicate diamonds flashed in the morning sunlight, and she smiled. Clever and romantic, Xander’s ring, as she was already thinking of it, anchored her to this life more than any emotion she’d had since Simon and the twins died.
The thought of them hurt, but she let it in, breathed through it, touched her new ring. She whispered, “Forgive me, my loves.”
Sam jumped in the shower, then dressed in flax-colored linen Bermuda shorts, leather loafers and a cream cotton tank top with a matching cashmere sweater, packed a large black-and-tan Longchamps bag, pulled her damp hair off her face with a headband. She brought the bag downstairs and called Fletcher.
He didn’t even say hello. “Morning, sunshine. You ready? We can be down there before lunch if we take off soon.”
Sam said, “You didn’t even know I was going to call.”
“Well, a little bird might have mentioned you were planning a trip south.”
“Xander? He called you?”
“Texted. He knew you’d want to get on the road early. I’m on my way to your place now. Think you could scrounge me up some breakfast?”
“Don’t you ever grocery shop, Fletch?”
“Sure I do. Sometimes. Well, maybe not, really. Just coffee is fine, if food is too much trouble.”
“Yes, Fletcher, cooking for you is always a bother. I’ll see you shortly.”
He was laughing when he hung up.
She went into the kitchen and hurriedly put together omelets and bacon, enough for three. She was assembling the last plate when she heard the men in the hallway, Xander’s deep voice answering a question from Fletcher’s tenor. She shook her head. Sometimes she wondered who was running her life. It certainly didn’t feel as if she was.
She shot Xander a look when he came in, and he smiled merrily at her. Fletcher tossed her a salute and without a word, the two men tucked in to the food. Sam brought a pot of coffee to the table and joined them. Thor drank water noisily from his bowl in the corner, not wanting to be left out of the moment. He came and sat next to Xander’s left leg, hoping for a bit of omelet. Xander was strict with Thor’s diet, but Sam saw him hand a piece of bacon to the dog under the table.
Sam toyed with a mushroom and watched the two men. So different, these two. Xander was dark-haired and dark-eyed, bigger, more heavily muscled. Fletcher was lighter in every way, square-jawed, brown eyes bordering on hazel, with brown hair. Both smart. Both honest and kind, and caring. Maybe a little too caring. Something about the morning suddenly felt wrong. What were they up to?
They both stopped eating and turned to her expectantly.
“What?” she asked.
“You’re staring,” Xander said.
“The way you do when you’re about to make a pronouncement,” Fletcher added.
She shook her head. “No pronouncements. Just wondering what this is all about. It’s like you both want me involved in this case.”
Fletcher shot Xander a glance, then cleared his throat. “It’s an intriguing case, and you’re damn good at what you do. And the man did ask for you personally.”
“But?”
“No but. That’s all.”
Xander set down his fork and said, “That’s not fair. But, when you’re occupied, you’re happier.”
Ah. There it was. The truth, at last. She didn’t know whether to laugh or smack him on the hand with her fork.
“And I’ve been malingering too long? A few days left before school starts, and I’ll drive the two of you crazy in the meantime if I don’t have my hands into something?”
Neither responded. For the first time, she noticed Xander wasn’t drenched in sweat, though he was dressed in his running clothes.
Sam lost her appetite, pushed her plate away. “You didn’t go for a run, did you?”
He watched her, eyes suddenly serious. He looked over at Fletcher, who shrugged slightly. The air in the kitchen grew tense. Xander sighed a little. “No. I didn’t go for a run.”
Her heart sped up. “And Fletcher just happened to be on his way over when I called. What’s wrong? What are you keeping from me?”
It was Fletcher who said the words that made her stomach turn.
“Rolph Benedict was found dead in his hotel room early this morning.”
Chapter
10
SAM’S FIRST REACTION was shock. The second was fury. “What the hell? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me right away. How did Benedict die?”
“We don’t know yet. Dr. Nocek will do the post this morning, see what’s up,” Fletcher said.
“I should stay. I should be there. I can help Amado—”
Xander touched her lightly on the arm. “No, you shouldn’t. Let Fletcher take you to Lynchburg. You’ve been drawn into this against your will, but now it’s time to take care of business. Do what Timothy Savage asked of you. Find out what’s happening.”
She crossed her arms, let the anger course through her. “And what exactly are you planning to do?”
“Keep an eye on things.”
She knew what he meant. He’d be covering her back, as he’d done before. Out of sight, and, hopefully, out of harm’s way.
As if he’d read her mind, he smiled at her. It took him from dangerous to innocent, and she couldn’t help smiling back. He nodded. “They won’t know I’m there. Promise.”
She searched his eyes, but saw only determination. She squared her shoulders. “You do anything stupid, and I’ll be very upset with you.”
“I can take care of myself, hon. It’s you I’m worried about. Savage warned you this was going to be dangerous, and two people involved in this case are already dead. Watch your step, okay?”
“You need to stop. There’s no reason to worry about me. I’m a big girl. I can handle this.” She turned to Fletcher. “Finish your breakfast, and let’s go.”
Fletcher stood, rolling his eyes. “Finally. Thought you’d never ask.” He turned to Xander. “I’ve got her back. You, keep in touch, all right? Regular check-ins, every four hours. Read me?”
Xander snapped a precise salute. “Loud and clear, sir.”
* * *
The drive to Lynchburg was a beautiful three hours through rolling green hills and black-fenced horse country, and Fletcher had been silent since they left Georgetown. That was fine with Sam. The morning’s subterfuge worried her. She should have been told about the murder immediately, and instead the men she loved wanted to coddle and protect her.
Maybe they don’t know you’ve changed, Sam. Maybe you haven’t given them a reason to think you’re strong enough to handle this.
She was the first to admit she’d been a basket case when she came to D.C. Crippled by grief and an obsessive compulsive need to wash her hands, she’d been a weak caricature of her true self. She’d lost two years giving in to the psychological horrors of losing her family.
But in the months since she moved, she’d gotten strong again. Determined, as Timothy Savage pointed out. She’d finally forgiven herself for the hardest realization of all—she was still the same person she was before they’d died.
Changed, certainly. But it was still her inside her skin, and that realization drove her away from forgiving herself and moving forward with her life. Until now.
Baldwin had recognized this, and reached out with an opportunity to let her get her world back on track. She wished Xander and Fletcher had realized it, too.
Fletcher turned on the stereo. “Will a little bit of tuneage bother you?”
“Of course not.”
He hit Play and a song started, one she recognized.
“Hey, that’s Jason and the Scorchers,” she said. “They’re a Nashville band. How’d you find them?”
“They played the 9:30 Club a while back. I bought a couple CDs off them. It’s good stuff.”
“I didn’t know this was your bag. I always pegged you for a hard rock guy. Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd.”
“I’m alternative all the way. And rockabilly cowpunk is hard rock. Listen to those guitars.”
Jason belted out a John Denver ballad, “Take Me Home, Country Roads.” Sam hummed along, but Fletcher sang the words, and she was shocked to realize he had a fabulous voice. When the song was over, she applauded. “I never knew you could sing.”
“We’ve never been on a road trip together where it seemed appropriate. I did my stint as front man during college. Chicks dug the guitar.”
“Aren’t you full of surprises today. You play guitar, too?”
“Used to. I gave it up when Felicia and I got married. She wasn’t thrilled with the cop hours to start with—to add the band’s touring on top, even if it was only weekends, was too much for her. I still noodle around when I get time.”
“You’re really good. Why’d you choose being a cop over taking the show on the road?”
“Tad. He was sick a lot when he was a baby, and I needed the steady paycheck.”
She heard a small, unuttered sigh in that sentence, and it made her sad for him. Fletcher sacrificed a lot for the people he loved; she’d seen it firsthand. Though maybe she was more sensitive to it. Coming from Nashville, a town where everyone had a dream, she knew how hard it was to accept reality, buckle down and work for the man instead of following your heart.
She’d lost herself in thoughts of home, was tapping her fingers on the laptop balanced on her knees in time to the music, when Fletcher startled her with “Nice ring.”
Sam glanced over at him. He had his sunglasses on, gold aviator frames, and his hand dangled over the top of the steering wheel. He looked so much like a cop she nearly laughed. But he wasn’t smiling.
She took a deep breath. “Xander gave it to me. Last night, actually.”
“It’s pretty.”
“Yes, it is.” She was quiet for a moment. “It doesn’t mean anything. Not really. It’s not like we’re engaged or anything.”
“You should be.”
Her head rocked back. He saw her surprise, and this time, he did smile.
“I have to admit I was a bit surprised when he texted, said to take you to Lynchburg or else this would drive you nuts,” he said.
“I don’t know why he thought that. I was perfectly fine letting things lie.”
Fletcher scoffed. “This is me you’re talking to, sunshine. You don’t have to lie. I don’t think you do with him, either. I’m just saying, he’s a good man. He loves you. He doesn’t want to change you, and trust me, that’s rare.”
She thought about his words. Having this conversation with Fletcher was utterly bizarre, but she sensed he wanted to have it. They’d been dancing around it for months. She knew Fletcher had feelings for her. She simply never acknowledged them. It was too much to deal with—she’d had two years of grief and numbness, and suddenly, three months ago, in the course of a single week, she’d lost another man she used to love and, while investigating his death, found Fletcher and Xander. Two wonderful men who were both good for her, in their own ways.
Two loves lost. And two found. But only one made her heart sing.
By his words, she realized something had subtly changed between her and Fletcher. Everything she’d hoped for—namely, his friendship—was matter-of-factly being offered on a plate. But there were things that couldn’t be left unspoken. Not anymore.
She said quietly, “Would you want to change me, Fletch?”
He glanced at her briefly, smiled. “Naw. I like you the way you are. Though you’d drive me mad with all your nagging. ‘Don’t you ever grocery shop, Fletch?’” He did a credible impression of her, and she punched him in the shoulder, laughing.
“Damn, woman. Don’t hit so hard, I might drive off the road and take out some cows.” He gestured toward the field to his left. “Friggin’ nature. Who’d want to live out here in the boonies like this? Not enough concrete for my taste.”
“You’re prevaricating.”
“Your big words, too. Annoys the crap out of me. You’re a walking thesaurus.” He shot her another smile. “I’m not gonna lie, Sam. You’re something special. When you came along, things started looking up. But I’d drive you nuts.”
“You already do.” She grinned at him.
“Ditto.” He went quiet for a moment. “You’d be crazy to let things go south with Xander, is all.”
He was absolutely right. “I know. I know he’s a good man, and I love him. I never thought it would happen again for me.”
“So marry him already.”
“Good grief, Fletch, I’ve only known him for three months.”
“You’re a grown-up. You know what you need. He seems to fit the bill. You’ve been happy lately. Happier than I’ve ever seen you.”
“You don’t know me that well, Fletch. But yes, he makes me happy.”
“So why not marry the dude?”
She blurted out the words. “To be honest, I’m afraid he wants kids. And that’s not something I’m ever willing to do.”
“Ah. That’s what this is all about.” He paused a moment. “Just the thought of it makes you panic, huh?”
“What?” she asked, then realized she was opening and closing the lid of her laptop unconsciously. She slammed it closed. “Yeah. You could say that.”
“Have you told him? That you don’t want to have kids?”
“No.”
“Do it, Sam. Have a conversation, like we’re doing. Tell the man, and get on with your life. He’ll accept you no matter what. I suspect he already knows the cost of loving you, and is more than willing to pay it.”
The cost. My God, is that how people see me? There’s a cost to being with me?
“Hey. Did I say something wrong?”
She shook her head, fiddled with the edge of the laptop. “No. Not at all. You’re fine. It’s me. So what’s with this new attitude? You’ve never been Xander’s biggest fan before.”
“I’m feeling like a change is in the air. Something good’s coming, for all of us.” He smiled again, and Sam realized she’d never seen him quite this content before.
“Darren Fletcher, what is up with you today? Are you in love?”
“What? Me? Hell, no. Definitely not. Lust, maybe. Andi’s fun, for an uptight bureaucrat. It’s a good setup—when she has time, she calls me. When I have time, I call her. It’s casual.”
“You’re practically friends with benefits.”
He grinned. “She ain’t asking for a drawer, so that’s good. Naw, I just like playing hooky. I haven’t in a while. Even with all the green in the fields and blue in the sky, it’s nice to get away from my desk.”
“I’m touched you’ve taken the time to come play with me.”
“Someone has to keep you on the straight and narrow.”
Sam touched his arm. “I’m glad. And thank you for the advice.”
He looked as though he wanted to say more, but settled for “Welcome.”
Her cell rang. Saved by the bell. “Oh, good, there’s Amado. Let’s see how Benedict died.”
Chapter
11
DR. AMADO NOCEK had the quiet intonation of a grave man, coupled with a slightly Italianate European accent. Some found him strange; he was serenely brilliant, very tall and much too thin, slightly stooped over, the physique of a praying mantis. The unkind called him Lurch, or the Fly, but Sam had liked him from the moment they met, recognizing a fellow scientific soul. He was a widower, too, and once, when he’d noticed she was having a panic attack during one of their meetings, he’d put his bony hand on her shoulder and said, “It doesn’t get better, but it will hurt less, in time.”
At that moment, she hadn’t believed him. Now she realized he was right.
She put him on the speaker.
“Good morning, my friend. How are things in the OCME?”
“Insanity. But Samantha, my dear, your voice always cheers me. Detective Fletcher told you about our guest, Mr. Benedict?”
“He did. Fletch is on the phone with us now. What are your findings?”
“Oh, they have not told you already? Manual strangulation. He was garroted. The implement was still wrapped around his throat. It took very little time to subdue him. He was not a large man, and terribly ill. His brain presented with clear alpha-synuclein lesions, idiopathic to advanced Parkinson’s.”
“That’s right. He had several physical characteristics of the disease, as well.”
“Whoever killed him was much taller. The angle on the garrote went upward at nearly forty-five degrees. It was a small wire attached to two wooden dowels, like a miniature jump rope. Nothing remarkable about the device outside of the reality of it. We do not see professional garroting very often here.”
“Professional?”
“Yes. There were no hesitation marks, no adjustments. This was an experienced killer.”
“Could Benedict have been sitting when he was attacked?”
“Based on the crime scene reconstruction, he was attacked while in the shower. Mr. Benedict measured only sixty-eight inches, so it is safe to assume the killer is at least over seventy-four inches tall, if not more.”
“Let me get a feel for this. How tall are you, Amado?”
“I believe I was seventy-seven inches at my last physical.”
“So you’re six-four, and Benedict is five-eight. Yes, it makes sense. It would have to be someone quite big to cause that up-angle. There was no indication the killer stood on something? The edge of the tub, perhaps?”
“Not from the current facts of the investigation, no. The man was in a handicap-friendly room, with a roll-in shower, no bathing tub. I suppose it was too difficult for him to step up over the ledge. The commode is too far away from the shower to make that scenario feasible.”
“All right. When you’re all finished, would you mind emailing me your final report?”
“Not at all, my dear. I know I do not have to remind you to be very careful.”
“I have Fletcher. I’ll be fine. I’ll see you when I get back. We’re overdue for dinner.”
“It would be my great pleasure. Until then.”
He hung up, and Sam turned to Fletcher. “Garroting? More you’re keeping from me?”
“I didn’t know. Pro hit, sounds like.”
“Agreed. This is trouble, Fletch. We need to be on alert.”
“Here’s what I don’t get. Why you? Why did Timothy Savage ask for you specifically?”
“I don’t know, and it freaks me out. I’m worried we’re walking into a trap, and without more information, I have no idea what it might be.”
“We’re only an hour from Lynchburg. We’re going to find out soon enough.”
Sam opened her laptop, started pulling every ounce of information she could find about Timothy Savage and Rolph Benedict. After twenty minutes of searching, Savage was still a mystery, a complete blank. But there was plenty of material about Benedict.
“Fletch, listen to this. Benedict’s story is bizarre. He won a big case a decade ago, defending the daughter of a family friend accused of murdering her boyfriend. Remember this one? Her name was Gillian Martin.”
“Gillian Martin? Oh, wait, yeah. All the evidence said she was guilty as hell, but her lawyer managed to convince the jury the girl was simply on the wrong end of a massive frame-up.”
“Her lawyer was Rolph Benedict. The real killer was never caught, and Benedict retired from criminal defense work and joined the firm he mentioned last night as a partner, doing estate and contract law.”
“Big change.”
“It is,” Sam said. “What would drive a successful criminal attorney to make such a drastic about-face right after winning the biggest case of his career? Granted, he’d been sick. Perhaps the rigors of trial law became too much. Parkinson’s isn’t an easy disease to manage. He could have decided a more sedate lifestyle was in order, and contract law fit the bill.”
“Could have. I remember the case, though. The boyfriend was stabbed, shot and his throat slit, but it was all circumstantial evidence—they didn’t have her prints on the weapons, DNA, nothing. During the trial, Gillian Martin did all sorts of strange things, laughing at inappropriate times, crying, claiming she didn’t remember anything. She was on the stand for days. If the prosecutors had gone for a simple second-degree murder charge, the jury would have bought it, but this was a death penalty case. They overreached, and she walked.”
“A big score for a small-town lawyer, right?”
“It is. Interesting.”
Sam couldn’t help wondering if it were something more. Bigger. It felt wrong, all wrong.
* * *
Lynchburg was composed of seven hills, a Southern city nestled on the banks of the James River with a stunning view of the Blue Ridge Mountains. It held the honor of being the only Southern city not captured by Union troops during the Civil War—known across many parts of the South as the Great Unpleasantness. It was a college town, with multiple universities ranging from Jerry Falwell’s Liberty University to Randolph College, formerly Randolph-Macon Woman’s College. When Sam was in high school and looking at colleges, a friend who attended Randy-Mac, as she called it, told her with great glee that Falwell supposedly called the students there “the intellectual whores on the hill.”
“At least he recognized we’re smart,” she’d said.
Lynchburg’s criminal element focused on burglaries and rapes, assaults and drugs, with the very occasional murder thrown in for good measure. It was a quiet town, full of students and bars and the gentility of the Old South. The sun was shining as they drove across the John Lynch Memorial Bridge into the city.
“Police headquarters are on Court Street. Our contact there is June Davidson. He’s a lifer detective, born and raised here in Lynchburg. Seemed smart enough when we talked, but we’ll see,” Fletcher said.
Five minutes later, they pulled in to the police station and Fletcher glanced at his watch. “Made it in two hours and forty-five minutes. Not bad.”
“When’s Xander supposed to check in?”
He tossed his sunglasses on the dash. “Noon. Let’s go talk to Detective Davidson.”
The inside of Lynchburg’s cop shop was generic, with wanted posters lining the walls, a receptionist behind a wall of glass and a big sign with the letters LPD in blue under a red arch, with the words Leadership, Professionalism, Dedication below and an incongruous sign underneath it that read Find us on Facebook and Twitter.
It was at once so strange yet so familiar it made Sam long for Nashville. How many years had she spent walking into the Criminal Justice Center in Nashville, coming to find Taylor or another homicide detective to relay findings on a case? This felt like home, even though it wasn’t, and she had to push the thought away— Why did you leave this behind? This is your passion, your love. You spent your life learning how to do this. What are you thinking?
Maybe Fletcher and Xander were right. Maybe she simply needed to be here, for more than Timothy Savage’s sake.
Fletcher walked up to the receptionist. “We’ve got an appointment with June Davidson. Detective Darren Fletcher and Dr. Samantha Owens.”
The woman sported a small blond beehive and cat’s-eye glasses, a retro throwback to another era, though she couldn’t have been more than twenty. Sam caught the edge of a tattoo under her collar. Times, they do change.
The girl, whose name tag read F. Gary, nodded. “June’s been waiting for you. I’m Flo. If you need anything, let me know.” She had a soft and gentle Southern accent, the g’s barely dropped. She pointed at a small table behind them, against the north wall. “The coffee’s probably gone cold, but there’s a microwave in the back. Pour yourself a cup and June’ll hook you up. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
Sam and Fletcher poured coffee into paper cups and doctored them. By the time Fletch had finished adding three sugars to his, the door opened to their right and a tall blond-haired man in his midforties blocked the light. He wasn’t just tall, he was at least six foot four and built like a linebacker, though there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. His tan linen suit fit well, the white button-down shirt underneath open at the collar. Sam couldn’t help recalling the conversation she’d had with Amado earlier. They were looking for a man about this height as Benedict’s killer.
She saw Fletcher look the man up and down and slightly raise an eyebrow. He’d had the same thought.
The man looked at her strangely, as if he were trying to place her face, then shrugged slightly. “Detective Fletcher? Dr. Owens? I’m June Davidson. Come on back. We’ll talk in my office. You need to heat that up?”
Sam took a sip, it wasn’t bad. “We’re fine, thanks.”
Davidson’s accent was similar to Flo’s, Southern without being overwhelming, rounded vowels and soft consonants, and his manner unhurried. This was a man who knew slow and steady won the race, and after several months of Washington hustle and bustle, Sam felt immediately at home.
He led them down an anonymous linoleum hallway to the end, took an immediate right into a bullpen full of detectives and uniformed officers, and eyes followed them.
Davidson ushered them into his office, which had a large window overlooking the city, and the James River beyond.
He raised his voice a bit so it carried across the bullpen. “We just had a briefing on the Benedict murder. Everyone knows why you’re here. Forgive me if I say it aloud, but there’s some concern. We do know how to do our jobs.” He kicked his door shut with a cowboy boot and grinned at them. His front teeth overlapped a bit, making him charming rather than handsome. His blue eyes crinkled when he smiled, and lines etched into his cheeks. Sam figured he spent a great deal of time with a grin on his face.
He gestured toward the bullpen. “At least, most of those yahoos think so. Now me, I’m all about cooperation. So tell me, what can I do to help?”
Chapter
12
Lynchburg Police Department
Lynchburg, Virginia
FLETCHER KICKED THINGS off. “Timothy Savage. What can you tell us about him?”
“Other than the fool could have gotten my officers killed with his stupid stunt?”
Davidson pulled a file folder from his drawer and put it on the desk in front of Fletcher, draped his jacket on the back of his chair. “Detergent suicide. It’s worse than running up on a meth lab without your gear. At least he had the presence of mind to warn us so we didn’t blunder into the scene and lose men.”
“What do you mean, he warned you?” Sam asked.
“Look at the pics. I have them arranged chronologically.” Fletcher opened the file and scooted his chair closer to Sam’s so she could see the crime scene photos.
Savage had died in a small cabin surrounded by forest. There were a few shots of the cabin from afar, then close-ups of the windows and doors. Large white signs with hand-drawn biohazard symbols were taped in the two front windows, and the front door had a note on it with the words:
HYDROGEN SULFIDE
SUICIDE
POISON GAS
DO NOT OPEN
DANGER!!!
1 BREATH CAN KILL YOU
Sam raised an eyebrow. “You’d have to have a pretty high concentration to die from a single breath, something like seven hundred seventy parts per liter, but this stuff is toxic. Even a small concentration will cause all sorts of respiratory problems. What did he use?”
“Muriatic acid and lime sulfur. Bought it at the gardening center down the road from his place. More than enough to do the job. We had to get HAZMAT involved to come in and clear the place so my coroner could retrieve the body. Took a day to make it safe enough to get anyone near without a mask.”
“Who found him?”
Davidson’s brows pulled together. “Anonymous 911 call from a pay phone in front of a 7-Eleven on Rivermont. No working cameras there, so we couldn’t get a shot of the person who called. I can play you the tape, it’s quick. Male voice states the address, and requests police response to a dead body. That’s it.”
“Have you dealt with many of these before?”
“Not many, but it’s getting more and more common. Usually they do it in a car, in an out-of-the-way parking lot where they won’t be discovered and disturbed. You seeing this in D.C., too?”
Fletcher shook his head. “I’ve heard of it but haven’t worked one. They still like the traditional means up north. Guns, pills, hangings.”
“Well, some of these rural kids get pretty hopeless. This is a guaranteed death, without a lot of mess, and it’s cheap, and fast. The ingredients are readily available and mostly unregulated, too. They can do it with dandruff shampoo and toilet cleaner if they’re desperate enough. As long as there’s an acid and a sulfur, they’re in business.”
“But Timothy Savage used industrial-strength elements for his concoction?”
“That’s right. He wasn’t messing around. At least he warned us.”
Fletcher flipped through a couple more pictures and stopped. “Is this his suicide note?”
“It is. We found it right next to the body.”
Fletcher pulled a plastic sheet protector from the file and handed it to Sam. Inside was a handwritten note. She read it aloud quickly.
“‘I am sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused. This is best for everyone. Goodbye. T.S.’”
She set the letter down on the desk. “Fletch, the handwriting matches.”
“Handwriting matches what?” Davidson asked, suddenly wary.
Fletcher removed a folded sheet of paper from his jacket pocket. “This is a photocopy of a letter Dr. Owens received yesterday. Before she was called upon by Mr. Benedict regarding Savage’s will.”
Davidson read the letter, frowning the whole time. “May I keep this?”
“By all means. I have the original in D.C.”
“I don’t get it,” Davidson said. “Why would Savage kill himself but send a letter to Dr. Owens claiming to be murdered?”
“There’s more,” Fletcher said, and filled him in about Benedict, the will and the lawyer’s subsequent murder. Sam noticed he left out mentioning the angle of the garrote.
Davidson rubbed a meaty hand across his face. “Let me get this straight. Not only did he send you this letter, he made you executor of his estate, meager though it may be? And then Rolph Benedict is murdered after delivering the message? I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all. We better get in touch with Rolph’s partners, see what’s up.”
Sam finished flipping through the crime scene photos and a two-dimensional crime scene drawing. From what she could see, the Lynchburg P.D. had been thorough and careful. “Just so you know, the will stipulated I perform a secondary autopsy on Mr. Savage. I know he wasn’t sent to Richmond for posting, so he must still be here in town. I’d like to arrange it as soon as possible.”
Davidson stared at her for a heartbeat, then paled and grabbed the phone. He dialed a number from memory and breathed an audible sigh of relief when the call was answered.
“Roy? It’s June. You haven’t put Savage’s body through the furnace yet, have you? Oh, thank the Lord. All stop, right now. Yes. We’ll be down shortly. Bye.”
He turned to Sam. “Lady, you have the Devil’s own luck. Savage’s body was set to be cremated this morning. Roy came in late and hadn’t gotten to it yet. We caught him just in time—Savage is already in the retort, ready to go.”
“Who is giving the instructions regarding the body? Who decided he should be cremated?” Sam asked.
“Well, that’s where all this gets a little hinky. No one claimed the body— Savage is a loner, doesn’t have any family nearby to speak of. The orders came from Benedict’s law office. They’re footing the bill.”
Fletcher spoke up. “Cremation directly countermands the deceased’s request for an autopsy by Dr. Owens. What the hell, Davidson? What sort of law offices are these?”
“Well-respected ones. I honestly have no idea what’s going on here. No one mentioned the man had a will.”
Sam asked, “Does he have any family? Someone must have placed the obituary.”
“Honestly, Dr. Owens, that obituary is a bit of a mystery to me. Savage isn’t from around here. He showed up with his son a decade ago, kept to himself, homeschooled his boy, didn’t get into any sort of trouble. The boy’s name was Henry, if I remember correctly. I think he went to Randolph College, but we haven’t been able to locate him.”
“Henry Matcliff?” Sam asked. “Benedict told me he’s the primary heir to the estate, but they hadn’t had any luck finding him.”
“Matcliff? Never heard the name. Far as I knew, it was Henry Savage.”
“It seems very odd that Henry wouldn’t claim his father’s body and have a burial, or a memorial service. Is there bad blood between them?” Fletcher asked.
Davidson shook his head. “I don’t know. Like I said, this was so clearly a suicide we treated it as such.” He stood up. “We better get on over to the law firm, see what they have to say for themselves. Then we can get you together with Mr. Savage, face-to-face.”
Sam shook her head. “I want to do the autopsy first. Without the facts, nothing else matters.”
“What more do you need? The man killed himself and roped you into his scheme.”
“You’d be amazed at the facts you miss without a proper autopsy,” she replied. “I must admit, I’m a bit surprised it wasn’t done in the first place.”
The note of admonition was clear to Davidson, who bristled. “Hey, now, I can only do what I can do. Coroner ruled it a suicide, looked the body over and there was no indication of foul play.”
Sam shrugged. “Thankfully, it’s not too late. Take me to Mr. Savage’s body, please, and let’s get things under way. Then we can talk to the lawyers.”
Chapter
13
Lynchburg, Virginia
SAM LOVED THE SOUTH.
The Hoyle Funeral Home and Crematorium was housed in an antebellum mansion worthy of its own sound stage in Hollywood as a depiction of Tara. Huge Corinthian columns soared in front of three stories of pristine white clapboard, black shutters, a wraparound porch and a red double front door, its true purpose masked by the picture-perfect facade of a luxurious bed-and-breakfast. The main doors opened into a magnificent foyer with a small, awkwardly placed reception stand, currently empty. The counter had a small bell, like in a hotel, and Sam smacked it lightly with her palm. Moments later, a small man scurried into the foyer.
Roy Hoyle of the eponymously named crematorium was a mouse of a man with a mop of unnaturally black hair that was slightly crooked on his scalp, and thin, pale hands that hardly seemed capable of the duties they were called upon to perform on a daily basis. He shook Sam’s hand and she could barely feel his fingers in hers. She saw Fletcher flinch when the action was repeated, and cautiously wipe his hand on his trousers.
While the man himself might have been a mouse, his setup roared like a lion. When Davidson told him why they were there, he quickly gave them a tour of the facilities. His embalming suite was tidy and boasted the latest materials, all polished to a high shine, and the attached crematorium was immaculate. He even had a small but separate autopsy suite, designed specifically for independent pathologists who were called in to perform private and secondary autopsies for families.
Sam felt bad for her earlier uncharitable assessment—a mouse he might be, but a professional, cautious and meticulous one. Exactly what she needed to get to the truth about Timothy Savage.
After a bit of small talk, Hoyle led her to Savage’s body, which had been prepared for cremation. When Davidson had said all stop, Hoyle took him seriously—everything was as it had been a few minutes prior, but the heat to the retort had been turned off. Savage was ensconced in a cardboard box, waiting on the automated belt. It seemed he wasn’t the only customer of the day; there were a few other boxes lined up behind his.
Hoyle showed her the environs shyly. He had a soft voice she strained to hear, and didn’t make much eye contact. “Dr. Owens, if you need an assistant, I can provide that service for you. My sister, Regina, has been well trained, she worked for a time in Richmond at the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner.”
“Why not you, Mr. Hoyle?”
He blushed. “It’s not my forte, ma’am. I’m in charge of the crematorium, and I do the final work for the funerals. Everyone wants their loved one to look pretty, and I’m a good hand with the makeup and hairstyling. My grandmother taught me. Regina does the embalming and autopsy work. Shall I call her? She can be here in a few minutes.”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Hoyle. And if we can move Mr. Savage to the autopsy suite, I can get started with the external exam.”
Fletcher said, “I’ll help.”
Hoyle shook his head. “Thank you, but I’ve got it. We have a pulley system that moves the bodies around. Let me just call Regina, and I’ll get the body moved for you.”
Regina promised to come straightaway, and Hoyle got Sam situated.
A few minutes later, an automated cart on wheels arrived in the autopsy suite with the cardboard coffin.
“Handy contraption,” Sam said.
He smiled shyly. “It is. We have the only crematory outside of the big cities that can handle bodies over three hundred pounds. My grandfather designed the pulleys. My father added the automation. They practically move the bodies themselves.”
Davidson called to Fletcher, “Hey, you need to see this.” He gestured to an outer room.
Fletcher looked at Sam. “You okay?”
“Sure thing. Go ahead. I’m not going anywhere.”
He left, and a pretty young woman with the same slight build as her brother appeared in the door to the suite. Roy’s face lit up. “Ah, here’s Regina.”
“Hi, Roy.” His sister came and gave his arm a squeeze, then turned to Sam with a sense of awe. “You’re Dr. Owens. I’ve heard so much about you. I’ve read all your papers. It’s a real honor to have a chance to work with you, ma’am.”
Goodness. She felt her face getting red; she wasn’t used to this kind of adulation.
“Hi, Regina. Call me Sam. You ready to get to work?”
“I am. Are you strong? Savage isn’t a little guy.”
“I can handle myself if you can.”
“Let’s do it, then.”
Roy excused himself, and the two women wrestled the body from the cardboard coffin.
Savage definitely wasn’t little. Sam’s measurements said seventy-two inches, and the scale showed him at two hundred pounds. He was fully dressed in a black turtleneck and jeans.
“Is this how he came in?” Sam asked.
“This is how we got him,” Regina said. “We did the usual radiographs to make sure he didn’t have any devices or replacement joints, but the orders were to cremate him clothed.”
“Is that usual?”
“Sure. Put Grandma in her favorite blue dress before the cremation, that sort of thing.”
“Who dressed him, do you know?”
“No idea.”
“Okay. You have the radiographs?”
“I do.” She put them up on the light board, and Sam looked them over. She saw nothing of great significance, only a previous tibia fracture, well healed.
“Let’s get his clothes off. I can’t believe they redressed him after they examined him,” she said.
“From what I’ve been told, there was no real examination at all. You have a clean slate.”
Sam looked at Regina. “What? I knew there wasn’t an internal exam, but nothing external, either?”
“Not that I know of. It was a clear case of suicide, they told us, and warned us to be careful with the body because of the hydrogen sulfide. It’s the only reason we haven’t sent him through the retort yet—we wanted to give the chemicals time to dissipate.”
Sam shook her head, partly annoyed and partly glad. When they said no post, she’d assumed they were talking about an internal exam. What sort of fool wouldn’t do any external exam on a dead body? Someone was trying to get Timothy Savage out of the way, and fast.
Once his clothes were off, Sam started on a cursory check of the body. She stopped at the neck. There were bruises around his throat. Her first instinct was strangulation, but she thought about the method of his suicide, the hydrogen sulfide, and the reaction he might have had to suddenly being unable to breathe. People sometimes brought their own hands to their throat as if they could claw an airway open from the outside. It was suspicious, but not entirely unheard of. Sam looked closely at his eyes and under the edge of his upper lip, saw the red pinpricks of petechial hemorrhage. That was to be expected in the case of asphyxiation.
He’d also bitten his tongue, a deep black wound caused by his incisors. The injury would have bled profusely, and she had seen no evidence of blood on his clothes or his body. She tucked that fact away, but felt the hair rise on the back of her neck. Someone had cleaned up Mr. Savage, after all. The police? Or someone else?
“Take a vitreous fluid, would you, Regina?”
“Sure.” She expertly drew the fluid from his eye with a syringe as Sam finished the rest of the external exam. “Let’s flip him.”
They manhandled the body so it was facedown, and Sam gasped. The upper part of Savage’s back was covered in tattoos. Spirals and triangles and stars, what seemed to be a type of Celtic love knot. No faces, no names, just strange symbols, arranged in what looked to be a repeating pattern.
“Take a photograph please, Regina.”
The girl hopped up on the autopsy table and motioned for Sam to hand her the camera. She snapped off a few shots. “Pretty.”
“You think?”
“Absolutely. Here, look at the shot from above. They’re arranged in a triskele. Do you know what that is?”
“Never heard of it.” She looked at the photos and could see now what Regina was talking about—the multiple symbols formed a clear pattern of three interlocked spirals.
“A triskele is Celtic, and it’s ancient. It was a pagan symbol, the power of three—maid, mother, crone or land, sea, sky. Any triad, really, but once Christianity came into the land, it morphed into a trinity symbol. Father, Son and Holy Spirit.”
“How do you know this?”
She smiled, and Sam was reminded of a pixie. “I studied Comparative Religion and the Classics at Randolph College. I was considering entering a convent for a while, then decided I could be of better service to my Lord by helping discover what causes death. I’m considering pathology, but med school is so very expensive.”
It was a strange way to phrase it, what causes death, instead of the more common forensic phrase, cause of death. But Sam didn’t pursue it. She looked at Savage’s back again.
“It must have taken years to get all of these tattoos,” she said. “Did you know Savage, Regina? Or his son, Henry? Where he went to church, or anything else about him?”
“No, I didn’t. Then again, Lynchburg’s a bigger town than you might think.”
“I was told Henry went to Randolph College, too.”
“Really? Must have been after I left. I graduated the last year it was all women. I’m still stunned they went coed on us.”
“Too much to hope for, I guess, leaving the school single-sex. Let’s flip him and get moving.”
Sam put her hands on his shoulders. As they maneuvered the body onto its back, she felt something hard and crusty under her fingers.
She carefully brushed back his hair and saw a trail of something silvery by the man’s ear. “Hold up a sec, I want to collect this. Can you hand me a DNA swab?”
“What is it?”
“Tears. I think. It makes sense. His eyes would be burning from the chemicals. Just want to be sure we catch everything.”
She collected the sample, then they washed the body and got down to the internal exam. Sam added a second set of gloves, pleased Regina had the Marigolds she preferred, put on an eye shield and double-masked herself in case of any leftover gases from Savage’s lungs. She wasn’t too concerned, though. It had been long enough that most of the gas would have dissipated, and they were in a well-ventilated room. Just in case, she made sure Regina had taken the same precautions, then hefted the scalpel in her right hand and glanced at the girl. “Would you like to do the cut?”
“Oh, no, Dr. Owens. I’d like to watch you do it, if you don’t mind. I can probably learn a thing or two from your technique.”
Sam laughed to herself a little—her technique was rusty as hell, considering—but placed the tip of the scalpel into the flesh just below the clavicle and swept the knife downward decisively. The tough skin parted, the yellow subcutaneous fat along the edges thicker than she would have anticipated for a man in such good shape. She sliced down the other side, meeting the cut just above his groin, and stepped back to allow any gases to escape. After a few moments, she set to the task of autopsy. The rib shears made quick work of the breastplate, making little crunching noises that echoed in the quiet space, and when Regina lifted it out of place, Sam’s first view of the lungs brought her to a halt again.
They were perfect.
She was looking at the lungs of a healthy man, in his prime, who’d clearly never smoked or lived in an industrial, polluted area. Nor did they show any sign of irritation, or inflammation. No frothy blood, no edema.
“Son of a bitch.” The words were muffled behind her mask.
“What is it?”
Sam looked up at Regina. “Timothy Savage did not die from hydrogen sulfide poisoning.”
Chapter
14
SAM TOOK HER time going through the rest of the post. Savage’s body had a tale to tell, and she was listening.
His heart was normal size for a man of his age, with a nominal buildup of cholesterol plaque. The lungs: both upper and lower lobes, when dissected, proved to be clear of any indication of a chemical irritant. Liver, kidneys, stomach, intestinal tract, all were normal. He hadn’t had a recent meal before his death, though she found traces of blood he must have swallowed antemortem, and he was in decent shape.
In the examination of his throat, she found what she was looking for. Timothy Savage’s trachea had clearly been crushed. He’d been strangled, just as the bruising foretold, but by the very strong hands of another, with a towel or something soft to minimize the surface bruising. Sam had seen this sort of neck injury often, in accidental autoerotic deaths, but this was clearly murder—in those cases, the padded ropes or other devices were left in place. And in this case, the killer had been facing his victim.
With that knowledge in mind, she stepped back, looked at the body from a slightly different perspective. There was some slight internal bruising just below Savage’s lower ribs. Someone had put a knee on the man’s chest to hold him down. They’d very purposefully strangled the man, then set about making his death appear to be suicide.
Sam felt both vindicated and frightened. Savage had been correct. He had been murdered. And now she was into his case up to her eyeballs, and there was no going back.
She went through the final steps of the post. His brain was the last piece of the puzzle, and when they got his skull open, even that showed nothing irregular, just the typical undulating coils of gray matter, perhaps slightly looser than they would have been if he were younger.
Two things were bothering her. First, that Savage himself had known he was in mortal danger and had written to her directly instead of going to the police. It made her distrust June Davidson, someone she needed on her side. And two, that the law firm representing Savage’s estate had ordered him cremated without a proper autopsy. Three things, if she counted Benedict’s murder.
As she washed up and watched Regina craft beautiful stitches to close the Y-incision, Sam decided there and then to bring all the blood and tissue samples she’d taken back to D.C. for analysis. She didn’t trust anyone in Lynchburg, not now.
Used to sending samples out for analysis, Regina produced a small cooler that housed everything perfectly. She didn’t raise an eyebrow when Sam said, “I’ll drop these directly at the lab so you don’t have to make a special trip.”
“Should we go ahead with the cremation now?”
“If you have the room, why don’t you hold on to him for another day? I’ll call you tomorrow and release the body.”
“Sure thing, Dr. Owens. Thank you, so much, for allowing me to assist. It was fascinating watching you work.”
“You have a great touch. Remember the trick I showed you about how to cut the lung tissue so you can always identify it if you need to revisit your samples.”
“Triangles for upper, squares for lower. Got it.”
“If you do decide to go to med school for pathology, let me know. I’d be delighted to write a recommendation. I’m teaching at Georgetown now, so if you need a hand, don’t hesitate.”
Regina smiled widely. “Thank you so much. Do you have a card? So I can keep in touch?”
Sam gave her one of her new Georgetown University cards, then excused herself, went back upstairs into the grand foyer and called Fletcher. He answered, sounding slightly out of breath.
“Where are you? I’m finished, and waiting for you on the porch. We need to talk.”
“We had a looky-loo hanging around. Davidson and I chased him. Guy got away, he’s fast as a greyhound, but I got a good look at him. Five-eight, Caucasian, blondish hair, red-and-white baseball cap. Lock the doors and I’ll be back in five minutes.”
Sam didn’t hesitate. She wasn’t in the mood to take chances. She went inside, threw the bolt and realized how ridiculous her actions were. The place was huge, with multiple entrances. She rang the bell, and after a few moments, Regina appeared.
“Dr. Owens, you’re still here. Is everything okay?”
“Is this the only entrance?”
“No, there are the back doors to the veranda and the garages downstairs, of course, where we do intake. Why?”
“Detective Fletcher and Detective Davidson are chasing a suspect. They want us safely inside with all the doors locked.”
Regina responded immediately. “Follow me. The veranda doors are kept bolted, but the garage door is always open during business hours.”
They hustled down the stairs. Sam’s hand was beginning to go numb from carrying the weight of the cooler. She wasn’t about to let it go, though. They passed the autopsy suite and the embalming room, and entered a long hallway that led to darkness. Sam followed Regina closely lest she get lost in the labyrinth. After a minute, they stepped into a cavernous space Sam recognized from her own facility in Nashville. There were two industrial garage doors side by side, and a decent-sized body cooler.
As they entered the room, the lights went on with a hum. Sam relaxed a bit. The overheads were on motion sensors. No one was in here.
Regina slapped the button and the large doors began to drop. There was an entrance door between the two; she hurried over to it and threw the dead bolt.
“There,” she said with a grim smile. “We’re all secure.”
Sam patted her on the back. “You seem like you’ve done this before.”
“Oh, we have to run drills all the time. And up in Richmond, well, they don’t mess around. We’re expected to know the emergency precautions for any situation. Now, since you’re stuck here for a bit, would you like a cup of tea or coffee? Or something stronger?”
“Tea would be fabulous.”
They started back toward the stairs, down the long, dark hallway. As they turned the corner, Sam saw the door to the autopsy suite was open. Regina noticed it at the same time, and flattened back against the wall, an arm held out in front of Sam in protection. They stared at each other, both listening. Sam could have sworn she heard a noise coming from the autopsy suite.
She pointed to the suite and Regina shook her head, admonishing her to stay put. But Sam knew they had to check, see what was happening. She edged forward, slowly, one step at a time. There, she heard the noise again. It was quiet, barely audible keening. Grief. A breathy little sob.
What in the world?
She stepped firmer now, and miscalculated a corner. The cooler clanged against the wall, and there was a flash of movement. Someone burst from the room, ran into them both. Sam was shoved against the wall and knocked down, Regina collapsed beside her. Footsteps rang out as the person rushed away. Sam recovered quickly, ran down the hall after him. She turned the corner into the garage just in time to see a red-and-white baseball cap disappear out the door.
Chapter
15
SAM RAN TO the door and carefully ducked her head outside, but all she saw was an expanse of green lawn and a curving asphalt drive. Whoever had just been in the autopsy suite was gone.
Fast as a greyhound was an understatement.
She used a tissue from her pocket to relock the door, careful not to wipe away any possible fingerprints, then hurried back to Regina, who was collecting herself up off the floor. Her eyes weren’t totally focused on Sam.
“Are you okay?”
“I think I hit my head. Sorry. Did he get away?”
“He’s gone. Let me see.” Sam expertly ran her hands through Regina’s hair, feeling for the lump. She found it in the front, near her temple. She gave the girl a quick neurological exam, but she was focusing better.
“You’re going to have a headache, and you’ve got a little concussion. You might even sport a black eye tomorrow. Keep a close watch on yourself for the rest of the day. If your headache gets worse, go to the hospital immediately, okay?”
“Yeah. I’m fine. Just went down awkwardly. Hit my head on the edge of the cooler, of all things.”
“We’d best check the body. Whoever that was wanted something from Savage.”
They got Regina back to standing and entered the autopsy suite. The body was undisturbed.
Sam looked around the room but saw nothing out of place. “Regina, before he ran out of here, did you hear crying?”
“I thought I did. That is so weird. I’ve seen some odd things, but we’ve never had a break-in like this. Nothing taken, nothing disturbed. No harm, no foul. Oh, shoot. I better go check on Roy. He was supposed to be working on Mrs. Edmunds this afternoon.”
Sam collected the cooler, which had been knocked over when Regina fell on it, and checked inside. Everything was still in its place. Regina led them down the opposite hallway to the embalming room.
Roy was inside, earbuds in, studiously brushing a dead woman’s long silver hair. He didn’t hear them come in. Regina smiled, then signaled to Sam to back away.
Once in the hallway, she said, “If he’d been disturbed, he wouldn’t be so calm. He’s a nervous sort, my brother. Scared of his own shadow. But so good at his job. You need someone caring at this stage, and he’s a love. Come on. Let’s get back upstairs.” The girl’s natural exuberance showed itself. “I’m sure you want to call your cop friend, let him know we had a visitor.”
Sam called Fletch’s phone, but he didn’t answer. Moments later, they heard the doorbell ring.
“Ah, there they are,” Sam said.
They went to the foyer and Regina unlocked the front door. The men came in, both breathing heavily and sweating.
Regina took Davidson to the autopsy suite to show him what happened, leaving Sam and Fletcher alone. She handed him a bottle of water from her bag. He gulped greedily while she explained what had transpired, and Fletcher’s brows drew closer together.
“What happened earlier?” Sam asked.
“June caught a flash of the baseball cap, called out for him to stop, but he took off at a sprint. We got after him, but he ducked into the woods and disappeared. Poof, gone. He must have circled back and come in through the garage doors. Nothing’s missing?”
Sam shook her head. “Not that we can see. Fletch, he was standing over the body, and it sounded like he was crying. Do you think this could be the son, Henry Matcliff? The glimpse I had, he looked young.”
“Maybe. Xander checked in—he’s going into the woods to see if he can spot the man for us. Keep that under your hat for now.” His voice dropped, and she had to lean forward to hear him. “I don’t trust Davidson, not yet. I don’t think he’s told us everything about Savage. Something odd’s going on here.”
“No kidding.”
Before they could analyze things further, Davidson returned with Regina.
“We better get over to the law firm. I’ll send an officer out here to keep an eye on things until we get Savage’s wishes cleared up. Regina will keep watch, won’t you, honey?”
Regina rolled her eyes at the endearment, clearly offended, but nodded. She pointedly ignored Davidson, but shook Sam’s hand, and Fletcher’s. “Thanks for everything, Dr. Owens. I’ll see you around. You need anything, just call.”
She waited for them to leave, and Sam clearly heard the bolt thrown on the front door. Good. At least someone wasn’t going to take any chances.
* * *
The law offices of Benedict, Picker, Green and Thompson were on Rivermont Avenue, only a ten-minute drive from Hoyle’s. They were in a redbrick two-story Victorian dollhouse, complete with white trim and turrets, which, they soon found out, housed the firm’s library of law books.
They were met in the reception area by an older gentleman with white hair and a rotund stomach. He wore a gray summer-weight wool suit, his tie a florid green slash across his belly.
“Good, you’re here at last.” He turned to Sam and Fletcher. “I’m McKendry Picker. You can call me Mac. We’re all just sick about Rolph. What more can you tell us about his death? I need to let his wife know the details, and his kids, they’re flying in from around the country to be with their mother, and this is all just so heartbreaking. We knew he wasn’t going to last long with the disease and all, but to die like this, murdered, so far away from home, it’s just—” He burst into tears.
Sam’s first instinct was to comfort him, but Fletcher cleared his throat and imperceptibly shook his head at her, so she stood her ground.
Davidson was the one who laid a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Mac, shh, it’s okay, man. I know how hard this is for everyone. Where are Tony and Stacey?”
Picker got himself together, sniffling and wiping his eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. “They’re in Las Vegas. A deposition for a client. They’ll fly back as soon as they’re finished, should be in this evening.” He turned to Sam and Fletcher and cleared his throat, the tears still sparkling on his cheeks.
“I’m so sorry to lose control like that. Saying it aloud made it so real. Rolph and I have been friends for forty years. I’m going to miss him dreadfully.”
Fletch bowed his head and said softly, “We understand, sir. Is there someplace we can sit and chat for a bit?”
“Of course. We have pastries and coffee waiting in the conference room. Follow me, please.”
Sam noticed the man’s stride was slightly off, as if he were wearing a knee brace, or had twisted his ankle. When they got into the conference room, which was gorgeous—dark wood and gleaming floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking an extravagant all-white flower garden—Sam asked him about it as they settled around the table.
“Korea, I’m afraid. Lost the leg. I was shipped over toward the end, when I was only seventeen, though Uncle Sam didn’t know that. I was green as a sapling, and stepped on a mine the first day I was there. Blew it right off. I was lucky, they saved my knee, and prosthetics have come so far since I first began wearing them. And I’m blessed with excellent insurance.”
“I’m so sorry,” Sam said. “You seem to manage beautifully.”
“Years of practice. And don’t be sorry. Government paid for everything, from my leg through to my schooling. I wouldn’t have gotten into law without the push. Everything happens for a reason, Dr. Owens. Even losing a leg in a stupid accident, or the untimely death of a friend. Now please, tell me what’s happening. Why was my best friend murdered?”
Chapter
16
FLETCHER LET JUNE Davidson do the talking, and watched the array of emotions parade across Mac Picker’s face as he heard the story.
“Let me get this straight. Savage hired Rolph to put together a will, and named Dr. Owens here executor? That’s very odd, very odd indeed. When you called and told me the details, I checked our database. We don’t have a record of Savage being a client. There’s nothing to indicate he and Rolph ever even met.”
“Did Benedict have a history of doing pro bono work?” Fletcher asked.
“Well, sure. We all do our part to help out indigents, and other cases where it would be to our benefit to be involved for a nominal fee. And there’s always the chance Rolph was helping out on his own time, not on behalf of the firm. But I’m sorry, there’s nothing here, nothing at all.”
“Did Mr. Benedict have a paralegal? Someone who may have helped him draft the will?” Davidson asked.
“We do have paralegals, but they’re absolutely one hundred percent bound by the law and our internal policies to put everything into the system as it comes in. It’s procedure. We may look like a small Southern operation, but we’ve got a state-of-the-art legal electronic filing system. We’ve been electronic for about five years now, and everything, everything, goes through our database directly into the judiciary. It’s mandatory.
“Now the only outsiders are some interns who come in a few times a week, students from around town who are taking prelaw and want to experience the real deal. But they don’t have access to the databases. The interns are more for show, if you’ll forgive the admission. It makes them feel like they’re learning, and the school gives them class credit for their time spent here. The firm gets the cachet of having the top students in the area fight to work for us. But we don’t let them actually do anything.”
Fletcher picked up an iced cinnamon roll, took a casual bite. He used the remains to point at Picker. “So you’re saying Benedict must have done his work for Savage off-book?”
Picker’s face reddened. “I suppose that’s exactly what I’m saying, though the way you put it, it sounds quite sordid.”
Davidson stepped in, hands up. “Mac, relax. We believe you. But we’re gonna need Rolph’s computer from his office, and his date book. I know you understand.”
Picker’s shoulders squared, and his chin rose. “And you certainly understand I’ll need to see your warrant. That computer contains highly confidential material, and we can’t just allow it to parade out of here. I’ve looked on it myself, and there’s no sign of any files under the name Savage.”
“Come on. You’re gonna make me go to Judge Hessian? You really want him breathing down your neck? My God, Mac, that can be construed as tampering with evidence, and you know it.”
“No, I don’t. I’m sorry, I need that warrant first. And, June, don’t threaten me. It’s not polite. Your father wouldn’t appreciate it, and I don’t, either.”
Fletcher was enjoying this exchange. Despite his misgivings, he thought Davidson was probably all right, once you got past the big-town-cop, small-town-cop posturing, but he wasn’t above taking pleasure in seeing someone get a spanking. He glanced over at Sam to see if she was amused, too, and saw she wasn’t paying attention anymore, but was staring at her phone screen. While Davidson and Picker went at each other, he nudged her knee and raised an eyebrow. She handed him the phone.
The text was from Xander.
At Savage’s place. You and Fletch need to get out here. Now. No locals.
Sam took the phone back, and Fletcher stood.
“Gentlemen, I hate to interrupt this fascinating discourse, but while you hash this out, Dr. Owens and I should really get the samples from Savage’s autopsy to the lab. Detective Davidson, would you mind calling me when you’re done here? We can meet up after you’ve served the warrant.”
Both men gaped at him, but Davidson recovered quickly. “Sure. No problem. Might take an hour or so. We’ll have to pull Judge Hessian off the links. He has a standing tee time once court lets out for the day. You’ll be on your cell?”
“I will.”
“Lab’s down the street, toward the river. Just go back the way we came in. You can’t miss it. I’ll see you there once we get things settled. Mac here will do the right thing as soon as Old Hessian gets wind of this. Won’t you, Mac?”
Picker glared at the younger man and said nothing.
Fletcher shook hands with Picker, and he and Sam left the room. He heard Davidson saying, “Now, listen, you old fool, you know we have every right to see Rolph’s computer.” His voice drifted off, and Fletcher waited until they were outside to say, “Bunch of BS going on in there. Thanks for getting us out. They’re going to argue for hours, and I don’t feel like waiting around.”
“Picker’s hiding something,” Sam said.
“I know. Maybe he’ll be more open with Davidson once we’re out of here. You have an address for Savage?”
“Yeah. We need to head back north on Highway 29, then take the first exit east toward Farmville. His cabin is just outside the city limits.”
“You’re a regular cartographer.”
That made her laugh, and he was glad, because the worried dent left her forehead. “Maps are my secret love. No, Xander sent another text with the instructions. He says to watch for a large oak tree with a split trunk. That’s the entrance to the drive. I hope he’s okay.”
“He’s fine. He’d have sent an SOS if he was in danger. Sounds to me like he found something interesting and didn’t want to share it with Davidson until we had a chance to look it over.”
Sam nodded. “I’m sure you’re right. We have to get these samples to D.C. as soon as we can. They’ll be okay in the cooler for twelve hours or so—they’re packed well—but that’s it. I don’t trust anyone down here to handle them properly. I took a DNA swab from Savage’s neck and ear. I’m hoping we’ll have something belonging to the killer. He held him down, a knee in his stomach, and strangled him face-to-face. It takes a lot of hate to watch someone die like that. I’m hoping he was talking while he did it, and some saliva got onto Savage’s face.”
“You’re good at this.”
“Too much experience.”
He drove in silence for a few minutes, thinking to himself, That’s why Savage wanted you. He knew you’d be able to suss things out. Then Sam said, “There, that’s the road we need.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. Turn.”
The road looked more like a donkey track, thin ruts in the dirt wending into a deep, dark forest, and Fletcher’s Caprice didn’t have the best clearance for off-roading, but he listened, going cautiously so he didn’t bottom out.
“Whitfield has his Jeep, I take it?”
“I’m sure he does. He doesn’t like to drive my BMW. Makes him feel icky, he says.” She laughed. “His parents really did a number on him when it comes to anything that could be construed as capitalistic.”
“BMWs are only for capitalists, I take it?”
“Yep. The road to his cabin isn’t much better than this, and washes out in heavy rains, so he’s got the Jeep jacked up a bit. I’m sure it was no problem. Come on, Grandma, put your foot in it. It evens out in a hundred feet.”
“Grandma my ass,” he muttered, but she was right, the road did get better once they got away from the highway. He supposed Savage kept it a mess to discourage visitors. It was effective.
Another mile into the woods, Savage’s cabin appeared. It wasn’t much to speak of. Fletcher had seen hunting shacks with more space, but he supposed only one person didn’t need too much room. If the kid was grown and gone, and it was only Savage, it would be enough.
“Where’s Xander’s Jeep?” Sam asked.
Fletcher didn’t see it, but he assumed Whitfield was smart enough to have it out of the way. He was right; as he pulled the Caprice to a stop, Whitfield appeared next to them, almost as if he’d walked right out of a tree.
“God, I hate it when he does that.”
“Me, too,” Sam said. “It’s like he’s part of the forest. He does it up on the mountain all the time. He and Thor can disappear in plain sight. It’s spooky.”
She got out of the car and went to him, and gave him a quick kiss. Nothing overt, nothing sloppy, only a peck, and even after everything Fletcher had said on the way to Lynchburg, he still felt a twist in his gut when he saw the way she looked at him.
Let it go, man. She ain’t ever gonna be yours.
Better friends than nothing, that was for sure. He’d probably lose her, anyway, get himself into his familiar routine, once the novelty wore off.
Keep telling yourself that, Fletch. You might even start to believe it.
He stepped from the car and his cell rang. He looked down to see Hart was calling. “Hold on a sec. Gotta take this.”
Hart’s voice was tight and anxious. “Where the hell are you, hoss? I went by your place to bring you a study lunch and it was buttoned up tight.”
“South. Lynchburg. I’m helping Sam out on a case. Why, what’s up?”
“We have a missing kid. Ten-year-old girl named Rachel Stevens. Disappeared from Connecticut Avenue, near the zoo. Parents reported her missing an hour ago, and the cops who came to take the report found a note. Probable kidnapping. AMBER Alert just went up. We need you back here, right now.”
“Who snatched her?”
“No idea. Parents are married. It doesn’t look custodial. Armstrong’s liaising with the FBI. It’s task force city, all hands on deck.”
“Shit.”
“As in it’s hitting the fan, yes. So get your sweet booty back to D.C., will ya?”
Fletch looked at his watch. It was 2:00 p.m. “I’ll be back by 7:00. Tell Armstrong.”
“This is going to be over by 5:00. Hurry up.”
He hung up and Fletcher stowed his phone.
Sam had been listening. “What’s wrong?”
“A little girl named Rachel Stevens has gone missing. I gotta get back to D.C.”
Sam frowned. “That’s awful. Well, I know all the players now, and the hard part’s over. You can go back up. Xander can keep an eye on me. You can take the samples to Amado, and he can begin the tests. It gives us half a day’s head start. And we’ll come back up tonight.”
Leaving Sam in the lion’s den with all the lies flying around went against his better judgment, but he didn’t see that he had a choice. She was right, the bulk of the work had been done. Now it was up to the evidence to lead them to an answer.
Whitfield was studying him with those dark, unreadable eyes. “You’re cool with this?”
He nodded. “No worries, man. I can take care of her. But you’re going to want to see this before you go.”
Chapter
17
SAM FOLLOWED XANDER and Fletcher to the entrance of Savage’s cabin. The hand-drawn biohazard signs were still stuck in the windows, but the warning sign had been removed from the front door. She crossed herself as she entered the dimness, in case Timothy Savage was still hanging around. She didn’t want to bring him home with her. It was a habit she had when visiting crime scenes. Both men looked at her queerly, but she smiled and nodded them inside.
Savage lived small. And off the grid, from the looks of it. Xander walked them through the house—living room, workable kitchen, two small bedrooms and a bathroom with a shower, no tub. The walls were rough-hewn wood, and undecorated, the beds little more than cots. There was a stone fireplace in the living room with three rows of neatly stacked logs running up the wall to the ceiling. The refrigerator was sized for an apartment and held an assortment of glass juice jars, unbound fruits and vegetables, all going rotten. There was a small pantry, with oatmeal, almonds, seeds, dried fruit and three different kinds of beans, and what looked like homemade granola. Sam thought back to the autopsy—the healthy heart and lungs, the muscle tone—she’d bet her life Timothy Savage was a vegan.
“I wonder if he lived here full-time?” Sam asked.
Xander nodded. “I think so, though it is rather sparse, even for a mountain man. There’s a garden out back. He grew his own vegetables. Used newspapers as mulch, there’s a tidy little stack on the porch. There’s also a smoking shed, but no sign of any meat. This isn’t the interesting part, though. Follow me.”
He went back into the living room and walked straight to the wall where, in a normal house, there would be a television set. He waved his hands, said, “Abracadabra,” and pushed on the center of the wall.
The latch was on a well-oiled spring connected to a damper. It allowed a three-foot-square piece of wall to fall open slowly, giving way to a sturdy and serviceable desk. Inside the cubbyhole, there was a small laptop computer and a wireless router, neither plugged in, and a whole series of pictures, maps, articles and photographs tacked to a corkboard that took up the entire wall inside the small space. When Sam’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, she realized she was looking at herself.
She gasped. “Oh, my God. What is this?”
Fletcher spoke through his teeth. “It’s a shrine.”
She shot him a look, saw he was holding back. Fletcher did not like being in the dark, and Savage’s mystery was getting darker and darker.
Xander used a pencil to poke through the detritus. “Looks like a log. Of all the cases Sam’s worked, and everything she’s published. Cases from Nashville—you worked a couple of serials down there, and they were big news. The photos are from the internet, none of them were actually taken and developed. Except this one.”
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