Apr 28, 2017
Neutral territory…
“Why the meeting, Tessa?”
“I wanted to let you know I’m back in Richmond. I’ve applied for a yearlong fellowship at the medical examiner’s office. In fact, Dr. Kincaid just offered me the job. I start in the morning.”
A muscle pulsed in his jaw. “She’s smart. Manages a good shop. Why tell me?”
Ice coated each word. He wasn’t attempting cordial. But then it had never been easy with him. “We’re going to run into each other. In fact, the medical examiner’s office has one of your cases on the docket for tomorrow.”
The muscle in his jaw pulsed again. “You could have told me all this in a text.”
“I know you don’t like texts.”
As he sat back, his jacket opened a fraction, offering a glimpse of his badge clipped to his belt, inches from the grip of his weapon. He waited.
She tucked another strand of hair behind her ear. “I understand this victim is young.”
He impatiently tugged at the edge of his jacket. “When you officially start, we’ll talk about it.”
Old frustrations stirred, and she remembered he could be abrupt, his tone blunt when he was upset. She knew he was angry with her. She’d blasted out of his life on a rush of emotion and little thought.
Now, she wanted to say the right words to mend a once-strong connection now shattered into so many pieces, words alone felt inadequate.
Dakota’s question was as piercing as a honed blade. “So that’s it? You wanted to give me a heads up?”
“That was part of the reason.”
He didn’t speak. Barely seemed to breathe.
“I wanted to see you. To see for myself you’re doing okay.”
He shook his head, as if he were bracing for a second shoe to drop.
“I also wanted you to know I remembered today is Kara’s birthday. I haven’t forgotten.”
He didn’t blink. “Okay.”
“She was my friend, too. What happened to her changed my life as well.” Her thumb rubbed the underside of her ring finger as if expecting to feel her wedding band.
“Happened?”
“Yes.” She’d hoped mentioning Kara would chip away at the wall between them, but it only added more bricks. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to rub salt.”
A weary sigh leaked from his lips. “I assume you’re now making small talk and screwing up the courage to talk about a divorce.”
Their broken marriage dangled between them like glass shards. Hardly anyone would have noticed any hope glinting around the jagged edges. “No, I’m not.”
“No, you’re not what?”
This was the moment she’d rehearsed a hundred times on the long plane ride home. “I’m not filing the papers.”
His gray eyes narrowed. “You want me to?”
“No,” she blurted.
Wariness flashed as his eyes narrowed. “Why not? A clean break means you can get on with your life.”
If this had been a tug-of-war game, she’d have been digging in her heels. “Is that what you want?”
Staring. Silent. Still. He was giving her no glimpse of his thoughts. She’d have to work for every inch of progress.
“I’ve done everything I can think of to get free of you. I was sure ten thousand miles would do the trick. But no luck.” As the words rushed over her lips, she regretted them immediately.
Challenge sharpened already keen features.
A cold chill swept over her and threatened to scatter whatever hopes she’d painstakingly collected over the last weeks as she continued, “I thought eight months apart would mellow us both.”
“I haven’t changed and neither has my job, Tessa. It never will. I don’t know why you imagined I’d change.”
“I’ve changed.”
Shaking his head, he rose as if he could no longer stay still. “Do yourself a favor and move on with your life. File the fucking papers, and I’ll sign them.”
She stood quickly, again bumping the table, sloshing more coffee. As he turned away, she fired back, “I never figured you for a chickenshit, Sharp.”
His face in profile now, a muscle again pulsed in his jaw. He might recognize her outburst as one of the investigative techniques he used interviewing a hostile witness, but that didn’t mean he was immune when the tables were turned. “Provoking my temper won’t work, Tessa.”
“Figured you were more of a fighter,” she pressed. What the hell did she have to lose now? “Never pegged you for a quitter.”
Unruffled, he reached for his sunglasses. “I’m a realist. We are not suited for each other. I know. You know it.”
She moved a step closer to him, knowing the sunglasses were one of his tells. He put them on when he was rattled. She’d hit her target. “I’m not filing papers.”
“And then what? We remain in limbo?”
“No. We figure it out. We make our marriage work.”
Copyright 2016 © Mary Burton
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Apr 27, 2017
A midnight call…
Lindsay’s cell phone, perched on her nightstand, rang just after midnight. She jerked awake. Accustomed to being awaken in the middle of the night, she sat up and grabbed the receiver. “Hello?”
No answer.
She shoved back her hair and glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Sam had dropped her off over three hours ago and she’d fallen into bed exhausted. “Hello?”
There was breathing on the other end. Normally, when she got late night calls, it was a frightened woman hiding out from her abuser, too afraid to talk. Often she had to coax the women into speaking.
But tonight, she didn’t sense someone in trouble. She sensed danger. Her voice harsh, she demanded, “Who is this?”
There was a moment’s pause. And then the line went dead.
Lindsay checked the incoming number and discovered it was blocked. She closed the phone. Fully awake, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and clicked on the bedside lamp.
A chill slithered through her.
It wasn’t like her to be so easily spooked. She got out of bed, clad only in an oversized t-shirt. The air-conditioning chilled her skin.
Careful not to wake Nicole, Lindsay hurried past her roommate’s closed door and went down the carpeted stairs to check the lock on the front door. She peered out the peephole. Nothing. Then she went to the back sliding glass door. Locked. She moved from window to window, checking them. All locked.
She flipped on the flood light and it shone over her backyard garden. She stared into the yard, looking for any sign of movement.
Nothing moved.
And yet she had the feeling that someone was watching. Hugging her arms, she stared into the darkness. There was no one there.
She shoved stiff fingers through her hair. This was insane. She was driving herself nuts over what was likely a wrong number. She shut off the back porch light. “Too much caffeine.”
She opened the refrigerator and peered inside at the carton full of leftovers from the bistro. She opened the chocolate cake container and opened it. She pinched a piece. It melted in her mouth. Closing the door, she moved into the living room, switched on a light and sat down. In the silence, she ate the cake savoring every bite.
As she rose to pitch the takeout container in the kitchen trash bin, she spotted the door under the stairs. Behind it was a small storage place where she kept old boxes of pictures. Tossing the carton, she wiped her hands, opened the door and removed the worn box. She carried it to the couch, sat, and dug among the photos, careful to avoid the ones with Zack. She’d never organized or put the photos in an album, but she’d written dates on notes on the back of each.
There were pictures of Lindsay with her friend Joel. They were at the pool, smiling. Joel had his arm wrapped casually around her shoulder. She smiled as she traced Joel’s face. Joel and his dad had been the ones who’d gone back to the house after her mom died and gotten these photos and her clothes.
Going deeper in the photo box, she found a picture of her as a baby. Other pictures of her at swim and tennis meets with her father and mother smiling proudly behind her. They looked so happy. Picture perfect.
And yet behind the smiles, there was tension in her parents’ eyes. Most wouldn’t have noticed it, but she did.
Digging deeper into the box, she found black and whites of her mother as a young girl before she’d married her father. Her mother had had a bright smile, dark wavy hair that set off her hazel eyes and peaches and cream complexion. In one photo, Lindsay’s mother stood with her older brother who was fifteen years older than her mother. He looked to be about twenty-five in this photo. His arm was slung casually around her mother’s shoulders and he wore a sailor’s uniform that accentuated his trim waist and broad shoulders. She had no memories of her uncle expect for the rare story her mother told.
Buried on the bottom of the box were pictures of three-year-old Lindsay holding a baby boy. The child had been her younger brother who’d died of crib death when he was just seven months old. Her mother had rarely spoken about her brother Bobby but Lindsay knew the boy’s death had left a hole in both her parents’ hearts that had never healed.
Maybe if Bobby hadn’t died. Maybe if…
These stupid mind games weren’t going to change her past. It was what it was. A mess.
She dropped the pictures back in the box unable to bare the sadness. She replaced the lid and put the box back in the closet under the stairs.
Suddenly very tired, she climbed the stairs and got into bed. The sheets felt cold against her skin. Despite the fatigue, her mind was restless.
She reached for the light. She’d searched the house and assured herself that she and Nicole were alone. And yet, she still felt as if someone stood over her.
Watching.
© 2007 Mary Burton
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Apr 24, 2017
It started as an ordinary evening . . .
Fire engines and dozens of cop cars surrounded the building, their bright red and blue lights flashing in the dark . . .
Eva’s head spun as the old memories of another fire rose up inside her and coiled around her chest. She could barely breathe and for a moment wanted nothing more than to bolt. Instead, she held her ground, shoving trembling hands through long black hair. She scanned the crowd for anyone that she recognized. Sally managed the shelter but she was nowhere to be found. And Rhonda, the evening manger wasn’t anywhere in sight.
Oh God. Oh, God.
Her mind tripped to the people who were to have spent the night in the shelter. Tony. Pam. Luna. She kept hoping she’d see them next to one of the EMS trucks huddled safely under a blanket. But she didn’t see anyone.
She hugged her arms around her chest, wanting to rush forward under the yellow crime tape and ask the cops about the building occupants, but she didn’t. Since she’d gotten out of prison six months ago, she avoided the cops. Cops translated into trouble and she’d sworn never again to trust a cop or return to prison.
But her friends. God, she had to find out something.
Tucking her head low, she moved toward the edge of the growing crowd of onlookers mesmerized by the bright red flames. The heat would be so hot now that it could sear lungs and melt flesh.
Eva glanced toward an elderly man with wire-rimmed glasses and a Steelers sweatshirt that hugged a rounded belly. “Hey, you know what happened?”
The man shook his head. “Can’t say. I was watching the Price is Right when I heard the sirens. I came out to look and saw the house on flames.” He nodded his head east. “I live a block and a half away but could see the light of the flames as clear as day.”
She nearly choked on the lump of tension in her throat. “You don’t know how it started?”
Nope.”
As the cop lights flashed, she resisted the urge to run. “Anyone know anything?”
“Couldn’t say.”
Emotion shortened her temper. “They bring anyone out? I mean from the shelter.”
“Not that I’ve seen. The firemen just got the flames contained enough to get close to the building. There might be people around the back side.”
“Thanks.”
Eva hugged her arms around her chest and moved through the crowd, listening and collecting any bits of information that would tell her what had happened.
“Said it started just after seven.”
“Heard an explosion. Those old gas heaters are trouble.”
“Odd folks came and went from that place. Always knew that place was nothing but trouble. But looks like they brought in the big guns cop-wise. They’re taking this seriously.”
Being near so many cops left her edgy and worried. Goons like Radford could be managed whereas cops equaled to real trouble. She shoved out a breath and buried her emotions down deep inside. Prison had taught her that showing true fear not only showed weakness but also provided leverage for your enemies.
She focused on the fire. Who could have done this? Sally understood trouble often followed her residents and she was careful to keep the peace. They had code words. Security systems. Eva admired Sally’s careful planning.
Her gaze skimmed the crowd of onlookers who looked shocked and terrified. Their sadness magnified her fears. As she turned to leave, her gaze settled on a lone figure standing just inside the yellow tape. His back was rigid, his arms folded over his chest. He wasn’t weeping, whispering or afraid to look at the destruction. In fact, he glared at the dying embers with defiance.
Taller than most around him, this man had broad shoulders and a battle-like stance suited to an ancient warrior more than a modern day man. When he turned slightly the fire department’s floodlights caught his profile. His chin was covered with dark stubble and jutted forward, as if anger chewed at his insides. Dark hair teased the edge of his collar and begged for a trim.
This one was a pit bull who gave off a big-time cop vibe. She’d bet money that nothing stood between him and a closed case.
A shiver crept up her back and coiled around her throat choking the breath from her lungs. Cops determined to close a case a decade ago had stolen ten years of her life. Just tell us you killed him, Eva. Just tell us…
As she retreated, the cop turned as if guided by radar. His gaze locked on her like a hunter would a deer. She froze, refusing to show fear all the while watching closely for any sign of trouble.
Eva swallowed. Her skin tingled and the muscles at the base of her spine bunched painfully. Not good. Not good at all. Smart ex-cons stayed off all cops’ radars, especially at a crime scene.
It had been a mistake to linger. She didn’t want to be noticed by anyone, especially a pit bull cop. Carefully, Eva kept her expressions neutral as she slowly shifted her gaze away from his. She pretended to smile at something the man next to her said and made a nonsensical comment. Then as if she were just another gal out for an evening stroll, she melted into the crowd.
Her muscles screamed: Run, Hide!
But she didn’t.
Experience had taught her that even the innocent looked guilty when they ran.
© Mary Burton 2011
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Apr 24, 2017
The Medical Examiner Arrives at the Site of a Killing
Julia Vargas approached Dr. Kincaid and Tessa. They listened to the agent give her report on the body before moving toward the crime scene tape. When they ducked under it, he followed.
Dr. Kincaid extended her hand to Martin Thompson and smiled as she introduced Tessa. “Dr. McGowan is a forensic pathologist. You’ll be seeing more of her.”
Martin shook her hand and only tossed a quick questioning glance at Sharp. “Welcome.”
If Tessa read Martin’s questioning gaze, she gave no sign of it. “Thanks.”
The older man’s normally banal expression actually softened, and he held her hand an extra beat. “Glad to have you on the team.”
“Good to be on it,” Tessa said.
Sharp caught a couple of young officers looking at Tessa. Their gazes weren’t curious, but lewd. They didn’t realize Tessa was his wife. A primitive impulse demanded he punch each guy in the face.
“Who found the body, Agent Vargas?” Tessa asked.
“An early-morning jogger. He said he didn’t touch her. Thought she might have been a mannequin at first. He called the cops right away, and we had a first responder here within five minutes to secure the scene.”
“May I touch the body, Martin?” Dr. Kincaid asked.
“Yes. I’ve collected every bit of evidence I can find, so the body is ready to remove,” Martin said.
Dr. Kincaid knelt and with a gloved hand touched the victim’s face, circling her finger around the red circle, a cartoon version of a blushing cheek.
“It’s a tattoo,” she said, hints of surprise in her tone. “And judging by its color and skin texture, it’s recent. I’d say she only finished healing days ago.”
“Have either of you ever seen anyone with this kind of tattooing?” Julia asked.
“I’ve seen facial tattoos within the gangs,” Dr. Kincaid said.
“Some of the cultures in Asia tattoo the females’ faces, but that’s dying out,” Tessa said.
“I’ve seen women who’ve had permanent makeup applied to their faces. Eyeliner, blush, even lip color,” Dr. Kincaid said. “Even had a woman on my table who had her boyfriend’s name inked on her forehead. But a doll face is a new one.”
“It’s fine workmanship,” Tessa said. Her expression telegraphed a mixture of fascination and sadness.
Tessa pushed up the sleeve of the oversize doll dress. “The white stippling tattoo work that’s on her face also extends from her fingertips to her wrists. Her eyes are expertly lined in a dark ink, and very precise freckles dot her cheeks.” She touched the victim’s mouth. “The red heart-shape tattoo here redefines the shape of her lips.”
“She’d have to be out cold, otherwise the work couldn’t have been done to her face,” Vargas said.
“The injection site isn’t infected, and there’s no bruising, suggesting whoever inserted a needle in her arm knew what they were doing,” Tessa said.
Sharp folded his arms, trying to envision the woman before this work was done, but he couldn’t see past the ink.
Tessa pulled the sleeve back over the victim’s arm. “Look at the detail around her eyes,” she said. “It’s hard enough to do with pen and ink, let alone with a tattoo needle.”
“Only a monster would do this to an unwilling woman,” Vargas said.
“I didn’t say the person who did this was sane,” Tessa said. “I was simply commenting on the skill.”
He watched as Tessa absently rested her hand on the victim’s arm as if assuring her it would be okay, and she was now in good hands. He suspected if he weren’t standing there, Tessa would have spoken to the victim, issuing words of reassurance.
He cleared his throat. “Dr. Kincaid, do you have any idea how she died?”
Dr. Kincaid checked the victim’s neck for signs of strangulation and tipped her body forward to look at her back. “Dr. McGowan, what’s your opinion?”
Frowning, Tessa studied the body. “There are no signs of trauma on the body. We’ll have to check her blood levels for signs of asphyxiation and drug overdose.”
“Why the frown, Dr. McGowan?” Vargas asked.
“Her shoulder blades and the back of her hands are discolored.”
“What does that suggest, Dr. McGowan?” Dr. Kincaid asked.
“After her heart stopped pumping, the blood settled in the lowest part of her body, which was her back.” She rolled down the knee socks and inspected the back of the victim’s calves. They were also bruised. “If she’d died here, her shoulder blades would not be discolored.”
“Correct,” Dr. Kincaid said.
“On her back,” Vargas said, shifting as if uncomfortable with the idea. “I don’t want to think what that suggests.”
“We’ll determine if there was sexual activity,” Dr. Kincaid said. “Though I might not be able to determine if it were pre- or postmortem.”
“Jesus,” Vargas muttered.
Dr. Kincaid ran her hands over the dead woman’s arm. “The skin is smooth, and there are no signs of hair on her arms or legs. She’s been waxed recently.”
“Do you think it’s murder?” Tessa asked.
“She didn’t die here,” Dr. Kincaid said. “But that doesn’t mean she was murdered. She could have overdosed.”
“The second party panicked,” Vargas said. “She could have been into some kind of weird shit, and it went sideways. Whoever she was partying with dumped her here.”
“She wasn’t dumped,” Sharp said. “She was carefully posed.”
“A final sign of respect?” Vargas asked.
Sharp shook his head. “Or a final statement from the killer. Right now, I don’t know. We’ll let the evidence lead us.”
“How long would it take to tattoo her face and arms?” Vargas asked.
“I can’t speak to how long the tattoo work took,” Dr. Kincaid said. “There are no signs that infection ever set in. That means the wounds would have to be washed, there would have been extensive bandaging of her face and arms, and the dressings would have to have been changed daily to avoid infection.”
“We’re looking for someone who could have gone missing a month ago?” Sharp asked.
“I’d say so,” Dr. Kincaid said.
“Thanks.”
Tessa studied the back hem of the victim’s doll dress. “This appears to be a bloodstain,” she said.
Martin nodded. “I saw that. Don’t know if it’s her blood, but it’s marked for DNA testing.”
Needing a moment, Sharp turned from the scene and walked back to his car. He dug his cigarettes out of his pocket as reached for the door handle. But as he shook loose a cigarette from the pack, he felt Tessa’s gaze on him. He let the packet fall back in his pocket. “What is it, Tessa?”
For a moment she didn’t speak, and then in a voice that was both tender and harsh, “You’re thinking about Kara.”
He flinched at the sound of his sister’s name. Their last big fight was over Kara. He’d been so angry when she’d tried to talk to him about letting his sister go. He’d blown up at her, dumping all his anger for his lost sister on her. Tessa had absorbed his pain to a point, and then she’d gotten angry. Two days later she was on a plane to Southeast Asia.
“So you’re psychic now?” he asked.
“I don’t need to read your mind.” An edge honed the words, telling him she would not tolerate his temper. “I know you. She’s never far away when you’re investigating a case.”
Copyright ©Mary Burton 2016
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She checked the time. Several more hours to go before the alarm went off at seven and she would have to drag Hanna out of bed for her track practice. Wide awake and with no hope of getting back to sleep, she rose, shrugged off her nightgown, and tugged on her gym clothes. Cooper glanced up from his crate, but when she signaled they didn’t have to work, he curled back up to sleep. She carried her running shoes and laptop into the kitchen and fired up the coffeemaker.
A midnight call…
It started as an ordinary evening . . .
The Medical Examiner Arrives at the Site of a Killing