“Maggie, is there some way you could check on her? Someone you might be able to call?”
Maggie looked at Tully again. He had finished his lunch and now pretended to be watching out the window, another group of recruits down below in sweaty T-shirts and jogging shorts snaking through the woods.
Maggie picked at her own lunch. Why had Gwen suddenly decided to become this patient’s caretaker? It seemed like a simple case of a grieving woman shutting herself away from her world for a while, perhaps even finding solace in a friendly stranger. Why didn’t Gwen see that?
“Maggie?”
“I’ll do what I can. Where was she staying?”
“The funeral was in Wallingford, Connecticut, but she was staying at the Ramada Plaza Hotel next door in Meriden. I have the phone numbers and addresses right here. I can fax over some other information later. All I know about the man she was meeting was that she called him Sonny.”
Maggie’s stomach gave a sudden flip while she took down the information. All the while she kept thinking, “Not Connecticut.”
CHAPTER 4
Sheriff Henry Watermeier shoved his hat back and swiped at the sweat on his forehead.
“Fuck!” he muttered, wanting to walk, to pace off his frustration, but reminding himself to stand in one place. And so he did, hands on his belt buckle, waiting and watching and trying to think, trying to ignore the stench of death and the buzzing of flies. Jesus! The flies were a pain in the ass, miniature vultures, impatient and persistent despite the plastic tarp.
It wasn’t the first body Henry had seen stuffed into a strange and unusual place. He had seen more than his share during his thirty years with the NYPD. But not here. Crimes like this weren’t supposed to happen in Connecticut. This was exactly the kind of stuff he had hoped to escape when his wife talked him into moving to the middle of nowhere. Yeah, sure, Fairfield County and the shore got its share of this kind of thing all the time. There were always plenty of high-profile cases—big fucking cases—like that stupid publicist driving her SUV over sixteen people, or even the Martha Moxley murder that took decades to solve, or Alex Cross, Connecticut’s very own preppy rapist. Yeah, there were plenty of crimes on the shore and closer to New York, but in the middle of Connecticut things were quieter. Crap like this wasn’t supposed to happen here.
He had instructed his deputies to set up a wide perimeter, having them string up yellow crime-scene tape. It was going to take a hell of a lot of tape. He watched two of his men stretching it from tree to tree, Arliss with a fucking Marlboro hanging from his lips and that kid, Truman, screeching like a banshee at any of the outsiders who dared come within ten feet.
“Arliss, make sure your butts don’t end up on the ground.” The deputy looked up, startled, as if he had no idea what his boss was talking about. “I mean the damned cigarette. Get it out of your mouth. Now.”
Finally, a look of recognition crossed Arliss’s face as he grabbed at the cigarette, stubbed it out on a tree, started to fling it but stopped with his hand in midair. Henry could see the red start at his deputy’s neck as he tucked the rest of the cigarette under his hat and over his ear. It almost made Henry as mad as if Arliss had flung it. First major crime scene as New Haven County sheriff, maybe his last major crime scene of his career, and these goddamn screwups were going to make him look like a fucking idiot.
Henry glanced over his shoulder, pretending to assess the scene when all he really wanted to know was if Channel 8 still had their camera on him. Should have known, the fucking lens was still pointed at his back. He could feel it like a laser beam slicing him in two. And that’s exactly what it could do if he wasn’t careful.
Why the hell had Calvin Vargus called the goddamn media? Of course, he knew why, and he didn’t know Vargus except by reputation. The son of a bitch was living up to that reputation in spades, flapping his yap to that pretty little reporter from Hartford even after Henry told him to shut the fuck up. But he couldn’t make Vargus shut up. Not without locking him up. Although that wasn’t entirely out of the question.
He needed to concentrate. Vargus was the least of his worries. He lifted the tarp and forced himself to look at the body again, or at least at the part sticking out of the barrel. From what he could see the blouse looked like silk with French cuffs. The fingernails were once professionally manicured. The hair may have been dyed—the roots were a bit darker. It was hard to tell since it was now matted and caked with blood. A shitload of blood. Definite death blow. Didn’t have to be a forensic scientist to know that.
He dropped the tarp and wondered again if this poor woman was a local. Was she some bastard’s mistress? Before he left the station he had run the list of missing persons, highlighting those in New Haven County, but none of them fit the preliminary description. The list included a male college student who had skipped out on classes last spring, a teenage drug addict who had probably run away from home, and an elderly woman who supposedly went out for milk one morning and hadn’t been seen since. Nowhere on the list had Henry found a fortysomething-year- old female with long hair, an expensive silk blouse and manicured fingernails.
Henry took a deep breath to clear his mind, to help him think. He looked up into the cloudless blue and watched another flock of geese. Lucky bastards. Maybe he was getting old and tired. Maybe he was simply ready for that fantasy retirement of endless days fishing off the banks of the Connecticut River with a cooler full of Budweiser and a couple of smoked turkey sandwiches with salami and provolone. Yeah, a sandwich, but not just any sandwich. One with the works from Vinny’s Deli, wrapped all neat and tight in that white paper that Vinny used. He could go for one now.
He glanced at the barrel again. The flies were sneaking under the tarp, their buzzing amplified instead of muffled. Goddamn vultures. They’d be swarming the moist areas and taking up residence before the M.E. arrived. Nothing worse than flies and their fucking offspring maggots. He’d seen the damage they could do in a matter of hours. Disgusting. And here he was thinking about Vinny’s sandwiches. Well, hell, it took a lot for him to lose his appetite.
His wife, Rosie, would say it was because he had become “jaded.” Jesus! She actually talked like that, using words like
But this…No, he hadn’t signed up for this. He didn’t want or need a messy unsolved murder to screw up his reputation. How the hell were he and Rosie going to retire here if he had to listen to the stories, the second- guessing, the snickers behind his back?
He glanced at Arliss again. The goddamn idiot had some crime-scene tape stuck to the bottom of his shoe, a stream of it following him like toilet paper and fucking Arliss completely unaware.
No, this was definitely not the way he wanted to end his career.
CHAPTER 5
R. J. Tully watched O’Dell sort through some file folders stacked on her desk.
“So much for vacation,” she said, her good mood put on hold.
He thought her mood had changed because of the phone call from Dr. Patterson, but O’Dell seemed to be ignoring the fax machine behind her as it spit out page after page of details about Patterson’s missing patient. Instead of retrieving and examining those pages, O’Dell was searching for something already lost in her stacks. Perhaps a case she had planned on taking home with her to peruse during those backyard digging breaks. What was one more if she added Dr. Patterson’s?
Tully sank into the overstuffed chair O’Dell had managed to cram into her small but orderly office. It always amazed him. Their offices down in BSU—Behavorial Science Unit—were Cracker Jack boxes, yet hers included neatly stacked bookcases—not one errant hardcover squashed on top. Now that he had a closer look, he could see they were categorized. And alphabetized.
His office, on the other hand, looked like a storage closet with stacks of files and books and magazines—not
