By two o’clock in the morning, the crime scene was secured and Daisy’s body had been transported to the morgue. Two teams were working simultaneously—one in Haymarket Field; the other at the Buckner residence. Detective August “Augie” Vickers, a hardworking but unimaginative grinder, was in charge of Haymarket Field. Since Natalie had caught the case, she was the detective-in-charge of Daisy’s homicide, and the stakes couldn’t be higher.
Not that she hadn’t seen plenty of dead bodies before. As a patrol officer, she’d caught her fair share of suicides, car accidents, assaults, rapes, and carjackings. She’d made hundreds of arrests and filled out plenty of run sheets, but she’d never led a murder investigation beyond a couple of suspicious drug-related deaths. As the newbie and the only female in the unit, she didn’t have the luxury of fucking up.
Luke was supervising both sites. He’d been traveling back and forth between them for hours now, issuing orders and getting updates. “Stay focused,” he’d advised her earlier that evening. “A little adrenaline is good. Stage fright keeps your performance sharp.” The adrenaline was still coursing through her veins, making her temples pulse and heightening her senses.
There were other voices inside the house. Detectives Lenny Labruzzo and Mike Anderson were methodically working their way through the first floor—photographing, fingerprinting, bagging and tagging. The BLPD couldn’t afford a CSI unit, so the detectives had to process the scenes themselves.
Natalie went into the kitchen and hit a wall of decomposition—the putrid smell of decaying flesh you never got used to. The chalk outline on the floor looked cartoonish, not dignified. The puddle of blood had coagulated into a jellied pool, and Natalie felt a rush of outrage for her old friend. No one deserved this.
Lenny had been over every surface of the kitchen already, looking for latents, visibles, smears, and plastics. The primary scene was dusted in red, white, and black fingerprint powder—everything but the stove dials. Natalie stood in front of the Bosch gas-range stove and studied the burners. Daisy had been in the middle of cooking dinner when she was attacked—there was a tepid pot of noodles on the back burner and chopped vegetables on a cutting board. But someone had turned the burners off before Natalie and Brandon entered the scene. The question was—who? Daisy or her attacker?
“Lenny?” she called out. “When you’re done in there, I need you to process these stove control knobs for me.”
“I already dusted the kitchen,” came his bone-tired response.
“Yeah, but we forgot about the stove dials.”
Detective Labruzzo came shuffling into the kitchen. He had a receding hairline and a pruney face, and he often transported his stuff around in a rolling briefcase that looked silly but saved him a lot of back pain. “How the hell did we miss that?” He scowled, opening up his fingerprint kit.
Sometimes you missed an important clue the first time around, but Natalie couldn’t help feeling a child’s disappointment. It had taken her longer than most of her friends to learn things—reading a primer, tying her shoes, riding a bike—but once she learned, she excelled. She hoped this case wouldn’t present too steep a learning curve, because she needed to be on top of it—right now.
The cast-iron skillet on the floor had been bagged and tagged, since chain of custody was vitally important. The skillet contained a greasy residue, and its contents—a messy pile of cooked, ground beef—was cool to the touch, with orange evidence placards placed around it. The saucepan of water and tortellini noodles sat on a back burner. There was an empty tortellini box on the granite countertop next to a water-stained recipe card for Ground Beef and Tortellini Casserole, a wedge of parmesan cheese wrapped in cellophane, and two cans of tomato sauce. On the cutting board were diced carrots, a sliced red onion, and a three-inch vegetable knife with a rosewood handle.
The slotted wooden cutlery block next to the microwave held an assortment of chef’s knives by Victorinox. A set of eleven. Natalie counted ten rosewood handles inside the wooden block, plus one empty slot, which matched the vegetable knife on the cutting board—meaning that all the Victorinox chef’s knives were accounted for.
Natalie reviewed her mental checklist, ticking off the boxes. They’d cordoned off the scene and notified the medical examiner. They’d taken hundreds of photographs while combing through the house, looking for blood, hair, and fiber evidence. They’d scoured the yard and driveway, searching for footprints and tire impressions—although tonight’s rain was making that difficult. They’d recovered DNA samples from the body and sent them to the state lab for testing. They’d emptied the wastebaskets in search of discarded wads of chewing gum, rumpled cigarette packs, or other telltale evidence. They’d swabbed the telephone mouthpieces for saliva—both landline and cellular. The errant soda can—Coke—had been bagged for testing. They’d documented the angle and degree of coagulation of all bloodstains, including the arcing spatter-pattern on the refrigerator door, the recessed-panel kitchen cabinets and glass-tiled backsplash. The medical examiner had signed the death certificate. The official cause of death was blunt-force trauma.
Five hours ago, Natalie had instructed half a dozen patrol officers to canvass the neighborhood, checking door-to-door for any suspicious sightings in the vicinity. Nothing had come of it yet. Too many working professionals with zero kids in this upscale neighborhood. Around midnight, she sent the officers home, but they would be back tomorrow, bright and early, to resume their canvassing duties.
Due to the direction of the blood spatter, Natalie surmised that Daisy had been standing in front of the refrigerator, reaching for a can of Coke, when she was attacked. As soon as her back was turned, the killer must’ve picked up the skillet and swung it at her head, using one crushing blow to annihilate her. A single injury to the right side of the skull—which meant the perpetrator was right-handed.
First order of business: Was Riley Skinner right-handed?
Second: Could it be someone other than Riley? Were they already on the wrong path due to Brandon’s high emotions?
Third: Did the killer prefer Coke over any other beverage in the fridge?
Fourth: Was the Coke meant for Daisy instead?
Natalie knew the answer to this last question. Daisy was strictly a diet soda girl—diet ginger ale, diet Fanta, Diet Coke—never Diet Pepsi, though. She preferred Coke over Pepsi and watched her figure like a hawk. But a pregnancy could alter a woman’s cravings. Daisy’s drinking and eating habits may have changed without Natalie ever knowing about it. After all, Daisy was Grace’s best friend, not Natalie’s. And although Daisy had been wonderful to Natalie when she was little, the two of them rarely got together socially anymore. When they did bump into each other at a party or on those rare occasions when she accepted Brandon’s dinner invitations, they had a casual but polite relationship, always encouraging each other but never treading on each other’s lives. It was as if their once-close bond had been stretched into obliviousness. In truth, Natalie was closer to Brandon than to Daisy, who’d become more of a warm acquaintance.
She stepped around the minefield of evidence placards on the floor, opened the refrigerator, and examined its contents—a gallon of low-fat milk, an unopened six-pack of Rolling Rock, various bottled waters, and a generous assortment of canned sodas—Coke, Seven-Up, Canada Dry Diet Ginger Ale, Dr Pepper, Pepsi, Fanta, Diet Coke. There were several packages of deli cold cuts and gourmet cheeses, a carton of eggs, and a stick of butter—nothing unusual there. Half a dozen chicken breasts marinating in a glass dish. A bag of carrots and a head of broccoli in the vegetable drawer. Designer stoneware dishes in the cupboards. Oreos and Doritos. Organic soups and protein bars. Wheat Thins and graham crackers.
Natalie walked over to the breakfast table and studied the crime-scene photos spread across the polished oak surface. Along with hundreds of digital pics, Lenny had taken dozens of tamper-proof Polaroids as well. She scrutinized Daisy’s debilitating injury—the single blow to the head, an ugly gash located approximately two inches behind her right ear. The curved surface of the wound was an exact match for the curved edge of the cast-iron skillet.
The eight-inch, medium-size skillet—weighing about five pounds with a sturdy handle and a hole for hanging—was part of a three-piece set. The two other skillets—one large and one small—were suspended from a hanging pot rack in the coffered ceiling. A couple hours ago, Lenny had preliminarily ID’d the medium-size skillet as the murder weapon after spraying it with luminol and finding traces of human blood. There weren’t any prints on the handle, though—not even Daisy’s—which indicated the killer must’ve wiped the skillet clean. That was smart.
Natalie straightened up too quickly, then took a balancing breath. When sketching out a scenario, you had to be careful not to leap to conclusions and stick to the facts. Like her father used to say, You can’t choreograph reality. But Natalie felt she had enough facts within her grasp to paint a scenario of the murder as it might’ve unfolded.
Starting with the assumption that Riley Skinner was the killer … okay, something was wrong with that picture. First of all, most teenage boys weren’t known for their maturity or patience. If Riley was upset enough to kill Daisy, then she would’ve been alert enough to run out the unlocked back door or grab a knife to defend herself with. She would’ve seen his aggression coming. At the very least, there would’ve been a struggle, resulting in defensive wounds on her body. But no. There was nothing—just the single lethal blow.
Another question. Why would Daisy offer Riley a Coke in the first place if he’d been threatening her life? Why would she even let him into her house? This had all the markings of a crime of passion—nothing premeditated about it. Most crimes of passion were committed during the heat of an argument. If Daisy and Riley had been arguing, then why would she turn her back on him and offer him a soda?
Okay. Back up a little.
A more likely scenario was that Daisy knew her attacker and felt comfortable enough to invite this person into her house. The two of them had been talking in the kitchen, when Daisy—not at all concerned for her safety—had offered her guest a soda. The killer said yes. Once Daisy’s back was turned, the killer grabbed the skillet off the stove and struck the disabling blow, rendering her dead. Clobbering shot. End-of-life blow. Daisy collapsed instantly, blood dripping from her skull, while the soda can went flying out of her hand and across the floor. The skillet was dropped. Perhaps the dish towel on the floor was used to wipe away the prints.
A single blow. Crime of passion. Pent-up fury.
Alternatively, the killer could’ve been a stranger, unknown to Daisy. After all, both doors were unlocked. But if someone managed to sneak inside while Daisy was cooking in the kitchen, wouldn’t she have heard them coming? You grew alert to any stray sounds in the house when you were alone. Natalie knew this from personal experience.
She tested out her hypothesis—the hinges on the front door squeaked, the floorboards in the front hallway creaked, the sliding glass door in the kitchen wouldn’t open without a sucking sound. The first floor was open concept, which meant that Daisy had a good line of sight into the living room. She would’ve had plenty of time to react, either by fighting or running. But Daisy had invited the killer in. She’d offered this person a Coke.
Luke came into the kitchen just then, breaking Natalie’s concentration. He had a concerned look in his eyes. “How’re you holding up?”
“Fine,” she lied, catching a glimpse of her reflection in the kitchen window. Her mahogany-colored hair was frazzled and her pale blue eyes were rimmed red with fatigue. Natalie, the baby of the family, took after her blue-eyed Sicilian dad, whereas Grace had inherited their mother’s Nordic genes. “How’s Brandon holding up?” she asked.
“Grieving,” Luke said softly. “Sedated. He’s with his family.”
“There’ll be an internal investigation?”
“Has to be. His blood alcohol content was elevated. His actions tonight could’ve contributed to Riley’s seizures, we don’t know yet. We can’t rule it out.”
She nodded. Riley’s family was within their rights to issue a complaint against Detective Buckner, whether there was evidence of assault or not. He was off-duty and driving under the influence. They could also add other charges—no arrest warrant, threatening conduct, abusing a suspect’s civil rights. Brandon might be in serious trouble, and unless the evidence was on his side, they wouldn’t be able to protect him. He’d sealed his own fate.
“How’s Riley Skinner doing?” she asked.
“His brain began to swell in the ambulance, and he lapsed into a coma. He’s listed in critical but stable condition. It’s possible he could have brain damage, they won’t know until he regains consciousness.”
“God.” Natalie frowned. “That’s bad news.”
“The worst.”
“Was there a history of seizures?”
“No. The doctors think it could be drug related. They’ve ordered an extensive tox screen, along with an MRI and other neurological tests. In the meantime, the hospital won’t release Riley’s outfit without a warrant. Augie was able to send me some pictures, though.” He took out his phone and swiped through the images. “Possible blood on the hoodie,” he said, pointing at the screen. “Just a couple of drops on the sleeve. See there? Could be cross-contamination from Daisy’s body.”
Natalie squinted. “Or else blood from the seizures.”
Luke nodded. “We found contraband at the scene, which we’re processing for prints and saliva. A witness came forward, and we’re using his statement to get a warrant for Riley’s outfit. If the blood drops on the hoodie are a match for Daisy’s blood type, I’ll instruct Augie to file affidavits for a blanket search warrant for Riley’s vehicle and the Skinners’ residence. In the meantime, Brandon’s lawyered up. Not an unwise move, given the circumstances.”
Natalie drew a hand across her damp forehead and said, “I checked Riley for defensive wounds or other signs of assault. The only concern was a small bruise on his cheek, which could’ve happened during the seizures.”
“Dr. Swinton came to a similar conclusion. No evidence of assault, just a lot of bruising from the resuscitation efforts in the ambulance. Hopefully, we’ll find out what caused the seizures soon. But there’s no excusing Brandon’s behavior tonight. He acted impulsively. He’s been trained like the rest of us to set aside his emotions during the heat of the moment. Daisy’s death, no matter how tragic, doesn’t excuse the fact that he drove drunk and chased down some punk-ass kid in a park. We’ll have to let the investigation take its course. Meanwhile, Brandon’s father has hired Frank Moorecraft and Associates, one of the top law firms in Syracuse. I’m guessing he’s bracing for things to get ugly.”
“Do you think it’ll get ugly?” Natalie asked, the thought twinging through her.
“Who knows. Dominic Skinner isn’t the easiest person to reason with.” Luke checked his watch. “Two thirty. What’s the latest, Natalie? What else you got for me?”
“I found something on Daisy’s laptop.”
“Show me.”
She led the way into the living room, where she took a seat behind the designer desk in the corner, its glass surface littered with fingerprint powder. The scattered paperwork had been bagged and taken away for processing. Moonlight spilled in through a nearby window—the clouds had blown away, and you could see bright constellations in the sky. Daisy’s mouse pad was illustrated with a basket of kittens. Her laptop was open.
“She kept track of her daily schedule in a folder labeled ‘School Notes’—mostly tracking her class syllabus, school activities, faculty meetings, stuff like that. But there’s also a running commentary on events, like a daily progress report.” She double-clicked on the icon, and up popped twelve Word docs, one for every month of the year. “So I opened the April file and scrolled across … see here? Under ‘last date modified,’ the time is two fifty-eight this afternoon.”
“So she was home at two fifty-eight?” Luke repeated with interest. “Alive at two fifty-eight?”
Natalie nodded. “School lets out at two thirty. It’s about a fifteen-minute drive.”
“So we can place her inside the house as early as two forty-five P.M.?”
“Teacher’s hours. Now check this out.” Natalie opened the “March” document and scrolled through Daisy’s notes. “About four weeks ago, Riley Skinner was issued a warning. He was already flunking two other classes, but after receiving a warning from Daisy, things seemed to escalate. Three and a half weeks ago, he verbally threatened her. ‘You’re gonna be sorry.’ ‘I know where you live.’ Stuff like that. She had a meeting with the principal about it the following week.”
Luke stroked the nape of his neck. “I want copies of everything.”
“I’ve sent the attachments and print screens to my phone, and as soon as I’ve downloaded everything, I’ll forward them to you. Now check this out.” Natalie opened Daisy’s tabbed email account. “She was answering emails between three oh-five and three seventeen P.M. I’ve skimmed through them, and there’s nothing pertinent so far. No signs of distress or reaching out for help, nothing unusual. She didn’t come across as overly concerned. So I checked out her phone logs. Brandon texted her a couple of times this afternoon, and she texted back. Again, nothing out of the ordinary. According to Brandon, she wasn’t expecting him home until eight o’clock. But then, there’s no more activity after three seventeen. No texting, no phone calls, no emails.”
Luke nodded. “Maybe that’s when the killer arrived.”
“Or else she went into the kitchen and started cooking. Something else,” she said. “I checked out her online search history. She was looking up baby stuff online. Car seats, strollers, baby announcements. But also … get this. Advice on broken relationships.”
“Yeah?”
“So I went to her Amazon account, and look here … she purchased two Kindle ebooks. The Breakup Bible and Getting Past Your Breakup.”
“That’s odd.” Luke scratched the back of his neck.
“Right? Brandon confessed on the ride over that he and Daisy were having marital problems, but this looks as if she wanted to end the relationship, not fix it.”
Luke arched his eyebrows. “Marital problems? Seriously?”
“I know. It surprised the hell out of me, too. Long story short, he didn’t sound all that thrilled with their sex life … he indicated they’d been having sexual problems.”
“Maybe their marriage was rocky as hell? Maybe he’s been lying about it?”
“The point is … even if she was thinking about getting a divorce, wouldn’t you buy this type of book after a breakup? Not before. They’re written for the post-breakup period—how to mend a broken heart. How to move forward.”
Luke drew back. “So what do you make of it?”
“I honestly don’t know. Maybe a student needed advice in that department?”
He rubbed his chin. “When Audrey and I were trying to get pregnant, the sex became pretty routine. If Daisy and Brandon were on a sex schedule while she was ovulating, that could explain the big turnoff. Being compelled to have sex during a fertility window can take all the fun out of it.”
“Yeah, but … mission accomplished,” Natalie argued. “Daisy’s three months pregnant. No more fertility window or sex schedule. And yet Brandon implied they were having difficulties now.” She realized how coldly professional that sounded. They were talking about people they knew and cared about with such clinical detachment, it saddened her. “Anyway, I’ll keep poking around in her social media accounts, see if anything pops up.”
“Not tonight, Natalie.” Luke checked his watch. “We’re done here.”
She leaned back. “I couldn’t sleep if you paid me.”
He shook his head and said, “The forty-eight-hours thing is a myth. Eventually the clock runs out. You gotta sleep.”
She rubbed her tired eyes. “If I go home now, I’ll only start thinking about how fucking awful and heartbreaking this is.”
“It’s not like I’ll be able to sleep, either,” he admitted. His hair was slightly wavy and amber-colored, like his father’s, but he had his mother’s intense eyes. They were crystal blue and thick lashed, and his mouth turned down on one side whenever he grew pensive, like he was now. “But you go home. You take a shower. You snack on something. Then you lie down and close your eyes. You try not to run the investigation over and over in your head. You let your body relax. Then you come back tomorrow morning and start all over again.”
She frowned. “I almost forgot.” She took out her phone and swiped through the images. “Today at the cemetery, I found something rather disturbing. I took pictures before the rain washed it away.”
He studied the screen, all his worries congregating into a bunched square of real estate between his eyebrows. “Teresa McCarthy’s headstone?”
“You can barely decipher the handwriting, but whoever did this is clearly fucked up.”
He rubbed his chin. “I’ve seen something like this before.”
“Really?”
Luke nodded solemnly. “Do you remember the seventeen-year-old who got raped in Haymarket Field two years ago?”
“Hannah something,” Natalie responded. “Her ex-boyfriend’s doing time.”
“Right. While we were investigating, we did a grid search of the area and came across some similar-looking graffiti written on one of the old stones in the foundation of the Shell station.”
“How similar?”
“Just like that,” he said emphatically. “And the weird thing was, that corner of the foundation was the exact location where Minnie Walker was last seen alive.”
“Minnie Walker? One of the Missing Nine?”
He nodded thoughtfully.
Prickles crept across Natalie’s scalp. Minnie Walker was a thirty-eight-year-old alcoholic, last seen four years ago giving a blow job to an unknown male, possibly identified as a long-haul trucker, in the foundation of the old Shell station at Haymarket Field. Minnie was one of the nine cold-case files sitting on Natalie’s desk back at the office. One of her back-burner cases. Minnie had an anemic face and veiny eyes that mistrusted everyone. She was a paradox—a beggar with expensive shoes and Ray-Bans. She begged on the street corners every day. She was hostile to the working women who refused to give her any more of their hard-earned cash. She lied and said she had children to support. She had no children. She disappeared one autumn afternoon when the fog pooled in the valley and the lake rose ten feet from the weekend rains.
“But you said this happened two years ago,” Natalie told him, “whereas Minnie disappeared four years ago. And there’s nothing in her case file about this type of graffiti … investigators went over the scene of her disappearance with a fine-tooth comb, interviewing dozens of witnesses … nothing ever came of it. Dead ends all the way.”
“That’s because it’s not in Minnie’s file,” he told her. “The graffiti showed up two years later. Written in chalk. Just like that. Practically illegible, but some of the obscenities were crystal clear. Just like that.”
“Did you take pictures?”
“Yeah, they’re in Hannah Daugherty’s file.”
“Great. Let’s go.” She stood up and grabbed her jacket.
“Whoa. Not tonight.”
“Why not?”
“It could be packed with meaning, or it could be nothing. A prank.”
“But it’s worth investigating, either way.”
“I agree.” He handed Natalie her phone back. “But Daisy’s case takes priority. The cold cases can wait. I’m not telling you to stop or even slow down on the Missing Nine. This is a significant lead, Natalie. We’ll follow up, for sure, but it’s a matter of priorities. Simple, really.”
“Simple for you, maybe.”
Silence surrounded them. She realized Luke had sent the guys home already. They were alone in the house, where Daisy’s ghost drifted, lost and confused, all her hopes and dreams having been crushed in an instant. Natalie felt an unpleasant throbbing in her chest, an upside-down ache.
“Good job today, Natalie.”
She studied his sincere, etched face. “Don’t you think it’s strange? Daisy’s homicide took place on Willow’s deathiversary—same day, twenty years later.”
“Our brains operate that way,” Luke said. “We see patterns and try to fit all the pieces together. Random facts. Coincidences. Unrelated incidents. Which is why we have to go where the evidence leads us.”
So much history had passed between them. He’d witnessed her first bike ride. He was there when she’d switched from cartoons to MTV, from dolls to makeup. He’d seen her laugh and cry and throw up and do cartwheels.
She sighed and said, “Remember the first time we met?”
“Met?” He grinned crookedly and said, “You mean, the day I crawled through the fence in your backyard and introduced myself, and you threw a rock at my head?”
“A pebble.”
“You were—what? Five? Six?”
She laughed. “A little brat.”
“Willow came over and said, ‘Welcome to Hell.’ I thought that was cool.”
Luke had moved into a run-down ranch house with his hippie mom. He was an only child with no father, and he came over to play with Natalie and her sisters in their big backyard, climbing trees, instigating snowball fights, building leaf forts. He had spiky hair and super-calm eyes, a steadying way about him. He used to call Natalie “pipsqueak” because of their age difference—eight years.
It had taken thin-skinned Luke a long time to fully mature. At some point, Joey noticed the scrawny, fatherless boy hanging around the neighborhood and took him under his wing. Joey taught him how to fight, how to build a six-pack, how to spot a bully and lay him out. In a funny way, Joey finally found his son, and Luke found his missing dad.
Years later, Luke went away to college and got married. It was a rebound relationship. He admitted this to Natalie during one of the department Christmas parties. His smarty-pants, Ph.D. girlfriend of two years had just broken up with him, and he’d never felt so bitter about anything in his life. But then, along came Audrey Peeley, so petite and flirtatious she made him feel manly. She’d seduced him. She came on strong. She was sensual in the beginning, before the baby. But then, after the physical attraction faded away, he realized they didn’t have much in common, except for their daughter.
Luke got a divorce, joined the United States Army, did a couple of tours of the Middle East, and came home prison hard. Soon he’d joined the ranks of the Burning Lake PD, where he eventually became lieutenant detective of the fucking unit. Nobody messed with him now. At six foot one, Lieutenant Pittman had zero timidity.
Except around Natalie, when it came to their shared history. When they were kids, they used to sit in the hot summer sun or on a snow-dusted porch, and he would confess his deepest fears and biggest dreams to her—how badly he’d been bullied at school, how he was going to avenge himself someday, how deeply humiliating his family’s poverty was for him, to have a single mom and no dad, what an indelible scar that had left on his heart. He’d confided all his deepest secrets, never once suspecting that she’d grow up to become a rookie detective under his wing.
“Let’s pick this up in the morning,” he said, heading for the door. “Don’t forget to lock up.”