Flying in Shadows (The Black Creek Series, Book 2) (28 page)

He looked around at the space he'd spent most of his childhood. Years of deadheading,
trimming and weed-pulling had once convinced him to make a vow never to allow anything
but sod in any property he owned. Now, he found himself admiring the balance of greens,
brown-tufted grasses and floral color.

In the landscaping plot closest to Black Creek, two personalized garden stones caught
his attention, one for Macey and one for Goldie. Cancer took the one and a broken
heart took the other. He missed them more than he'd expected.

The memory left him when Amanda caught his eye in the distance, walking over the bridge
with... Dave? How many years had it been since the detective had been to one of these?
They maneuvered next to each other with subtle body language that told Duncan they
were more than divorced parents working to have an amicable relationship for the sake
of their daughters. As they approached, swelling around Amanda's bug-eye sunglasses
was evident to him but likely wouldn't be noticed by others.

Sitting comfortably, he nodded in greeting before warning the two of them of the teenagers
with loaded water guns waiting in hiding. They seemed to have suspected this already
as they headed straight for the safety of the house.

Most of the older adults were inside, except for the ones that were too young at heart
to realize they were the older adults. His uncle fell into that category. Nathan morphed
into a junior high boy each Fourth of July, rolling in the grass and shooting anything
that moved with a time-honored tradition.

Even at close to eighty, Duncan's grandparents could be caught necking if one paid
attention. They weren't quite scared enough of getting wet to go inside and mostly
wanted to snuggle on the oversized folding chair and watch their grandchildren play.

No one dared to get Duncan wet. He had the hose. Even still, the little ones drew
to him like a magnet. Purposely, they teased him until he turned the hose on them
for a quick once over in the heat.

Inside, toddlers and infants took late afternoon naps in bedrooms upstairs while their
parents snacked, laughed, and told old stories and new jokes. Each table, counter,
chair, and couch was occupied.

Due to the line of cars, Andy parked far and walked up the drive. Together, he and
Rose moseyed in silence. He pondered over the hundreds of times they'd strolled this
paved road together. Mostly, he thought of how similar it felt, yet in reality, completely
different. Now, it was absolute and gloriously permanent.

He held the door for her, inhaling the scent of peaches as she passed. She paused
in the foyer as he caught up. He felt a familiar sense of teamwork as they moved around
each other. Give and take. It took a few seconds for the two of them to realize the
crowded room had gone silent. He looked to Rose, looked around his friends and family,
then back to Rose. With a thousand-watt smile, he linked fingers with her and walked
into the kitchen, holding their joined hands high like a teenage boy who'd just won
a bet. Cheers erupted and toasts circled, honoring the two of them. Words of well
wishes were offered as relatives bragged about knowing this would happen all along.

It took little time for Andy to notice someone was missing. He asked as a general
question to whoever was listening, "Where's Duncan?" It took only a second for him
to answer his own question. "Damn it. I'm missing the water fight?" He dropped Rose
like an end loader drops a ton of river rock. "I'll get crap for guns." He turned
to her and winked seductively before heading back out the front.

He made sure to have a loaded arsenal of filled balloons ready and topped off his
water guns. Slowly, he slipped onto his folks' bedroom balcony, readying a bucket
of water meant for Duncan's head.

Duncan lifted a brow before pivoting out of the way of the dropping water and turning
the hose up at Andy.

Fights ensued. Grown men shrunk to the maturity of small boys. Getting soaked was
a battle scar to be worn proudly. He had mixed feeling playing war with his brother
ever since Duncan returned from the Mideast. Hiding behind bushes, running, diving,
shooting. Duncan never showed any signs of emotional scars. They split up into teams,
planned, scammed, and attacked until their stomachs spoke louder than their egos.

Andy was one of the first inside; clean but soaking wet, he walked straight to Rose,
dipping her into a long, dramatic kiss. More cheers and cat whistles burst out as
the group settled in for a late dinner. Most took their plates outdoors.

Nathan approached Andy as Rose chatted with the elderly Grandma and Grandpa Reed.
"When?"

Andy turned, lifted his brows up and down once. "Yesterday."

"You sure about that? Looks like a lot longer."

"Feels longer. She won't get away this time. I'm going to marry her. It's not official."
Smiling now, he added, "But, this will be the last time she's ever engaged."

He shared a chair with Rose as they watched the antics of the people they loved. Several
anti-nuclear families were in the mix—himself, raised by his uncle, Rose by a stepdad.
All of them were closer than most four-square families. Blood wasn't always thicker
than water, he mused.

Children gathered for the fireworks, orchestrated by Duncan, of course. They squeezed
in chairs by twos and threes. A small handful of them waited in the hammock underneath
the deck. He realized it was time for the next generation to take over that spot.
Just as it was time for him and his Rose to move on and make their own family. He
thought of the right time and place to ask her as she waved her hand in front of his
face.

"Whoa. Come back to me."

He smiled at her and pulled her close in the oversized lounge chair. "Always."

* * *

Cynthia worked in Northridge's favorite coffee shop. She was twenty-nine and lamented
about still working the Fourth of July shift, turning thirty soon and yet to be married.
Although
she
didn't mind being single. It was her two older sisters, and ugh, her mother. If she
had to go on one more blind date, she was moving to Montana.

As she locked up, she thought of ideas on how to get out of her birthday party. She
could say she was sick or that she wanted to have a quiet evening with family. Sorting
through her keys as she walked, she found the one for her Camry just as she saw him
coming from the corner of her eye.

Fear gripped her. This couldn't be happening. Think, think, think. Fumbling for her
pepper spray, she turned to defend herself seconds too late. It went flying along
with her keys as the man grabbed for her throat. He was disgusting, with faint lines
of black hair dye dripping down with his sweat. She couldn't scream beneath his tight
grip, could barely choke out words.

Her eyes bulged at the look of the fresh wound on his neck. Eyes darting, her efforts
not to panic were fruitless.

"I have money," she breathed. "Credit cards. They're yours." Through fear and pain,
she held out her purse.

The man looked around as he pulled out a knife, spun her around and led her toward
a clump of trees. "I don't want your fucking money."

Chapter 23

Dave stood over the body, barking out orders. The ground was damp, and with the lack
of grass in the heavily wooded area, it was an effort to preserve the scene. The coroner
worked with his assistant, taking his dozens of photos from every angle. The CSI had
finished her preliminary dusting and was working on the details at that time. The
few pieces of evidence were photographed, recorded, bagged, and replaced with corresponding
lettered markers.

The woman's handbag had been discarded several yards from the body and between the
location they'd found her and her car. Dave ordered a rookie who looked especially
green to take more pictures of the surrounding evidence locations before he lost it
and contaminated the whole damned place.

Dave stepped away for a moment, closed his eyes and took a deep breath, taking in
the scent of musty dirt, damp leaves and new plastic from the evidence bags. This
was his doing, Dave knew it. The woman had been raped and beaten to death by hands
that had been on his Amanda.

The officer first called to the scene sat on the back bumper of the ambulance, drinking
bottled water while he waited for Dave to question him. Anxious to get to him, Dave
was careful to follow protocol.

Pulling out his old-school mini-cassette player, he pressed
record.
"Victim identified as a Cynthia Coleman, age twenty-nine. She lies approximately
one hundred to a hundred-twenty-five feet from the road. Sprawled on top of the dirt
and leaves, on her back, between clustered, young trees in a heavily wooded area.
Partially clothed with skirt raised, exposing bruising on thighs. Underwear found
torn in close proximity to victim labeled as evidence exhibit A. Face heavily battered
and listed as probable cause of death. Likely sexual assault determined by both coroner
and myself. Purse approximately thirty feet from victim, labeled as evidence exhibit
B. Cash and credit cards remain. Victim found approximately forty yards from her vehicle."
He looked toward the street. "CSI finishing up with dusting for prints as I speak.
Worked at Java Java. Allegedly closed the shop alone last evening. Waiting to confirm
with manager as only the owner available at this time of night. We haven't located
next of kin as of the time of this recording."

This was no coincidence. He'd been here. It was nearly more than Dave could take.
The woman lay spread out and unnaturally twisted with brown eyes frozen wide in death.
He guessed she had been dead between four and six hours but would wait for the coroner
to confirm before entering it into his voice recording. She'd tried to use pepper
spray. It ended up five yards to the back of her vehicle. Dave played the scene through
in his head. She would have come from the south, heading for the driver's side of
her Camry. From the location the pepper spray was discarded, that would make the assailant
left handed.

"Are we synced on preliminary cause of death?" Dave studied the lab tech taking dimensions
of a shoe print as he spoke to the coroner.

"Bruising and tears around vaginal opening consistent with forced penetration. And,
yes, we are in agreement that the preliminary cause of death is blunt force trauma
to the head."

Dave understood the need to be emotionally removed, and wasn't he often accused of
that exact thing? This was different. He cringed at the coroner's calloused descriptions.
He would get through this with precision, then head to the station to piece together
leads and probabilities.

* * *

Walking into his office, Dave's aide carried coffee, soda and a file folder. "I see,"
she said as she gestured to the photo of Cynthia Coleman.

"Yeah. Shit." Dave took the Styrofoam cup.

He stood at his case board scribbling notes. Next to him was the sketch of Michael
Rainer taped in the column labeled
Description
. He'd already memorized it. It hung next to the
Known Victims
column bearing both Amanda's and Cynthia Coleman's photos, before and after for both.

"Get out your notepad. I want three extra paper pushers searching police department
databases for cases of multiple reports of pending battery and robbery, sexual assault
and robbery, or both. Tell them to start with bigger cities this side of the Mississippi."

Dave rubbed the stubble on his cheek. He'd been called to the scene at 2 a.m. He had
to leave Amanda with the damned dog. She thought nothing of it. Once a cop's wife,
he thought.

"I'm going back out there to ask around now that people are up and before they leave
for work." Dave had seen his share of beaten and murdered women. This was different.
A small chill made his shoulders shake. "You get busy leading the search over state
lines. Any hits you get, fax them a copy of that." He pointed over his shoulder at
the rendering of the alias Michael Rainer.

His assistant set the bottle of soda on Dave's worn desk, opened the file folder and
started taping up photos in the Suspected Victims column. "No, I meant
I see
that you went out on this call without me. Not that I don't appreciate you taking
me on as your aide, but how the hell am I going to learn if you don't contact me when
you get a call? And I'm a genius."