Framed: A Psychological Thriller (Boston's Crimes of Passion Book 2) (3 page)

She had taken the look from last month’s
Glamour
magazine and then went out and put the outfit together at T.J. Maxx. When Freddy had woken her this morning, she had mistakenly thought she was going to see her uncle.

The last thing in the world she wanted was for Walter to believe the last months had worn on her. She had had enough of feeling small and needy.

Freddy rang the doorbell and stepped back. There was no answer. He moved up again and this time, he knocked twice.

“I thought you said Mrs. Barlow was expecting us.” Riley looked over at Freddy.

“She’s home,” he contended. “I hear the TV. Maybe she is in the kitchen. I’ll go out back and check.”

Riley leaned against the door and waited. She sighed. The day wasn’t turning out like she planned.

From the corner of her eyes, she noticed a man, quite a handsome man, strolling across the lawn toward her. He smiled. A charming, engaging smile.

He wore a Boston Red Sox cap over his sandy-blond hair, but he tilted his head in a manner that she saw a twinkle in his deep-blue eyes. Dressed in fitted jeans and a tight white Oxford buttoned-down shirt over a light, brown sports coat, he walked with confidence of a man used to getting his own way.

“Good morning.”

When he spoke, he suddenly seemed familiar, but she couldn’t put a finger on exactly why. She knew he wasn’t Mrs. Barlow’s son. Mrs. Barlow had shown her pictures of her son and his family.

Nevertheless, she returned the stranger’s smile. She gestured with her hand to the door. “I’m afraid Mrs. Barlow isn’t answering. My cousin has just gone around the back…”

“You don’t mind if I wait with you, do you?” He extended his hand to hers. “Josh Kincaid.”

A sudden heat climbed her neck and cheeks with his touch. His eyes locked with hers and she lost herself in a sea of blue. Simply mesmerized.

Somewhere, though, in the far recess of her mind, his name resonated. She had heard it before…she knew his face. It came to her.

Abruptly, she released his hand.

“I know you…you’re the news reporter.”

“I’m flattered you recognize me—”

He got no further. Both heads turned as a scream emerged from within the house. Barking madly, Bailey leaped out of the Jeep in a swift motion and raced around the house.

“Bailey!” Riley cried. Afraid she would lose her dog, she rushed after her. “Bailey, stop.”

She turned the corner. Immediately, the hairs on her nape lifted. Something was wrong…terribly wrong.
Oh, God!
Her stomach knotted.

In the back doorway, a body laid sprawled out between the entrance and steps…a dead body. Even from this distance, she knew instantly he wasn’t breathing. She had seen one before…her father.

Staring blankly at the sight, Riley froze. Time suspended. The past and present merged.

Once more, she was a fourteen-year-old girl coming home after softball tryouts, thrilled to tell her daddy she had made the team. Hoping the news would make up for their argument the night before, she bounded inside. She called out and was met with silence—deadly silence.

Jack Ashcroft would never know she made the team. There would be no apologies.

“Riley! Riley, we have to go!”

Someone had her by her shoulders, shaking her back to the present. Slowly, she came out of her shock. From the doorway, she saw that reporter looking strangely at them.

Bewildered, she turned to the voice.

“Riley, we don’t have time for this!”

A face gradually took form in front of her. “Freddy? Freddy, what’s happening?”

Glancing over his shoulder, his expression darkened; his frustration was evident. Abruptly, he released his grip and ran.

For a moment, Riley stood motionless. Then she saw bloodstains on her sleeve.
Was Freddy hurt?

“Freddy! Freddy, wait!”

Hastily, she followed her cousin and ran back to the front of the house. Once more, she came to a complete halt. Stunned, she stood in complete disbelief…and confusion.

Freddy had driven away in her Jeep.

The scream resonated. Kincaid tried the front door. It was locked. Immediately, he rushed to the back of the house.

He found the girl, standing in a daze. At her side, her dog barked wildly toward the house. Turning, he saw her alarm.

A body lay sprawled on his back in the open doorway. The man’s eyes, opened wide, stared out into nothingness. There was a single bullet hole dead center in his forehead.

Stepping around the motionless body, Kincaid realized it was useless to check for a pulse, but he did anyway. Leaning down, he shook his head. Nothing…stone cold. The man had been dead for a while.

A sudden scuffling noise made Kincaid turn his head. Without giving a thought to his own safety, he made his way into the house, through the kitchen, living room, and down the hall to the bedroom where the noises were coming from.

Looking as if he had tripped and fell on the floor, the stranger scrambled to his feet, covered in blood.

“Fuck!” the man muttered. Seeing Kincaid in the doorway, he bolted and knocked Kincaid to the floor.

Slowly, Kincaid rose. Inching up the side of the wall, he drew in a deep breath when he saw what the stranger had tripped on—a woman’s bloody body.

Her left arm crooked above her head as if she had made a vain attempt to fend off her attacker. The Persian rug bunched underneath the battered body, soaked in the woman’s blood. Her head had been smashed with repeated blows with a blunt instrument of death. The rage and force of each blow was evident with the splatter painted on the wall and furniture.

Blood was everywhere. Someone had beat the hell out of her.

Rushing to the back door, Kincaid watched the bumbling intruder run away. Fumbling for his phone, he dialed 911.

* * * *

Josh Kincaid stood on the lawn in a deep frown. The police had arrived to the grisly sight and he wasn’t happy. The woman he had hoped to interview had been murdered…bludgeoned to death from the looks of her.

Despite recounting his story to the uniformed officers, he had been asked to be available for the detectives after they had inspected the murder scene.

He glanced over at the young woman who had been detained as well. She sat in silence on the front steps of the house. From the looks of her, she seemed to be coming out of the shock of discovering a dead body.

She was a pretty thing. Not in a sophisticated way. She exuded an innocence…a vulnerability he had not expected from an Ashcroft.

Her wavy dark-auburn hair was cut in a fashion that called attention to her large, expressive eyes. He supposed they would be considered hazel, but the sunlight brought out a green tinge. Smiling down at the dog laying by her side, she looked simply lovely.

The pictures he had seen of her had not done her justice. Oh, as she had recognized him, he too, had recognized her. Riley Ashcroft. Granddaughter to Witt Ashcroft. Daughter of Jack Ashcroft…who had been the lawyer to Harrison Taylor, before he had committed suicide.

In old newspaper stories, Jack Ashcroft seemed confident in his case and had proclaimed he would prove Taylor’s innocence. Kincaid wanted to know why. Reading over the file, he saw nothing that suggested that Taylor was innocent, much less framed.

Kincaid had managed to get hold of the original police report. As he read, in his mind’s eye, he saw the night in question’s events unfold.

Working the evening shift in North Charleston, Officer Steiger and his partner, Tanner Rankin, had responded to a call for suspicious activity off Reynolds Avenue. When the officers arrived, Steiger spotted a new Chevy Silverado parked on the curb with its passenger door open.

While Rankin called in the plate, Steiger inspected the vehicle. The next moments were purely speculation pieced together on the evidence. Something—a noise…a light—must have distracted Steiger down that dark alley.

It happened quickly. Two shots rang out. By the time Rankin requested backup and raced to his partner, Steiger was dead and Taylor lay wounded, close to death himself. Police found syringes and drug paraphernalia in Taylor’s coat pocket, along with heroin stamps and powdered cocaine.

The pistol used to kill Steiger had fallen to the side of Taylor, with his fingerprints, and gun powder residue was found on Taylor’s hands. Seemed like a cut-and-dry case. Though Kincaid had found a few discrepancies. The question became: was it enough to devote his time in investigating the case?

Little details gnawed at him. Taylor had been a standout student and athlete. He had just graduated from Sewee High School and had a full ride to Clemson on a football scholarship. There wasn’t one blemish on his record before this incident.

Friends had come forward, insisting Taylor had never used drugs. As for Taylor, he had no explanation. He claimed he didn’t remember a thing, much less how he got across town, in the alley, or shot.

But what caught Kincaid’s attention was the fact that the Silverado was registered to Jack Ashcroft, which meant Ashcroft knew Taylor before the shooting. Unfortunately, Ashcroft never got the chance to defend the kid.

A scandal erupted around Ashcroft. Shortly after, he committed suicide, leaving Taylor’s fate in the hands of a public defender. Taylor ended up pleading out to avoid the death penalty. He was serving a life sentence without the possibility of parole.

The email Kincaid received claimed Harrison Taylor was framed. Said they had proof and was willing to exchange that information for a price.

Skeptical at first, he made a call to Tina Cruz, a former Boston detective.

Five years ago, the tall, imposing African-American woman had been shot in the line of duty. Now, she walked with a limp, a permanent disability that had forced her off the job. Today, she worked as a private investigator and had helped the station dig into some of their best crime stories.

Cruz had come through for him. Within a couple of hours, she had the IP address traced back to this address and the name of the occupant—Helen Barlow, retired personal assistant to Florence Ashcroft.

Kincaid didn’t believe in coincidence. The connection was enough for him to dig further. Now with the murder, his instincts to seek out the truth ignited. He could smell someone trying to hide a secret.

He turned back to the girl and caught her staring at him. Hastily, she looked away. With a quick glance at the officers directing the crime scene, he ignored the directions to stay away from the other witness. He moved closer to the girl.

“Are you okay?”

She gave him an odd look. “Okay? Of course, I’m not okay.” Her hand flared back toward the house. “There are two dead bodies inside…”

“I know…” He caught her hand gently. Not letting go of her, he sat beside her. “I know this is very difficult, but hopefully the detectives will take our statements soon. Then we’ll be able to leave.”

She cringed and pulled free of his grasp. “I don’t need you to comfort me…I have no intention of being your next story.”

Kincaid understood her reluctance. Being an Ashcroft, she grew up with a natural distrust of reporters. He nodded. “Miss Ashcroft, believe me, I wish you no harm. I already told the police officers you were with me at the front door when your cousin discovered the bodies.”

Slowly, she scudded back, allowing her dog to come between them. “You know who I am.”

“Riley Ashcroft,” he said simply. “You need to prepare yourself. I know the detectives who have arrived. They are relentless.”

“I haven’t done anything…just visiting a friend…”

“A friend who was brutally murdered. Where your cousin, who you drove here with, was found ransacking the victim’s bedroom. I can assure you that he left his fingerprints all over the crime scene. For God’s sake, he tripped over the victim and then ran off with your vehicle without you.” He paused for a moment. Her eyes burned into his; he went on. “Oh, Miss Ashcroft, I do believe that you are in for a long day.”

Shading her eyes from the sun behind Kincaid, she glared at him with an unsmiling demeanor. “You haven’t done your job very well if you believe you can frighten me. I can assure you that I have been through much worse.”

For a moment, he regarded her. Sitting there, she displayed a great dignity in her stature, along with a haughty aloofness. Her eyes lit with stubbornness and pride.

He lowered his voice and moved closer. “I can assure you, Miss Ashcroft, it was not my intent. It was my hope that perhaps we could work together.”

“Work together?” She shook her head. “You have me confused.”

“I’m going to be up-front with you. I’m looking into the possibility that Harrison Taylor, your father’s last case, may be innocent.”

Her mouth opened, but her words were silenced by the appearance of Detective Brophy. Kincaid recognized him readily enough. The balding middle-aged man rounded the corner of the back of the house, wearing a sports coat a size too large and his tie loosened around his unbuttoned collar.

Kincaid never let the scruffy appearance of the detective deceive him. Detective John Brophy was renowned as the best homicide detective in the city.

Standing, Kincaid extended his hand to the man, sensing he wasn’t the detective’s favorite person. “Detective, good morning. It is good to see you again. Of course, I wish it was under different circumstances.”

“Kincaid,” Brophy acknowledged dryly. “I thought I told Simpson to keep the two of you separated until I had a chance to talk to you.”

“Just making conversation,” Kincaid said with a slight shrug. “So, what do you have?”

A wry smile emerged on Brophy’s face. “Think I’ll ask the questions…back at the station. Don’t mind coming down with us, do you?”

“Anything to help, but I doubt I can help any more than what I already told you.”

“Let me be the judge of that.” Brophy’s attention turned to the girl. “I would like for you to join us, Miss Ashcroft.”

Riley offered him a weak smile. “I don’t think I can be of further use. I never even went inside.”

“You have to forgive me, ma’am. I must insist. Have some things that are troubling me, but I’m sure it can be cleared up quickly. Just need to sort out the details,” he said in a crisp, controlled voice.

Abruptly, she stood and ended the conversation. “I will be happy to answer any questions…through my lawyer.”

She stared straight ahead. Glancing over his shoulder, Kincaid saw a tall, distinguished gentleman with a neatly trimmed goatee walking up to the group. Dressed in an exquisite and expensive Fioravanti suit, the man talked briefly to an officer and then ducked under the yellow tape.

“Ellis Dean.” The man reached into his suitcoat pocket. He handed Detective Brophy his card. “I represent Miss Ashcroft. I’m here to see her home.”

Looking down at the card, Brophy’s jaw tightened. Kincaid quickly determined from the detective’s exasperated expression he wasn’t pleased with the lawyer’s appearance, but being who he was, Brophy didn’t let it deter his intent. He pressed on. “We would like for Miss Ashcroft to come with us. We have a few questions for her.”

“Miss Ashcroft has made a statement, has she not?”

“To the officer responding, not to me.”

“She has had a horrific shock. I don’t believe she has anything else to offer. If you have specific questions, you have my number.”

Ellis rounded his hand on the girl’s shoulder and turned to leave.

“Do you represent Frederick Ashcroft as well? Do you know where he is at?”

Brophy had Ellis’s attention with the question, at least momentarily. He turned back to the detective.

“I do.”

“Would you care to share it with me? We found the Jeep that he was seen driving wrecked and abandoned down on Mass Avenue, plowed into three parked cars before the driver ran off.”

The lawyer nodded. “Mr. Ashcroft has been admitted to Mass General and is under a doctor’s care. As soon as he is able, I can arrange for you to talk with him.”

“I’m sure you will.”

Ellis smiled broadly. “Give me a call.”

“Arrogant son of a bitch,” Brophy uttered under his breath as he watched the pair walk down the street.

A moment later, the girl turned and whistled. Her dog raced to her side. Kincaid swore he saw her smile to herself as Ellis opened the door for her to his black Audi sedan and the dog jumped in beside her.