Mariah Stewart - Cold Truth

Literally.

She put the water down on the table and went into the bathroom, and threw up until there was nothing left in her stomach to be expelled. Only then did she return to the living room, where she turned off the television and the outside lights, picked up her plate of food, and carried it into the kitchen, where she dumped her food into the trash. She checked the lock on the back door, and went to bed. Once under the covers, Cass curled up in a ball and mourned for Linda Roman and for all the Linda Romans whose beautiful lives had been taken from them for no reason, other than that someone had wanted to, that someone could.

Sleep had been a long time coming, and had not lingered long enough for Cass to shake the fatigue that had been plaguing her. On top of everything else-or perhaps because of it-the dream had come back, and in its aftermath, Cass had dressed and fled the house, heading for the deserted beach. From half a block away she could hear the pounding of the surf, and it led her on through the night. She walked directly to the ocean and welcomed the cold spray as the waves threw themselves with abandon onto the shore, welcomed the sensation of the swirling tide tugging at her ankles in the dark.

She walked along the beach to the nearest jetty, where she sat in the company of her own ghosts until the sun came up. Then, knowing if she was to do her job she’d have to keep her own emotions in check, her memories at bay, she retraced her steps to the bungalow, her focus regained, her back straight with determination. She dressed for work, committed to bringing justice to Linda Roman, ready to begin the search for the man who had killed her.

Two days later, at 5:32 in the morning, Cass sat at her desk, rereading the report she’d come in early to complete. She made a few more changes on the computer screen before hitting the Print button. While the pages spit out, she stood for a much-needed stretch, her hands clasped behind her head. She’d been seated for well over ninety minutes, and found her knees and rear in want of a change of position.

The coffee in her cup was cold, and she needed the caffeine.

The remains of the pot in the lunchroom being the color of tar, she opted to make new. She rinsed out the carafe and filled it from the water cooler. Thanks to the chief’s obsession with drinking water and with the impurities contained therein, he’d insisted on a cooler for the department. Cass figured if it was better to drink straight, it would make better coffee. She used it every chance she got.

The old coffeemaker chugged and hissed as if in agony. The groaning ceased, and Cass started to pour a fresh cup, when she thought she heard a sound-a rustle? a shuffle?-from the hall. She peeked out the doorway and looked around, but there was no sign of anyone, no lights in any office other than her own.

Must have been the coffeemaker, she thought, and she returned to the job at hand. She finished pouring, then picked through the plastic container of sweeteners in search of a pink packet amidst the blue and white ones. She found one, poured it and some creamer into her cup, and headed back to her office through the blissfully quiet hall.

Cass really liked coming in early, when the night shift was still on the streets and the offices were, for the most part, empty. It was worth the loss of a few hours of sleep to have time to think without the background noises, the ringing phones, the chatter. Not that she’d had a full night’s sleep since they’d found Linda Roman’s body. Three or four hours a night had been all she’d managed.

So far this morning she’d written up her reports on three of the seven interviews she’d completed since Linda Roman had been identified earlier in the week and was ready to put them into both the department file and her personal murder book. She’d never done this before-kept a murder book-but over the winter, she’d met a detective from Los Angeles who mentioned having used this as a means of logging in all the data gathered during an investigation. The orderliness had appealed to her, so on her way home the previous night, she’d stopped at a nearby shopping center and picked up a three-ring binder. Since arriving at the station, she’d photocopied the evidence list and the statements from the officers who had found the body. Later she would print off another set of the photos she’d taken at the crime scene and add those to the book.

She grabbed her pile of reports from the printer as she passed it, then returned to her office and sat down to proofread before printing out a copy for the chief.

All the interviews had been pretty much the same. There’d been no deviations. Everyone Cass had spoken with had assured her that Linda Roman had been well liked and admired by everyone who knew her. She’d been described as intelligent, fun-loving, caring, a wonderful mother, sister, friend. No one knew of any enemies, anyone who might wish her harm, anyone she’d had words with or who had cause to be angry with her. She’d graduated from the regional high school, gone on to Rider College, graduated, come back home, and married her high school sweetheart. She and her husband were hard workers, active in their church, and all in all appeared to be the all-American boy and girl, all grown up.

It really pissed off Cass that someone had robbed them of their happily ever after.

A sound from the hall caused her to glance up. A solemn-faced Craig Denver stood in the doorway of her small office.

“You’re early today,” she said, knowing that the chief almost never arrived before eight. “Just in time, though, to take a look at these hot-off-the-press reports-which are pretty good, if I do say so myself. I’m printing out a set for you, and you can…”

Something in his expression caused her to stop in the middle of the sentence.

“What?” She tilted her head to one side.

“We have another one,” he said, his words clipped and tense.

“Another…” She stared at him blankly.

He nodded. “Another body.”

“Another body…” She pushed back from the desk. “Where?”

“She was left in the alley behind the Daily Donuts on Twenty-eighth Street. Guys coming in this morning to empty the Dumpster found her lying near the fence.”

“Okay,” she said more to herself than to Denver. “I’m on my way. I’ll call Jeff… I’ll call Tasha…”

She opened her desk drawer and took out her digital camera and slipped it into her bag.

“I called Jeff, he’ll meet you there. Wife wasn’t happy to hear my voice, didn’t want to wake him. Don’t know how he’s going to handle that, but he’s going to have to address it, and soon. This wasn’t the first time she gave me a problem when I called. In case you’re wondering, though, I called you first. Didn’t get an answer at your house or your cell, so I called him. In any case, we have two uniforms there already, they responded to the call. They’ll keep everyone away from the scene until you arrive.”

“Are you coming?” She stood and hoisted her bag over her shoulder, then reached over her desk to unplug her cell phone from the charger and slipped it into her pocket.

“I’ll meet you there.” He nodded, and she went past him.

He stood in her office for a long minute before snapping off the light.

Craig Denver hated this. Hated the fact that someone was coming into his town and killing his people. Hated what it reminded him of, hated the memories it brought back, hated the way the whole thing made him feel inside. He walked ten steps down the hall to his own office, and stepped inside. He was halfway to the desk when he saw the flat white envelope that lay on the floor midway between the desk and the door. He stared at it, trying to will it away.