Erica Spindler - Dead Run

Val narrowed his eyes. “Did you touch anything? Contaminate the scene in any way?”

“I checked the girl’s pulse. Okay? Standard operating procedure.”

“Did you touch the body in any other way?”

“Oh, sure, I French-kissed her.” Rick glared at the other man. “Hell no I didn’t.”

Val’s face flooded with color. “Dammit, Rick! You’re a civilian. Not a cop. You were one of the first to the scene, that also makes you a suspect, even if only until after we question you.” He scowled. “You don’t belong here, and you sure as hell know it!”

“Fine! If you need to talk to me, you know where to find me.”

“Bullshit, buddy. Don’t leave the premises. We need a statement tonight. Got that?”

“Got it, Lieutenant.”

Saturday, November 10

4:28 a.m.

Thirty minutes later, Carla finished questioning Liz Ames and Pastor Tim-who had come out to see what the commotion was all about-and headed to where Rick waited, pacing like a caged animal.

Carla approached him with trepidation. She had no desire to tangle with him just now, no desire to be on the receiving end of his fury at Val.

She understood why he was angry. A girl had been brutally murdered. He had been second to the scene. His every instinct told him to get involved-and his best friend had told him in no uncertain terms that he could not.

What Rick had said earlier had been right: he was more qualified to handle this case than either she or Val. He had more experience with murder investigations. And he had awesome instincts. She had seen him zero in on a suspect with nothing more to go on than a gut feeling.

Truth was, even though he no longer carried a badge, Rick Wells was still more a cop than she would ever be.

Carla shuddered suddenly, chilled. Tonight, she wished she was anything but a cop. If only she hadn’t seen that girl in there. If only she could go back to this morning. Or block the image from her head.

But she couldn’t and she feared she would never sleep again.

Rick whirled on her. “What the hell was that all about?”

Carla glanced quickly over her shoulder. She saw that Elizabeth Ames and Pastor Tim had left the scene. She faced her old partner. “Cut him some slack, Rick. He’s a little tense. This is a serious situat-”

“No shit it’s serious, Carla. Tell me something I don’t know.”

She lowered her voice; it trembled. “This isn’t Miami, Rick. We’re not…murder’s not an everyday occurrence here.”

His expression softened. “How’re you doing?”

“Hanging in there. Barely. I puked in the bushes.” She puckered up her face. “I don’t even know what I’m doing here. I’m not qualified.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. That scene…Let’s just say, I’ve seen some as bad as that but not worse.”

Carla wet her lips. “A murder in this town is…it’s going to shake the rafters. And the murder of one of our own, too.”

“I figured. Who was she?”

“Tara Mancuso, a senior at the high school. Val knows the family. They’re real conchs, just like he is.”

Carla could see Rick’s anger slip away. “What’s he thinking?”

“As far as I know, nothing yet.” She glanced over her shoulder, then back. “What’re you thinking?”

He frowned. “That she knew her attacker. That she wasn’t sexually assaulted.” He paused. “She never knew what hit her.”

“Thank God.”

He leaned toward her. She caught a whiff of the spicy soap he used, and for an instant she couldn’t breathe. “Carla,” he murmured, “there’s something about the killer’s style…something that’s-”

He bit the words back as Val strode over to them, his expression regretful. “Damn, man, I’m sorry. This thing…here…on my island.” He looked away quickly, but Rick thought he saw tears in his friend’s eyes. “I know her folks. How am I going to tell them about this?”

Rick understood how the man felt. He also knew that nothing he could say would make it better. “I’m sorry, Val.”

His friend nodded, visibly pulling himself together. “Carla get your statement?”

“We were just getting to it,” she said. She took a spiral notepad and pen from her front shirt pocket. “Shoot.”

“There’s not all that much to tell. I was closing up the Hideaway-”

“What time was that?” Val asked.

“Around three-thirty.”

“That’s later than usual, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” He looked from Carla to Val. “It was a busy night. I was short-staffed.”

“Who was out?”

“Libby, my night bartender called in sick. Again. And Mark Morgan, my boy Friday, went home sick with the flu about 2:00 a.m.”

“So, you were alone at the bar from two on?”

“Two-thirty. That’s when I kicked Pete out.”

Pete, Carla knew, was a local old-timer and good-natured drunk. He spent his days and nights sitting on bar stools trading gossip and stories of the old days, when the navy still played a pivotal role on Key West. His favorite story was one he told about the days leading up to the resolution of the Cuban Missile Crisis.

“Then what happened?”

“I was beat, so I put the cash from the register in the safe, figuring I’d officially close out in the morning. The plan was to go home and catch some z’s. I was locking up when I heard her scream.”

“Her?”

“Ms. Ames. Didn’t know her name then, but I do now.”

“So, you don’t know her at all?” Carla asked.

“Never even seen her before she landed in my arms.”

Val continued. “What happened next?”

“I followed the sound of the screams here, to the garden door. As I reached it, she came flying out. She was hysterical. Once I got her calmed down, she told me about the girl-”

“What were her exact words?”

Rick frowned, trying to recall. “Something about a dead girl. In the garden. She said the girl had been murdered.”

“And what did you do then?”

“I thought she was mistaken. That maybe some kid had OD’d or something. I went to see for myself. And saw right away that the woman hadn’t been mistaken.

“I hightailed it back to Ms. Ames, gave her my cell phone and told her to call you guys. The rest you know. I looked over the victim, checked out the scene and got kicked out by Val. Been cooling my heels ever since.”

Val nodded. “And I appreciate it, Rick. You’ll be available, if we need to question you further?”

“Like I said, you know where to find me.”

“That I do.”

Carla watched as Rick started off, wishing she was going with him, longing for his strength and the comfort of his arms.

Tonight, for the comfort of anyone’s arms.

Her head filled with the image of Tara ’s lifeless face, of the brutal, bloodied gash that had not only taken her life but nearly severed her head as well. She shuddered, stomach turning. She swallowed hard, fighting the queasiness.

“Learn anything interesting from Tim or Elizabeth Ames?” Val asked.

“Nothing that rang alarm bells.” Carla flipped through the notebook, stopping on Pastor Tim’s interview. “The pastor had gone to bed around ten. Didn’t hear anything out of the ordinary. Was awakened by our cherry lights.”

“He didn’t hear Ms. Ames screaming?”

“I asked him that, too. He said no, he’s a heavy sleeper.”

Val frowned. “Rick heard her from two doors down and Tim didn’t hear her from the parsonage? Interesting.”

“That’s what he said.”

“What about Ms. Ames?”

“She couldn’t sleep, went for a run. Said she heard a sound coming from the garden and went to investigate.”

“Went for a run at what? At three a.m.?”