Marilyn Pappano - Killer Secrets

She got treats for Poppy before heading to the bathroom. She turned the water to hot, then shed her clothes in the hallway hamper. Once steam drifted on the air, she adjusted the water from scalding to merely breath stealing and stepped into the glass-enclosed shower.

The water streamed down her, washing away sweat and grime and the tensions she wore like a second skin. She luxuriated in it for one minute, three, five, then washed her hair and scrubbed her body. When she’d started working at Happy Grass, she had welcomed long days in the sun, wearing only short shorts and a tank top. That first day, Ruben had looked at her and shaken his head chasteningly. That day she’d burned despite her olive-toned skin and a zillion-SPF sunblock. She’d quickly adopted Ruben’s ways.

Her brown skin and black hair helped her live up to the name she and Gramma had chosen so long ago. People heard the name, looked at her and thought, Yes, she looks like a Milagro Ramirez. Even Chief Douglas had seemed surprised when he’d heard her unaccented voice.

She had no accent because she came from everywhere and nowhere.

Someday, she hoped to hear Oklahoma in her voice.

After shutting off the water, she pushed the shower door, but it moved only a few inches before stopping. Poppy lounged on the bath mat, her yellow hair drifting in the air. Mila coaxed her back enough so she could step out, throw on some clothes and then let her into the fenced backyard and watched her through the window over the sink. The garden there was as elaborate as the one out front, and if blooms escaped the dog’s huge feet only to fall victim to the sweep of her brushy tail, it was a small price to pay for having her.

One word in that thought stuck in Mila’s brain, refusing to fall away into oblivion as the others had. Victim. Evan Carlyle’s image appeared, as sharp and clear as it had been in the relentless glare of the midday sun, his body slack, his neck gaping, his eyes... It was always the eyes that stayed with her. A dead body wasn’t obscenely different from a living one, just a shell for a soul that had been ripped away. But something about the eyes... The spirit left them last, watching her, accusing her.

“It wasn’t my fault!”

The words exploded from her with such emotion that Poppy, curiously sniffing a frog, directed her gaze to the window, her head tilted to one side, concern on her goofy, doggy face. Mila wanted to tell her it was all right, to go back to her exploring. She wanted to pet her and thank her for caring. She wanted to drop to the ground beside her and wrap her arms tightly around her neck and let her wild hair tickle her nose.

But fear held her at the sink, on the inside looking out. That had been her life for eleven years: no friends, no family, no school, no everyday dealings with the world. Her father had left her home when he worked or drank. Her mother had left her home when she grocery shopped or paid bills or drank. Most of their neighbors in the towns where they’d lived had never known Mila existed. She didn’t go to the doctor when she was sick or play in the yard or get too close to a window where someone might see. The only people who’d ever seen her were the victims.

For eleven years. An eternity.

When the cell rang, it startled Mila. Her head whipped toward the hall, where the phone was still tucked in the pocket of her jeans. Her breathing was heavy, and her hands shook, but her feet were rooted to the floor.

You try to run away, I’ll kill you.

The ringing stopped, but it would start again in seconds. The only person who ever called her was Gramma, and Gramma wouldn’t be deterred by voice mail.

Fifteen years ago, Gramma hadn’t been deterred by time or distance or the obvious message that her daughter wanted nothing to do with her. She hadn’t even been deterred by the evil in the flesh that was her son-in-law. She’d come to Mila’s rescue, same as she’d done with Poppy, and given her a chance at living. Real life. Not cowering in isolated fear.

The ring sounded again, and so did the faint, faraway whisper. This time it didn’t frighten Mila. After all, she had run away, and he had died in the process.

That was one death she would proudly take credit for.

Dashing into the hallway, she grabbed the phone and held it to her ear. “Hi, Gramma. I’m glad you called.”

* * *

When Sam walked into the squad room at the station the next morning, Ben Little Bear was typing at his computer. He looked comfortable, like he’d been there awhile and intended to stay a good long while longer.

Sam sat down in the chair next to the desk, its ancient wood creaking beneath his weight, and put his hat on the next desk. It was the most beat-up one they had and had gone unused for as long as he could remember. According to his predecessor, some chief long ago had gotten it in the hopes of one day being fully staffed. Operating on a budget, that had never happened.

“What do you have on the Carlyle case?”

Ben saved his work, then swiveled to face him. “The State Department located the wife and kids in Rome. The embassy notified her, and they’re helping expedite their return home. I talked to his boss. He said Carlyle was a solid manager, got along with everyone. He seemed happy in his marriage and adored his daughters. No problems at work, no disgruntled employees, no ex-wife, no money problems, no problems of any kind that he knew of.”

“Basically, no reason for anyone to want to kill him.”

Ben nodded. “Funny how many times we hear that about people who have, indeed, been killed.”

A person who didn’t think in terms of resolving issues with murder was always puzzled by someone who did. Sam had learned to understand the thought processes, the motivations, but it still amazed him that people chose murder.

“There was no sign of forced entry,” Ben went on, and Sam swore he could almost see him ticking items off a mental list. “You need a code to get into the house and another for the backyard. I’ll have to get a list from the wife of everyone who knows the codes, but obviously the yard service and probably the pool service have the gate code. Pool service isn’t due until Friday, and I’ve confirmed the yard people’s whereabouts for the morning. They were out at that private school on Highway 117 for three hours, then ate lunch at Scott’s, where they’re regulars. Cameras show them arriving at 11:05 and leaving at eleven thirty. Guard has them logged in at Hawk’s Aerie at 11:42. The 911 call came in six minutes later.”

There was nothing like a routine that allowed a person to document practically every minute of their day, Sam thought, then wondered...how was Milagro?

She’d been on his mind ever since he’d driven away from her house yesterday. Had she called her grandmother? Had she managed a peaceful night? Was she back at work this morning? It wouldn’t be a bad thing if she was. In his experience, the best way to deal with trauma was by keeping busy.

And maybe she was one of the lucky ones whose spirits were strong enough to cope, to adjust, to say a prayer, take a deep breath and go on doing what they had to do. Though she’d seemed fragile enough to shatter in a breeze yesterday, he suspected she was much stronger than that.

But he would check in on her later today just to be sure. It wasn’t an unusual action for him to take. In fact, witnesses to violent crimes pretty much always got a well-being check a day or two later. Usually it was the detective handling their case or Lois, but Sam made some of them. He would make this one.

“We got a lot of fingerprints,” Ben said, drawing Sam’s attention back to the case. “Most of them belong to the same four people, presumably the family. There was no sign of a struggle, no skin under his fingernails, no obvious attempt to get his cell phone out of his pocket. My guess is he let someone in, and after he sat down, the person came up behind him. Surprised him. A sharp blade, no hesitation marks. By the time he realized what was happening, it was too late.”