Maggie Shayne - Killing Me Softly

And she felt an answering murky darkness pooling in the pit of her stomach, but forced herself to put the car into motion again. She didn’t drive into the village, but skirted around it, following Beth’s directions, and soon she found the side street where Bryan lived. The houses were a good distance apart, each one surrounded by privacy and trees and open space. Eventually she found his house number, pulled into the driveway and sat for a moment in the car, looking around. Ahead of her was the garage. Beside her on the right, all too close beside her, was the house itself, the house where a woman had died.

Bryan’s place was a cozy, modest-size ranch-style home near the village itself. It was all made of red bricks. The shutters were black, as was the trim. Must be a guy thing, she thought. There was a small concrete stoop, with three steps and wrought-iron railings. A little black mailbox was attached to one side of the door, beneath an outdoor light without a bulb.

“Honestly, Bry. You’re a cop, for crying out loud. Where’s your outdoor light? And the thorny hedges under all the windows? And the alarm-company-logo lawn sign?”

Of course, he wasn’t there to answer, and she was just killing time. She was scared. And she wasn’t ashamed to admit it. At least, not to herself.

She had to get those files before the cops did. And that was the least intimidating of the two tasks she’d set for herself when she’d rolled out of bed at five-thirty to shower and get dressed. She’d left the inn by six, all in hopes of getting this job done before Bryan figured out what she was up to and tried to stop her.

She pulled on the rubber gloves she’d stolen from Beth’s kitchen drawer, opened her car door and looked around again. It was only seven now, and the traffic along the road was light. On a Sunday morning, it ought to be. Seeing no one, she decided now was the time. And once that decision was made, she knew she had to move fast or risk being caught. Quickly, she trotted around to the side of the garage, tried the door there and found it unlocked. She opened the door, and went inside.

Bryan’s garage was as neat as a pin. And the picnic cooler he’d described to her sat in plain sight on a shelf in the back.

She hurried back there, grabbed it and dashed out the door again, pausing in the doorway to look around, before she popped the trunk. She slung the cooler inside and slammed the trunk closed again. Then she turned, looking and listening.

No one. Not a car passing, or a curious neighbor peering anywhere in sight.

Cool. “Mission accomplished,” she whispered.

Sliding back behind the wheel, she started the car and backed out of the driveway. Then she drove ahead a block and a half, and parked along the roadside, where the car would be less likely to attract notice.

The first part of her mission was complete, she thought. If she didn’t do another thing, at least she’d done that. She’d recovered those incriminating files. Maybe she and Bryan could get them back into the police department records room before anyone realized they were missing, rather than misfiled.

Now, though…now she had to tackle a much more daunting task.

She had to creep inside Bryan’s house and hope there was a dead girl in there, waiting to talk to her.

She was tense. That was pretty much to be expected. There were certain physical sensations that always used to hit her when the dead were getting restless and yearning for a visit. She would feel it every time. A little shiver up her spine. Goose bumps on her forearms. The hair on her nape rising with static electricity. A little bit jumpy, a little bit restless. A weight in the center of her belly, like a lead ball in her solar plexus. Shivers. Chills. Hiccups, sometimes.

Right now she felt taut and jumpy. But as she walked down the road, she didn’t feel any of those other things that usually signaled a close encounter of the dead kind.

Bryan’s driveway was on her left, and she turned to face his house. Yellow tape had been strung up all the way around the place, supported by wooden slats thrust into the ground like miniature fence posts. Stepping over it was easy enough. The tape was only knee-high. It wasn’t meant to be a physical barrier but a warning. Notification that if you crossed it, you were breaking the law. No way to plead ignorance, not with neon-yellow tape glaring at you. A few more pieces zigzagged across the doorway. Gloves still on, she tried the knob, but it was locked, so she proceeded to walk around the house, looking for another way in.

A window was open about two inches. She pushed it up farther, and reached inside to push the curtains apart and look around.

There was no one inside, of course. The place was a mess, though. Clearly no one had cleaned up after the party Bryan had mentioned. It was odd to think of a night of celebration and joy morphing into a morning of violence and death.

She swallowed hard, because she could feel the death there. It was heavy in the air, impossible to describe, but vivid all the same.

“I’m coming inside now, Bette. I hope you’re going to talk to me.”

And then she climbed in through the window, hoping to get this over with before anyone caught her there.

The place reeked of old beer and stale junk food. It was all she could do not to start cleaning up as she moved through the living room, trying to step lightly and not disturb anything. She hated the idea that she might contaminate evidence, but she was fairly certain the forensics team had already gone over the place thoroughly. Hell, there was fingerprint dust everywhere, which made damn little sense to her. There’d been a party. There would be dozens of sets of prints on everything in the place.

Underneath the mess, she thought, Bryan’s place was nice. Spartan, but nice. His sofa was deep-brown rich leather, and there was a recliner that matched except for being just a shade lighter. His throw pillows were green, sage like the carpet. She would have added other colors to break it up, but it was all right as it was. For a guy. He had hardwood bookshelves lined with law-enforcement texts and true-crime stories, and memoirs written by, for and about cops.

Hmm.

She moved closer, scanning the shelves but not touching. Yes, there it was. Nightcap, by Nick Di Marco. Biting her lip, Dawn pulled out the book, touching nothing else, and tucked it into the back of her jeans. She’d heard enough accolades about Bryan’s mentor that she’d fully intended to read his story, or at least see the movie, but hadn’t gotten around to it. Having met him, she was even more curious. She liked Nick Di Marco. Besides, if this killer was copying the Nightcap Strangler, she’d better educate herself on the old case as much as possible.

A small smile pulled at her lips, though most of her was feeling pretty dire. Still, she had to admit, it was exciting, playing amateur detective again.

She would have tucked the book into her purse, only she’d left it in the car. And that made her ask herself if she’d remembered to lock it.

Hell, she wasn’t sure.

Sighing, she moved through the living room, glimpsing the kitchen off to the right. It was white. Way too white. But she didn’t explore it further. Instead, she headed for the hallway to the left, which had to lead to the bedrooms. But she paused at an end table, noticing a framed photo there. A familiar one. It was the same one she kept on her nightstand. A shot of the two of them, her and Bryan, more than five years ago, when they’d been madly in puppy love, arm in arm, smiling into each other’s eyes. A candid moment Beth had captured without telling them. She’d sent an eight-by-ten to Dawn six months after she’d left. And apparently she’d given a copy to Bryan, as well. Hell, it was even in the same antique-looking pewter frame.