Beth Andrews - Unraveling the Past

“Okay, you got me. Things weren’t perfect under Chief Gorham. But at least he trusted us to do our jobs.”

Damn, but she was stubborn. And, in this instance, possibly right.

Besides, he’d made his point. No need to drive it home with a hammer over her head.

“Fair enough,” he said, earning himself one of her suspicious glares. “After you drop off the evidence, why don’t you take a few hours, grab a nap and a bite to eat. We’ll meet back at the station at eleven for a debriefing.”

“A debriefing?” Sullivan asked as if Ross had told her to bring a bikini, a case of whipped cream and her handcuffs and meet him at a motel. “What type of debriefing?”

“The kind that will give me a chance to present the facts—as we know them now—about this case to the detective working on it with me.” Now she looked shocked. Good.

“Let me get this straight. You’re putting me on this case?” He nodded. “Why?”

“Because you were right. You should be in charge of it.” He’d let his animosity and irritation toward her goad him into letting his personal feelings dictate his professional decisions.

And personal feelings had no place on the job. Ever.

He leaned into the car, reaching across the seat for the box of plastic gloves. He put one on and straightened, the evidence bag in his other hand. “The sooner we’re on the same page, the sooner we can start investigating who this person was, how she—or he—died and came to be out here. And hopefully this will point us in the right direction.”

This being a tarnished, dirty silver chain that could’ve belonged to anyone, which wasn’t going to make their job any easier. Using his gloved hand, he pulled it from the bag. The charms—three small, intricately scrolled hearts, one in the center of a larger, open heart, the other two on either side—glinted in the sun.

Sullivan made a sound, somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, her hand going to her chest before she lowered it again, her fingers curled into her palm.

“Something wrong?” Ross asked, frowning.

“No.” But her face was white, her voice thin. Uncertain. She cleared her throat. “It just…hit me. What we’re dealing with. We’ve had homicides before, usually related to bar fights or occasionally domestic violence but…” She shook her head slowly. “Nothing like this. Where…where did you say the necklace was found?”

“Close to the skull.”

“But it could be that it doesn’t actually belong to our victim. Maybe the victim stole it or someone lost it. Someone not connected to the victim.”

“Anything’s possible but it’s highly doubtful. Besides, at the moment this—” he dropped the necklace back into the bag before handing it to her “—is our only clue to our victim’s identity. And once we discover who she was, we can focus on finding out who killed her.”

* * *

LAYNE’S HEAD SNAPPED BACK as if Taylor had slapped her. His eyes, always watchful, never missing a freaking beat, narrowed. Studied her. Trying to figure out what she was hiding from him. What she hadn’t told him.

Oh, God.

“You sure you’re all right, Captain?”

“Yeah. Sorry. Just tired. I’ll head back to the station. Get this processed.” And because she didn’t want to sound as if she couldn’t wait to get away from him, she didn’t move. “Unless there was something else you need me to do?”

“No. That should cover it.” He took off the glove and tossed it onto the seat. “If you need me before eleven, call my cell.”

“Yes, sir.” Keeping her stride unhurried, she walked toward her cruiser, her pulse drumming in her ears. She kept the bag pressed against her chest with both hands, the plastic slippery against her damp palms.

“Sullivan?”

Her breath caught. Fear enveloped her, coated her skin in a thin sheen of sweat. She licked her lips and faced him, her eyebrows raised in question.

She prayed he couldn’t see how unsteady her hands were.

He jingled the keys in his hand. “Good job last night.”

The air left her lungs making speech impossible so she nodded. She’d overheard him say the same thing to the other officers who’d worked the scene but having him say it to her stunned her.

Almost as much as it scared her.

She didn’t want to care what he thought of her or how she did her job. Couldn’t afford to change her mind about him. Not now.

She went around to the trunk and pretended to organize the items back there. Chief Taylor sat behind the wheel of his patrol car, his head bent. The engine was running but he didn’t seem in any hurry to leave.

It was all Layne could do not to press herself against his back bumper and start pushing.

Finally, thankfully, he pulled away.

She lurched to the open passenger-side door of her car and collapsed onto the seat. Lowering her head between her knees, she breathed deeply, battling the sense of urgency, of panic spiking in her blood. She squeezed the top of the bag, her nails digging into her palm through the plastic.

Tears blurred her vision but she refused to let them fall. She couldn’t cry, couldn’t afford that weakness or that luxury. She had a case to solve.

Her head still down, she stared at the necklace.

And wished she didn’t recognize it.

CHAPTER THREE

“I DON’T KNOW HOW the Boston P.D. does things,” Ross’s secretary Donna Holliday said in her precise tone, “but in Mystic Point we tend to start our workday at 8:00 a.m. Sharp.”

Ross tucked his cell phone between his ear and shoulder as he climbed out of his car and shut the door. Donna, like the car, the beat-up metal desk in his office and the animosity from his entire department, had come with the police-chief position.

He’d love nothing more than to give all of them back.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” he told Donna, deciding not to mention how he’d been working all night—which she damn well knew—because she’d probably point out how most of the department had been up all night and were already at work. “Twenty, tops.”

“Better stick with fifteen. Between that body popping up and you busting a kiddie party, we’ve been inundated with calls and visitors. We’ve had everyone from conspiracy theorists who are certain the bones belong to Jimmy Hoffa, to parents calling for your badge for having their little darlings brought home in a police car. And if that’s not enough to light a fire under your rear—”

“As always, I’m astounded by your professionalism,” he said dryly.

“The mayor’s assistant called,” she continued, ignoring him—nothing new there, “to say His Honor will be gracing us with his presence at nine sharp.”

“Fine. Fifteen minutes.”

He ended the call, slid the phone into his pocket and jogged up the steps to the back door, the bushy, overgrown shrubs on either side of the stairs scratching his arms. Inside, he tossed his keys on the counter and headed straight to the refrigerator. Mustard, ketchup, a carton of eggs he didn’t remember buying, milk and leftover pizza from two nights ago. Or was it three?

With a shrug, he pulled out the box, grabbed the slice inside and bit into it. And almost ripped his teeth out in the process. Definitely three nights ago.

He took another bite as he hurried upstairs to his bedroom. Holding the pizza in his mouth, he stripped off his shirt and tossed it toward the open hamper in the corner of the room where it landed on the edge to dangle by a sleeve. He took out the last uniform shirt in his closet and shoved his arms in, leaving it hanging open while he finished his breakfast.

He needed groceries. And to throw a couple of loads of laundry in the washing machine. The yard hadn’t been mowed in two weeks. He threw the pizza crust into the plastic garbage can next to his bed and buttoned his shirt. He’d put them all on his To-Do List, right after Identify Remains, Solve Mystery of Yet Unknown Person’s Death and Straighten Out Rebellious Niece.