Before She Dies (Alexandria Novels 3)

A handful of tourists had gathered. This was the height of the tourist season in Old Town. Ghost and historic tours ran nightly, and it was common to see large groups of people shuffling past as a guide pointed out the buildings where troubled spirits lingered past their exit dates. He’d taken a date on a city tour about six months ago. Monica. She’d been with the tourism bureau and had suggested the excursion. He’d been out of his divorce less than a year, but backbreaking hours had left him little time to date so he’d still been rusty. The tour had been more interesting, but Monica had been more concerned about incoming text messages than him. By the end of the date she’d called him rigid. Rigid. Because he’d expected common courtesy. Shit.

“Danny-boy, is that the suit you wore yesterday?”

The rusty voice belonged to his partner, Detective Jennifer Sinclair, a tall brunette who tended to wear jeans with a black turtleneck and a worn leather jacket. Today, as most days, she’d swept her thick hair into a bun at the base of her neck. Only on the rare occasions when she wore her hair down did its lush ends brush the middle of her back. She liked to work out at the gym, had an athlete’s physique, but swore she didn’t enjoy sports. Raised by a single cop father, she moved among the detectives and uniforms easily, never falling prey to jabs and jokes and always able to toss back what she received.

Rokov rested his hands on his hips. “I can’t wear a suit two days in a row?”

“You only wear your best suits to court. Court was yesterday. Not today.”

Early this morning, he’d walked Charlotte Wellington to her car parked outside their motel room, left her with a very public kiss, and then snagged his Dopp kit from the trunk of his car. He kept the kit stocked with an electric razor and other essentials. He’d been presentable in ten minutes, but there’d been no time to drive to his apartment and collect a change of clothes. “You’re a regular calendar. You gonna hit me with a weather prediction next?”

Rokov and Sinclair were two detectives in a four-person homicide department. They had been in court yesterday along with the other two members, Deacon Garrison and Malcolm Kier, to hear the summations in the Samantha White murder trial. White, a thirty-year-old housewife, was accused of murdering her husband. Most would have bet the young woman, who’d confessed to crushing her husband’s head with a golf club, would easily be convicted of first-degree murder. None of the public defenders had wanted the case. And then Charlotte Wellington had stepped into the picture, and all bets were off. Wellington had insisted her client had acted in self-defense, and the slam-dunk conviction had dissolved into uncertainty by trial’s end.

“So you gonna ask her out?” Sinclair said.

“Who?”

“Charlotte Wellington. I saw the way you were staring at her in court yesterday. Very intense.”

The jab would have gotten another male cop a threatening glare, but Jennifer reminded him so much of his kid sister all he could manage was a shrug. “Maybe I was paying attention to her summation. Try it sometime.”

Jennifer grinned, unfazed. “So you are gonna ask her out?”

His gaze roamed the lot around the building. “Why would I ask her out?”

“’Cause you got a thing for her.”

A brackish breeze billowed the folds of his jacket. Hands on hips, he asked, “And what birdie told you that?”

“Don’t need a birdie, man. I can read you like a book.”

He smiled, more relieved than amused. She was fishing blind. “Sinclair, as much as I love girl talk, we got a victim who might like some of our attention.”

A half smile raised full lips covered with no lipstick. “Whatever you say, Danny-boy.”

They ducked under the yellow crime scene tape and passed a collection of cops and cars with flashing lights. Rokov found the uniform that had been the first responder and secured the crime scene. The guy was mid-forties, short, stocky, and sported a dark crew cut and a thick mustache.

Rokov extended his hand and introduced himself. “You’re Jack Barrow, right?”

“That’s right.” Hearing the sound of his own name relaxed the guy a fraction. “Heard you had a talent for remembering details.”

“Naw, not really. I just remembered you got that service award last spring for working with the kids in the Seminary District.”

“Right again.” Barrow hooked thick thumbs into his waistband.

Sinclair shook hands with Barrow. “Your wife birth that baby?”

“Not yet,” he sighed.

“Damn, boy,” Sinclair said. “What does this make, number four?”

“Five.” He glanced at Rokov. “This gal’s old man trained me when I was a rookie. I think she was in elementary school then.”

Sinclair shook her head. “Please, no visiting the dark ages.”

Barrow tossed her a friendly wink. “She tossed a mean softball.”

“We’re not here to talk about me or your old self,” Sinclair said. “Give us the rundown.”

Barrow’s gaze turned toward the building, and his expression grew somber. Few outsiders could understand how cops could joke in times like this. Cops, however, understood it was the jokes that got them through times like this.

“This one is a real freak show. Sure to give cops nightmares and land on the ghost tour when the details leak out.” Barrow glanced at Sinclair, all traces of humor gone. “I’m sorry you’re gonna have to see it.”

Sinclair cocked her head. “I can handle it.”

“Break your old man’s heart to know you do this kind of work.”

For the first time, Sinclair had no quip.

“What drew you to the building?” Rokov said to Barrow.

“Saw a light in the second-story window. Like a candle flickering. The place is locked up tighter than a drum because it’s unsafe. City bought the building. Supposed to be torn down. Anyway, thought we might have vagrants or druggies so I called for backup and we went to check it out.” He rubbed the back of his neck with his hands. “We didn’t find anyone there except the victim.”

“Male or female?” Rokov said. He pulled a notebook from the breast pocket of his jacket and a pen.

“Female.”

“You see how she died?”

Morning light cast shadows on Barrow’s face and deepened the creases. “No. The scene makes me think of, well ... better you just go up there and see for yourself.”

“Sure,” Rokov said.

“Watch the stairs. They’re old. Not too stable.”

“Thanks.”

He moved past Sinclair and took to the stairs first, knowing if they gave way, he might have time to warn Sinclair off. Plus he couldn’t shake the thought of Sinclair’s old man cringing when his baby girl entered the scene.

“I could have gone first,” she said.

His partner didn’t appreciate chivalry, so he did his best to downplay it. “Then move faster next time.”

The stairs creaked and groaned and shifted slightly as they climbed past the first floor to the second. Sunlight streamed into the first floor, but instead of cheer, it added an eerie quality that deepened and extended the shadows.

There was only one other cop on the floor and the forensics tech. No doubt, there’d been some concern about structure as well as foot traffic in the dusty room. Plus, the fewer people up here, the better.

Both detectives put on paper booties and snapped on rubber gloves.

They moved toward the tech, Paulie Somers, a crusty guy in his late forties who didn’t tolerate interruptions well. Paulie wore a jump suit, booties, and gloves. Snapping pictures, he didn’t bother with greetings.

Paulie could be difficult to work with but he was meticulous and a master at finding evidence a less experienced tech could miss. He would spend a good deal of time snapping pictures and documenting every inch of the crime scene before collecting data.

When Paulie stepped to the left, it gave Rokov his first real full-on view of the victim, who lay on her back, her hands outstretc

hed, her palms up. Her hands and feet had been nailed to the ground with wooden stakes. A neat white powdery substance neatly encircled the victim’s body.

He’d learned to put aside emotion when he viewed a crime scene. His job was to accumulate facts, details, and anything he could use to catch a killer. And so he focused on the details.

The victim was young, twenties maybe, and she had a thick shock of black hair that swooped over the right side of her face. Her skin was as pale as caulk. Below the roughly hewn stakes, her fingers were curled upward as if she’d been trying to claw free. She wore a black dress and a red leather jacket.

He glanced around the body and the walls for signs of blood: a spray, droplets, pools, something to tell him more about the death. But there was nothing.

“There’s no blood,” Sinclair said.

“No.”

“She wasn’t killed here.”

“That’s my guess,” Rokov said.

“Which means she was dead when she was staked to the ground.”

“Yes.” Gratitude could blossom at the direst times, Rokov thought as he stared at the body.

“Rigor mortis is well established,” Paulie said. Rigor mortis began three hours after death, but the slow stiffing of the muscles didn’t peak until the twelve-hour mark, when the process then began to dissipate.

“Eight to twelve hours since she died?” Rokov said.

“Give or take. And have a look at her legs.” Paulie lifted her skirt to reveal her ankles now stained a bluish purple by blood that had settled under the skin. “Note the lividity. She was upright when she died. Sitting maybe. Sat there for at least an hour before she was moved.” When the heart stopped beating, blood traveled to the lowest point in the body, darkening the skin. “I haven’t been able to get a good look at the underside of her arms, but there appears to be lividity under her forearms as well.”

Rokov studied the victim’s neck for signs of trauma. There was some bruising. “Was she strangled?”

“I don’t know. That’s for the medical examiner to figure out.”

“Knife wounds. Bullet holes.”