the dead girl (BREAKDOWN Book 1) Read online

  Surprise flared in her eyes. “Of course not! The business was her idea. Her idea and her execution. I was just along for the ride. I feel honored that she asked me to be her right hand. I was very grateful she had so much faith in me when she made the offer. She pays me way more than I’m worth and treats—treated me,” her voice warbled, “with respect and admiration.”

  Laney reached into her jacket pocket and retrieved her notepad, flipped to a fresh page then dug in that same pocket for her pen. “What about the other employees? Can you give me their names, cell numbers and addresses?”

  Fernandez swiped at her nose and cleared her throat. “Of course.” She frowned for a moment. “I actually have all their contact information in my phone. Would you like me to share those five contacts with you? Their addresses are in the notes section. All of them are at work this morning.”

  “That would be great.” Technology was an amazing thing. “Do you recall an employee, past or present, having trouble with Sylvia? Pay disputes or assignment issues?”

  Fernandez’s chin lifted in defiance of any suggestion of discord. “Never. She paid us all well. Used our personalities and strong points to choose assignments.” Her expression hardened in challenge. “Maybe you don’t know this, but Sylvia made it a point to hire people who might not have a chance at a good life otherwise. She sought out those less fortunate. She was an angel.”

  Laney had a reasonably clear idea what she meant, but she wanted her conclusions confirmed. “How do you mean less fortunate?”

  “We were all undocumented when we were hired. Most of us didn’t have a real home or food on a regular basis. Sylvia helped us with the paperwork for citizenship. She helped us find better places to live. I’m the only one who lives in Shutter Lake. The others commute in together from the Grass Valley area, but they have nice places. Two even own their own homes.”

  “So all of you owe Sylvia a great deal?” Fernandez nodded in answer to Laney’s question. “Do you have any idea who might want to harm her? Did she ever have trouble with anyone outside the business? Maybe she mentioned someone who was bothering her.”

  Obviously someone had. Of course there was always the chance the murder had been an act of impulse or of opportunity if the robber hadn’t known Sylvia was at home when he chose her place to burgle.

  Except that Laney had a feeling this was not about a few pieces of jewelry or a handful of cash and plastic.

  Her investigative skills might be a little rusty but not that out of shape.

  Fernandez shook her head adamantly. “Everyone loved Sylvie. I never knew her to have a harsh exchange with anyone.”

  Laney thought of the rumpled sheets. “What about a boyfriend? Was Sylvia seeing anyone?”

  “I don’t think so.” The other woman considered the question for a minute. “Sylvie—that’s what her friends called her—was very independent. She didn’t want anyone telling her what to do, not even her parents. She made up her own mind and did what she pleased. She didn’t want to be tied down with a husband or children.” She smiled, the expression not quite so sad this time. “I told her one of these days that clock of hers would start ticking and she would marry the first man who looked her way.”

  “Sylvia was young and beautiful and,” Laney began, highlighting all that the witness had said about the victim, “as you said very independent, but she would still have needs.”

  Another flush crept up Fernandez’s cheeks. “This is true, yes. But if there was anyone special she never talked about it with me. She was very private about that aspect of her personal life. She liked keeping her home life and work life separate.”

  So much for her friend having a clue about the victim’s lover. With any luck, DNA would give them a place to start. But that was only if the semen on those sheets led back to someone in one of the databases at their disposal. Prints would be useful as well. The problem was, all those things took time. Even in a small town like Shutter Lake, determining who might have been involved with the victim would take time—particularly if that someone didn’t want to be discovered.

  Chief of Police Griff McCabe was also their forensic tech. He’d been the official evidence collector in Shutter Lake for nearly two decades. Most of the time that duty encompassed nothing more than gathering prints and sending them to the lab in Sacramento. But this was different.

  Way different.

  Inside, the front door opened and the chief walked in, Trask, carrying a drink tray with four coffees, followed right on his heels. Laney flashed a smile for Fernandez. “Officer Trask brought you a coffee to warm you up. I’ll send him out.”

  Fernandez thanked her and Laney gave her a reassuring smile. Hopefully she would eventually recall any disagreements the victim had with coworkers or any potential romantic interests. No one went through life without roadblocks or obstacles and certainly not without heartbreak.

  No one was that perfect. Not even the people who lived in Shutter Lake.

  Laney and McCabe met near the victim. One look at his unshaven face and blood shot eyes and she knew her original deduction was correct, he’d had a bad night. Not that he ever looked much different at nine in the morning. It was usually noon before he resembled anything fit for human interaction. Not that she was judging. For months after she left L.A. she had been a mess. Her drug of choice had been endorphins. She’d run morning, noon and night, pushing her body beyond its limits.

  She still ran five miles or so every night. Kept her sane. Kept the memories out of her dreams.

  McCabe shook his head, exhaled a big breath. “What do we have?”

  “Missing credit cards and any cash that was in her wallet. Jewelry box has been searched. Few things knocked around and this.” Laney stared down at the victim. “Looks like she was strangled. Maybe she interrupted the burglary in progress. Doesn’t make a whole lot of sense since the perp dumped her purse. The fact that it was here should have signaled that the owner was as well. I’m surprised he didn’t cut and run. Her cell phone is on the bedside table. No calls or texts since around six last evening until her friend,” Laney gestured to the woman outside, “started calling her this morning.”

  McCabe set his hands on his hips. “I called the coroner. He’ll be here within the hour.” He shook his head. “I’ve known this girl my whole life. I’m calling in the county crime scene unit. This is out of my league.”

  Laney agreed. “So far nothing from any of the neighbors.” Another of their officers was canvassing the people who lived on this street but neighbors were few and far between. The chances that anyone saw or heard one damned thing were about nil. “The robbery scenario doesn’t feel right. Too many easy to move items left behind. After he killed her, why not grab the laptop and the game console?”

  McCabe forked his fingers through his hair. “Doesn’t make sense. This,” he gestured to the dead girl on the floor, “doesn’t make sense. I gotta talk to her parents.”

  Laney didn’t envy him that task. “You want me to stay on things here?”

  His bleary gaze met hers. “The truth? I’d rather you come with me.”

  Great. “I should take Renata Fernandez home on the way. She’s been here for hours. She’s already given her statement. I don’t think there’s anything else she can tell us right now. Maybe when she’s had a chance to get past the shock, she’ll recall more.”

  “I don’t want her talking to anyone,” McCabe said. “Not until we know how the hell this happened. Make sure she understands.”

  “I’ll make sure.” Laney took one last look around. Things like this didn’t happen in Shutter Lake.

  Until now.

  Chapter Two

  Zion and Yolanda Cole’s home was on the opposite side of town from their daughter’s. The property was considered a mini ranch; it spanned nearly a hundred acres, much of which extended into the mountains. Horses and goats grazed in the pasture. A classic horse barn sat in the distance.

  The animals paid little attention as Laney a
nd McCabe followed the stone walkway to the house. In the front yard chickens eyed them speculatively, their clucking seemingly sending up a warning that something bad was coming. This was the house where Sylvia Cole grew up as an only child. Laney’s gaze settled on the double front doors as she and McCabe took the final steps up to the broad stone porch. This day—this moment—would forever change the older couple’s lives. Nothing in their world would ever be the same.

  This was the worst part of being a cop.

  McCabe rang the bell.

  The two of them had rendezvoused at City Hall so as not to descend upon the Cole home in two vehicles. While she’d taken Fernandez home, McCabe had shaved and popped drops into his eyes. One of the first things Laney had noticed about her new boss two years ago was that he kept a change of clothes, including an extra shirt, along with an electric razor, eye drops and mouthwash in his locker. Walking through the small locker room was necessary to reach the bathrooms at City Hall. No one bothered to secure their lockers and half the time the doors popped open if they weren’t closed just right. Most of the lockers were stocked pretty much like Laney’s—a heavy jacket, snow boots and not much else.

  After a few months in Shutter Lake, Laney realized that McCabe slept in the office occasionally—usually when he’d gone to one of the pubs and gotten hammered. Walking to City Hall was far safer than driving or staggering home.

  Today she was particularly grateful for McCabe’s stash of personal items. The parents of the victim didn’t need to hear about her murder from a man who looked hungover.

  Yolanda answered the door. Surprise flashed in her expression, immediately followed by uncertainty. “Chief McCabe.” Despite her obvious misgivings, she smiled at Laney. “Deputy Holt. What brings you here this morning?”

  Yolanda Cole was closer to sixty than fifty but, like her daughter, she was trim and attractive. Her gray cashmere sweater and matching wide leg trousers were a near perfect match to her hair and she looked nothing short of elegant.

  “Ma’am,” McCabe said, “is Mr. Cole at home?”

  Her surprise and uncertainty gave way to something more relaxed. “He is. Please, come in.” She opened the door wide and waited for them to enter. “He’s on the deck having coffee.” She closed the door and looked from one to the other. “Would either of you like coffee?”

  “No, thank you, ma’am.”

  Laney shook her head. “I’m good, thanks.” That second cup she’d guzzled already had her guts in a knot.

  “Very well. This way.” As Mrs. Cole strode across the great room that encompassed the living, dining and kitchen space, she said, “I’m sure Zion and the rest of the council are still fussing over those plans for the remodel of City Hall.” She paused at the French doors that made up a part of the wall of windows facing the lush landscape beyond the house. “The two of you should remind him that they’ve had long enough to consider all the contractor bids.”

  Talk of updating City Hall had started around the time Laney arrived. Money wasn’t an issue. Shutter Lake had the funds and several residents, including the Coles, had thrown in very generous six figure donations. But like every other aspect of bureaucracy these matters were slow moving.

  McCabe managed a dim smile. “I’ll be sure to do that, but just now we need to speak to you as well, Mrs. Cole.”

  The uncertainty slipped back onto her face. “Oh, of course.”

  She opened the door. “Zion, we have company. Chief McCabe and Deputy Holt are here.”

  Zion Cole stood. He reached for Laney’s hand first, gave it a quick shake, then moved on to McCabe’s. He held on a little longer to the chief’s, gave it a couple of strong pumps. “I told the council you two were going to start making house calls if we didn’t get the ball rolling on those renovation plans.”

  “I’m sure everyone will be happy to see us bringing City Hall into the current century,” McCabe said.

  “Have a seat.” Cole gestured to the many decadently upholstered chairs neatly arranged about the deck to take advantage of the massive stone fireplace as well as the beautiful view.

  Laney sat closest to Mrs. Cole. McCabe took a seat across the coffee table from her husband.

  “I need to ask you a few questions about Sylvia.”

  McCabe said these words gently. He generally spoke quietly. Laney considered him a man of few words most often expressed in soft tones. He had that Clint Eastwood charisma. Raising his voice wasn’t necessary but you recognized in a heartbeat when he was not happy. So far she was yet to see any of his officers defy his orders. Even when she occasionally questioned his tactics, he spoke calmly and reasonably when he responded to her queries. Frankly, she hadn’t once witnessed him losing his temper. His uncompromising ability to keep his cool was so not in keeping with his inability to control his drinking. Then again, the only downside she’d noticed with the issue was his coming in a little late some days. But he was there so it wasn’t like his tardiness was a problem.

  Bottom line, he was a good man who cared about his community.

  Even now, with this murder looming over their heads, he looked and sounded relaxed. The white shirt he’d slipped on at the office was fresh, crisp. The leather jacket he wore was well worn like his jeans and boots, giving him a laid back appearance. Despite the easygoing facade, he still had a commanding air about him. The wealthiest of residents in Shutter Lake respected him.

  Griff McCabe was a true paradox. So controlled on the job and yet so out of control after hours.

  Laney had no right to judge. She presented the disguise of being the tough female cop with the big city experience who lived her life exactly the way she wanted.

  Not entirely accurate.

  There was nothing like a murder to send a person down the road of self-analysis.

  “Is my daughter in some sort of trouble?” Cole asked.

  His wife’s hands went to her face. “Please tell us she’s all right.”

  “Has Sylvia mentioned any trouble recently with a client or an employee?” McCabe ventured, carefully sidestepping their questions.

  Mrs. Cole reached for her husband’s hand, her eyes wide with worry.

  There was no way to save them from this devastating moment.

  “Not that I’m aware.” Cole looked to his wife. She shook her head. He turned back to McCabe. “What’s this about?”

  “What about a boyfriend?” Laney asked. The longer she and McCabe could avoid giving the bad news the more likely the Coles were to provide accurate answers. Once the truth was out, devastation would take over and extracting reliable answers would be next to impossible. It was a terribly clinical way to view the situation but finding Sylvia Cole’s murderer had to be priority one.

  Mrs. Cole shook her head again. “Sylvia doesn’t have a boyfriend. She hasn’t had one since high school. She’s very independent. She likes having sole dominion over her life.” The older woman laughed softly, the sound almost painful. “I’ve reconciled myself to the idea that I may never have grandchildren.”

  Cole patted his wife’s hand. “Our daughter is still plenty young enough for that to happen in the future, dear.”

  The swell of regret tightened Laney’s throat.

  “You’re not aware of anyone who pays particular attention to Sylvia?” McCabe posed this question to the victim’s father.

  “No. Not in a negative or unkind way. You know as well as I do that everyone loves Sylvia.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “What is this about, Griff?”

  “She hasn’t come to you recently for money? No issues with her business?”

  “No.” Zion Cole stared directly at McCabe now. “Tell me what the hell is going on.”

  “Mr. Cole.” Laney didn’t know what possessed her to take it from there. Maybe the cloud of grief that had suddenly shadowed McCabe’s face or maybe just his hesitation. “Mrs. Cole.” Laney shifted her attention between the two. “We’ve just come from Sylvia’s home. I am so sorry to tell you this, but she’s de
ad.”

  Zion Cole shot to his feet, horror and shock aimed at McCabe. “Is this true?”

  Mrs. Cole stared at Laney for what felt like an eternity before she burst into tears.

  While Laney rushed back to the living room for the box of tissues she’d seen on an end table, she heard McCabe say, “I’m sorry, sir, but yes, it’s true. The coroner should be with her by now and hopefully we’ll soon know more about what happened.”

  “I’m going over there.”

  Zion Cole executed an about face and strode toward the French doors. Laney blocked his path, the impotent box of tissues in her hand. “Mr. Cole, you can’t go to your daughter’s home right now.”

  McCabe steadied Mrs. Cole as she swayed on her feet. “We need to see her.” The words were an agonizing wail.

  “Please,” Laney urged the man towering over her, “there are things we need to explain first.”

  Zion Cole gave Laney his back and returned to the chair he had abandoned, though he didn’t sit. McCabe ushered Mrs. Cole back into her chair.

  When McCabe hesitated the older man finally took his seat. “We can’t confirm anything until we have the coroner’s preliminary findings,” McCabe explained. “But you need to be aware that we’re treating Sylvia’s death as a homicide.”

  Mrs. Cole gasped. “Someone murdered her?”

  “We believe so,” Laney said. It was best not to go too deep into that area just now. “Her front door was standing open and some of her things were disturbed. Like her purse and her jewelry box. Can you tell us, Mrs. Cole, if Sylvia had any fine jewelry? Anything particularly valuable in the house that we should be looking for?”

  Mrs. Cole shook her head, her lips trembling. “Nothing I can think of just now.” Tears streamed down her face.

  “Someone robbed and murdered my daughter?”

  Mr. Cole’s words echoed in the morning air, the sound loaded with anguish.

  “That’s the way it looks right now,” McCabe said. “Our officers are talking to the neighbors and we’ll be interviewing all her employees. We’re hoping someone will know something that can help us find the person who did this. So far everyone agrees that Sylvia didn’t have any enemies, no boyfriend. No trouble personally or professionally. That leaves us with a random intruder.”