Guns and Roses (36 page)

“And let me know when the coroner shows up,” Cash said into his handheld. “And do it on the secure com.”

“Yes,
suh
.” Sorrel’s voice crackled through the airwaves.

Cash suspected every police scanner for a hundred miles was tuned in to this one. At least on the secure com they’d have a head start. A murder like this was going to attract the media and Lord help them if this girl belonged to a prominent family. He’d seen what money could do to an investigation and he wanted no part of it.

Cash squatted down and looked over the body again. There was no doubt in his mind he’d seen the exact same crime scene. Not in person, but in computer files and eight by ten glossies. Another girl beaten to death on campus and left in the same position, in the same fraternity house. As many times as Cash revisited that case after the old chief who investigated it, retired, he had not been able to solve it. While the scene had been documented, it had been severely compromised, and all of the forensic evidence lost at the state lab in Raleigh. Without that evidence the case had never been solved. That wasn’t going to happen with this one. He’d personally drive this forensic evidence to the lab. And stand guard until it was processed. Because he was going to get the son of a bitch who did this and when he did, he’d solve the other case as well.

Like the cold case victim, this one shaved everywhere. The thin crotch of her panties was pulled aside exposing her genitalia. The lace bra was twisted around her neck, and if they were killed the same way—Cash leaned over the body and swept away a hank of dark hair covering her brow. Her brown eyes stared unseeing at him. The terror of her death was evident in their dark depths. Gently, he pushed back her eyelid with his thumb to expose more of her eye.

Petechial hemorrhage. She’d died by strangulation.

As one would think from the condition of the crime scene, this girl hadn’t died of the multiple stab wounds. Just like the victim five years ago, it would have to be confirmed by the coroner. But Cash was sure, because on closer inspection of the wounds, most of them appeared post mortem. No blood, except for the one to her chest that was substantial. She'd been alive when the blow was struck. There wasn’t any blood spatter to speak of. The killer had used her shirt to absorb the blood spray as he plunged the blade into her chest. While there was no significant blood from the multiple stab wounds across her belly and thighs, the carpet beneath her was soaked with blood from the chest wound.

He closed both eyelids and sat back. From the looks of it, she died right here. But as the condition of the room bore witness, before she went down, she’d put up a hell of a fight. The few desks in the room were overturned and two wooden chairs were cracked and splintered on the floor, as if a body had hit them. Hard. Cash bet when he rolled her over there would be wood fragments in her back. Her body was staged, and though the killer went to the trouble to expose her, there didn’t appear to be any sexual trauma to the body. The blood pooled beneath her was dried and rigor was in full mortis. She’d been dead at least four hours, probably more.

Cash picked up her left hand and noted her black polished nails were cracked and ripped to the quick, the nail on her ring finger completely missing. He caught a whiff of—bleach? He looked closer at the fingers and brought her hand to his nose. The odor of chlorine was stronger. Her fingertips and nails were clean as if someone had come in and bleached them. He looked at the right hand to find them as clean. Cash’s rancor rose. The killer had slipped thought their fingers once due to a bureaucratic screw up. This time around the killer was taking no chances. He made sure there was no usable trace evidence under her nails. Cash leaned close to her skin and sniffed. More chlorine. The bastard had wiped her body clean. Cash took several pictures of her before he slid his cell back into his pocket. He was supposed to wait for the ME to touch her, but time was ticking by and with each minute that passed was one minute more the case went cold. Carefully, he lifted the blood soaked shirt on her chest. His skin chilled. There just like the murder five years ago, was a blood-red rose soaked in the victim’s blood. And tangled up around the stem and the red and black Gilman basketball jersey was a broken gold chain barely discernible it was so caked with blood. Cash carefully unwound the chain from the rose stem and slipped each piece of evidence into a clear evidence bag. He untangled the jersey looking for a name to ID the girl.

Prebe; the boyfriend’s shirt.

He looked around the room for the rest of her clothing and found a pair of women’s jeans flung behind one of the overturned desks. No shoes. No jacket or sweater. Cash looked down at the girl and recreated in his mind how she’d died. She must have been terrified. Who did this to a woman? What could make a man so angry he did something like this? Once the killer had beaten her down, he’d stripped her and then stabbed her in the chest. As she lay bleeding out, he'd strangled her. Once she was dead, for reasons only the killer understood, he stabbed her a dozen more times.

Maybe Sorrel was right about the boyfriend. Maybe the spat escalated and, in a jealous fit, he'd killed her. Whoever had killed this girl had known her. She’d been violently beaten and stabbed, her clothes removed, then posed in a humiliating position. Nobody did this to a stranger.

Had Drew Prebe been around five years ago? Was there a connection between that victim and this one’s boyfriend?

Cash pulled his cell phone from his trouser pocket again. Carefully, he strode back to the threshold and began to photographically document the scene. He didn’t miss an inch or an angle of the body, the walls, the floor, the ceiling or the few pieces of furniture in the room. Once the pictures were taken, he emailed them to himself, then pulled out a small video camera from his CST bag and videotaped, then laser measured the scene. And then emailed the files to himself.

“Hey, Cash,” Sorrell said on the radio, “Ol’ Wade is stuck at the old folk’s home over in Coleville an’ said he wadn’t gonna head our way ‘till after some breakfast.”

Cash swiped his hand across his chin. “For Chrissakes, this is a murder investigation; we don’t have time for breakfast breaks!”

“Well now, Cash, he’s gotta have somethin’ to eat or he’ll drop like a full tick off a hound from a diabetic coma. I told ‘im to go on an’ take care of hisself an’ we’d wait. Ain’t like that girl’s gonna get up an’ walk off,” Sorrell snickered.

“Damn it!” Cash muttered. Wade Burrows was a slug of an ME and never should have been reappointed by Sherriff Dunaway. Cash clicked his radio and said, “You tell Wade I’m not waiting for him to have breakfast to touch the body, for Chrissake. The sooner I move her, the sooner I can get to investigating who killed her!”

“I’ll tell ‘im, suh, but he ain’t gonna like it.”

“Like I give a flying fuck,” Cash muttered resisting the urge to hurl his radio against the wall. Taking a long, deep breath, he slowly exhaled, ran his fingers over his hair and then levelly said to Sorrel, “Just let me know when he shows up.” It wasn’t the first time the local eccentricities of the town folk got in his way. He’d worked around them before, and he’d do it again. It would be the last time.

Cash went back to work. He bagged and tagged the jersey and the jeans, then turned back to the body.

“Okay, young lady,” Cash softly said, smoothing the rest of the blood soaked hair from her face. “Talk to me. Tell me who did this to you?”

Keeping an open mind, Cash put the cold case out of his head and concentrated solely on this one as if it had no connection. His gut told him the girl knew her attacker. From the violence and the pose, he’d bet a year of paychecks it was a man. Most women weren’t capable of this kind of damage. But he wasn’t going to rule it out. Whoever did it did a good job cleaning up after themselves, too. That took some forethought and some brains. It also would have taken time. Someone familiar to the frat house would have blended right in. The boyfriend? Was he part of this fraternity? How convenient if he lived here.

Cash slipped his hands beneath the victim’s left shoulder and back and carefully rolled her to her side. His heart jumped against his chest. Under the small of her back, protected from the blood was a cellphone. Gingerly he removed the phone then laid her back on the floor. Planted or had the killer overlooked it?

A bloody partial fingerprint had dried on the screen. Carefully he walked over to the threshold to his kit and quickly dusted the entire phone for prints. After sealing the print cards, he scrolled for the last number called and last call received. The last number received was six hours ago. The last number called was five and a half hours ago. Both numbers were the same. The victim knew the caller personally since the phone number had been programed into the phone as Rebel. Rebel? A nickname for the boyfriend? One way to find out.

Cash pressed the green call button. The muffled sound of Dixie blasted from behind him. He spun around until he faced the source of the music—the closed closet door across the hallway from the kill room. “What the hell?”

He strode over to the closet as the ring tone intensified. After placing the dead girl's cell on a battered chair next to the door, Cash drew his service weapon with one hand and carefully turned the door knob with the other. He yanked it open.

Another almost-naked body rolled out. But this one was very much alive.

Chapter Two

Holy hell
, Rebel thought. Her head pounded worse than a handful of M-80’s on the Fourth of July and she was feelin’ sicker than a goat full of peppers. Somewhere, in the periphery of her alcohol-soaked brain, she knew she was sprawled out in a most unladylike position and her cell phone was ringing. She couldn’t see it, and even if she could, she was too darn sick to her stomach to give a care. She just wanted to crawl back into that dark hole she just rolled out of and go back to sleep.

Slowly, it dawned on her that the Dixie ring tone was Jami’s. Jami. She’d been looking for that flighty girl last night. Jami had been real upset, but why? Rebel couldn't remember.

Blindly, Rebel felt around the smelly damp carpet for her phone. As her fingertips brushed against it she snatched it up. Fumbling around, she hoped she hit the answer button, and pressed the phone to her ear.

“Hull-oh—” Her voice came out like a croak and Rebel swallowed back the bile rushing up her throat. “Jami? You there, girl?”

“Who is this?” a deep husky voice demanded from the other end. His booming voice reverberated around her. Goosebumps skittered across her skin. It sure as heck wasn’t Jami, and didn’t sound at all like Drew, her boyfriend.

Rebel struggled to open her eyes, but just the slightest bit of sunlight made her stomach roil. She squeezed them shut to block out even the slightest sliver. “Who is this?” she hissed even as she tried not to inhale the nasty scents wafting off the carpet. She swallowed again, harder this time.

“Don’t answer a question with a question,” that ornery male voice said.

Her stomach lurched hard when she opened her eyes. “Hold on,” she gasped. “I’m gonna—” Jose Cuervo and his friend, Goldschlager, came rushing back for an encore. Her belly seized and twisted as she puked up last night’s party. She kept puking until the dry heaves were heaving on dry heaves. She rolled over onto her back to get her nose out of the stench of her puke and the gnarly crap imbedded into the carpet. Dragging the back of her hand across her mouth, ever so slowly, and most reluctantly, Rebel opened her eyes and looked directly up into two furious hazel ones.

The cell phone still in her hand, she raised it to her ear and said, “Jami, I gotta call you back.” She set the phone down and smiled what she imagined was a sly seductive smile. ‘Coz truth be told, even in her incapacitated state, she couldn't ever recall seeing such a beautiful man in all her twenty-two years on earth as the one staring down at her. Even if he was angrier than a hornet that she’d just puked all over his shoes.

He had one of those fallen angel kind of faces: all moody and sexy. The features almost too much, but not quite so much that they didn’t blend all nice and sensual-like. His skin was lighter than milk chocolate, more like the color of the café au lait gran liked to drink. His full lips were pulled tight, and those hazel eyes were blazing like an angry cat’s. Speakin’ of cats—her smile deepened as she sat up and smoothed back her hair. “Well, ain’t you just the Tom cat’s kitten.”

Those eyes narrowed to slits then opened back up. “I’m not in the habit of asking a question twice. Who are
you
?”

Rebel didn’t miss the 9 mil in his left hand, or Jami’s cellphone in his right. Why did he have Jami’s phone? Why was he wearing plastic gloves? And come to think of it, his shoes were wrapped in those operating room cover thingies. Her eyes focused on his gun then back to his angry glare. Her dander ruffled some. What had she done to tick him off? Other than puking on his shoes. “You gonna shoot me if I plead the fifth?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“Well take your best shot, mister, ‘cause I’m not gonna tell you my name until you tell me yours.”

He leaned toward her, his nostrils flaring as he got a whiff of his shoes. “I’m the detective whose shoes you just puked on!”

Well, if that was all… Rebel scooted back and smoothed her hair some more. She must look a fright. She certainly felt like one. “Oh, did I do that? I’m so sorry—did I get any of that in my hair?” she asked, pawing at her mane, trying to make sure there were no wayward chunks of guacamole and salsa stuck in the thick strands. Gran said she had the most glorious hair south of the Mason Dixon. Rebel took great pains to keep it gloriously clean and shiny.