Particles of Murder (A Shadow of Death Romantic Suspense Series Book 1) (6 page)

A man steps into the store and walks straight to me. He has pitch black hair that looks like it was cut haphazardly, and the body frame of an ancient Roman sculpture except it appears like the muscle around the left side of his chest is slightly underdeveloped. I could tell you a thousand things about him—by analyzing his body and threadbare clothes, or just by shared history.

He sits across from me at a table near the cash register.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I peek in once in a while. I saw you here, so I thought I’d come say hi,” he says.

“That doesn’t sound like you’re stalking me at all.”

“I’m watching out for you,” he says.

“The last time you did that, I ended up nearly getting fired and arrested,” I say. “So, if you could stop caring, that would be best for me. You need to leave.”

He reaches across the table and grabs my hand. I jerk it out of his grasp.

“Mira, I know I messed up in a lot of ways, but it doesn’t mean…you know…that I didn’t have your best interest in mind.”

“You never had my best interests in mind!” I spit out. The store door opens and John Zimmer steps in. It’s the first time I’m grateful to see him. “John!”

He notices me and walks over.

“Hey, I need to talk to you,” he says, looking between Andre and I. “Privately.”

“He was just leaving,” I say.

Andre grimaces, but stands up. He sizes John up for a second before striding out of the store. John watches him leave before turning back toward me.

“I’m sorry…did I interrupt something?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “But, I’m sorry. I can’t help you with your case anymore. I’ve been told that I could get in trouble if I continue to look into this, and I like my job. I truly am sorry, but I think you’re going to have to accept that her death was natural.”

“I know you don’t want to risk your job, but I think Dr. Cameron Pierce could be guilty. I questioned him about Victoria. He denied that he was seeing her, but his body language and the way he talked about her…everything was off. I’m certain that he’s lying.”

I rub my temple. “That doesn’t mean he killed her.”

“Like you said before—it means he has motive.”

“It means that he’s a cheating asshole who abuses his power as a professor,” I correct. “And it means nothing when I could lose my job over a cheating asshole that likely lies all of the time.”

“Mira, I can’t do this alone,” he says. “You’ve been involved in…how many investigations? A hundred?”

“More than that,” I say. “But I’ve helped you look and there’s nothing—”

“So, you just give up after a day?” he asks.

I press my lips together. He could have taken the words straight out of the conversation I had with Detective Stolz.

I shake my head. “I can’t. I can’t do it. I’m sorry.”

He rubs his thumb against his bottom lip for a second before nodding.

“Of course,” he says. “I understand. You’ve already stuck your neck out for me. I’m sorry I tried to push you to do more. That was wrong of me. I’ll…leave you alone. I’m sorry.”

He stands back up.

“Thank you for all of your help,” he says.

“I wish I could do more,” I say. “But I just can’t.”

He forces a smile before turning and leaving the store.

Who needs magic when I can make men disappear just by speaking?

* * *

W
hen I was a child
, my father told me that success was composed of three elements: luck/circumstances, hard work, and the ability to focus on one goal until it was accomplished. In my life experience, I found his belief to be true. I had the circumstances of being raised in a family that put my studies first and also offered me a job that could help me pay for my education, but also work around tests and other important events. I worked hard through school and had an internship with a forensic scientist. I focused on this goal of becoming a trace evidence analyst, forgoing many of the expected social engagements other people my age were involved in.

But now that my goal is accomplished, I’m not sure if it’s what I should have spent so much time focusing on.

It’s not that I think I should have focused on having a family or friends. It’s that when I’m confronted with this death of a student and it’s being ignored because of time constraints and the murders of people who are considered more important, it feels like I haven’t succeeded. It feels like my life is a complete and utter failure.

“There was also an incident at Tuskmirth College,” the radio hosts says.

I turn up my radio as I stop at an intersection. I’ve just begun driving to my lab and the caffeine from my coffee hadn’t kicked in yet, but the mention of Tuskmirth College has jolted me a bit.

The radio host continues, “A professor’s office had been ransacked. Nothing was reported stolen, but the campus police are looking into the incident since the door had been locked and it appeared that the office had been purposely turned into a mess. I’m pretty sure there are some college movies about this. It may not look like anything was stolen, but a student could have stolen some test answers or something to blackmail the professor.”

“Wasn’t the professor in the English department?” the female co-host asks. “I’m fairly certain they don’t have tests in most English classes.”

“Of course, they do,” he says. “With questions like,
Who are two characters in Romeo and Juliet?
But, yeah, it was from the English department, so at least we know it wasn’t from some important field of study that was going to cure cancer or create some new technology.”

“Campus police also noted that this was an interesting occurrence because it’s the same office that a student died in a couple of days ago. You remember the one—Victoria Glassman. The police never released her cause of death.”

I flip on my turn signal. They haven’t said anything about John, but there’s always the possibility that we tipped off a killer while we were questioning people. The last thing I need is his murder on my hands.

* * *

J
ohn isn’t
in his office, but after asking another professor next door, I find the English building and walk down the hallway until I hear his voice. I stop right outside the doorway, seeing him lean against his desk with a small stack of paper in his hand, talking to his students.

“…and if you just clarify what you’re talking about a bit more, I think it would improve the story. Your metaphors are beautiful—I love the comparison between the ritual of communion and falling in love—but in some parts, it takes away from what’s actually happening in the story. You also tend to fill your stories with facts. I think you just become so involved in what you’re researching that you feel the need to put it all in the story, but it’s unnecessary. Seriously, though, Amanda. It’s a great story. I’m only critiquing it this way because I know you and I know you can make it better.”

“Thank you so much, Dr. Zimmer,” a petite brunette in the second row of desks murmurs.

His eyes flicker up as he notices me. “Uh, one minute, class. I need to talk to a friend for a second.”

He sets down the papers and walks out to the hallway. He stands in front of me.

“What’s going on?” he whispers. “Did you find something in the evidence you had missed before?”

“Um, no, sorry,” I say. “I just heard about what happened to your office, and I was concerned that if something had happened to Victoria, that the person who hurt her could have gone after you.”

“Oh,” he says, a hint of disappointment in his voice. “Well, thank you, but I’m okay. It was probably just a student angry about some criticism or a bad grade.”

“You don’t think it could have been someone who could have hurt Victoria?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Why would they go from killing someone to wrecking my office? That makes no sense. Maybe it was one of her friends who suspected me, like you had suspected me. Maybe it was the killer, but he was just making sure he didn’t leave anything behind. I don’t know, but they did it before I got here this morning, so I don’t think they wanted to hurt me.”

“The fact that you only think this person didn’t want to hurt you isn’t very reassuring.”

“It’s nice that you’re concerned, but I’m fine,” he says. “But since you came rushing over here, that makes me think you do think Victoria was murdered and you still want to investigate.”

I grimace. “Of course I want to figure out what really happened, but I also don’t want to lose my job. I worked really hard to get it. Chemistry is not the easiest field of study.”

“You can tell yourself what you want, but you would have heard on the news if I had been hurt, or you could have just called to check on me,” he says. “I think you wanted to come back here to start up our investigations again. I’m not trying to—”

There’s a loud clanging sound in the classroom, followed by several gasps.

John turns back toward his classroom and rushes inside. I peek past him. A young man—bald, wearing a plaid shirt and carpenter pants—is lying on his side, his chair knocked over beside him. He must have fallen back from his desk. His eyes stare blankly up at the ceiling.

John kneels down next to him. He presses two fingers against the man’s neck. After a few seconds, he grabs the man’s wrist and checks his pulse there. He looks up at me.

“He’s dead.”

* * *

“
H
is name is Everett Pine
. He is…he was in his senior year. This is the third class I’ve had with him. Everyone called him Plaid because he has at least a dozen plaid shirts,” John tells Detective Stolz.

Detective Macmillan and I watch as Tim takes the body out of the room.

“And where did all your other students go?” Stolz asks.

John turns to me. “Mira had me tell her all of their names and we dismissed them all,” he says. “I didn’t think it was a good idea to keep them around a…a deceased person. I’m sure the fact that they were all in here was traumatizing enough.”

Stolz scowls. “Good. So you may have set loose our killer, who could disappear forever now.”

“I’m sorry. Are you proposing that I should have kept all these kids here?” I ask.

“Young adults, Solano,” Stolz corrects. “And they were all suspects.”

“We have their names.”

“The killer could still run.”

“Okay, ladies,” Macmillan interrupts. “Let’s focus on what we have right now. Did Mr. Pine have any connection to Ms. Glassman?”

I look to my right, where Ed Bunt, another forensic scientist, is packing up everything he found around Everett’s desk. Ed leaves the room, silent as always. I wonder if it’s just a job to him or if he cares whether or not a killer is found.

“They’re both in the English department. They’re both good writers…I don’t know. They likely share a few classes and have overlapping friends. It’s a tight knit group.”

“You know what else they have in common?” Macmillan asks. “You.”

He shakes his head. “I had an appointment when Victoria was killed and I was talking to Mira when Everett died.”

“But somehow you know Victoria was killed?” Stolz interjects.

“I think that’s the obvious assumption at this point,” John counters. “Two students don’t just drop dead on their own.”