Pretty Dead (2 page)

Nightingale left the café. There was a whole big world out there.

Like Savannah, Georgia.

CHAPTER 2

Four months later . . .

F
ifteen minutes after arriving at her office on the third floor of the Savannah Police Department, her coffee yet unsipped, breakfast just a pipe dream, head homicide detective Elise Sandburg received an alert about a dead body. She immediately put in a call to her partner.

“I’m five minutes out,” David Gould said. Through the phone, she could hear the sound of traffic. “Meet me in the parking lot.” He disconnected with no attempt at conversation.

Elise let out a sigh and headed down the hall to the elevator.

Six months had passed since they’d bonded over injuries suffered at the hands of the monster the press called “the Organ Thief.” For a brief time it seemed their relationship had smoothed and fallen into an easy camaraderie. Pals, friends, albeit cautious friends. Yes, there’d been that time, that one time . . . Like two teenagers, they’d almost gone all the way. Almost. But that was in the past. This new thing—and she was beginning to think that, with David, there would always be a new thing—had zero to do with “almost.”

David wasn’t happy unless he was stirring something up. Unless he was trying to get under her skin. Typically just annoying stuff or kind of funny stuff she might even admit she secretly enjoyed. But this new thing could only be considered betrayal.

Blatant, in-your-face betrayal. Of course
he
didn’t see it that way. And of course he thought she was making something out of nothing. But it was a lot more than
nothing
when your partner befriended the very person who’d ruined your life. The very person she’d taught herself to hate with the hatred of a thousand burning suns.

Her father, Jackson Sweet.

David had helped him find a place to stay. And now he was trying to help him find work. They’d even gone fishing together. Fishing!

Elise could have dealt with the job hunting and the housing. She might have begrudgingly done those things herself if David hadn’t stepped in first. But the fishing. Fishing was something you did with buddies, with good friends.

And not only that. It had also altered the relationship between Elise and David. It meant there was no more dropping by David’s apartment—not with the chance her father might be there. Not if it meant she might be sitting in the same seat her father had vacated minutes or hours earlier. That kind of presence lingered after a person was gone. Sometimes days, sometimes weeks. And sometimes it never went away. Why couldn’t David see that? Why didn’t he understand the level of his betrayal?

Caught up in this preoccupation with her homicide partner, Elise was hardly aware of taking the elevator to street level, hardly aware of pushing open the police department’s double doors, hardly aware of stepping outside.

A man shot off a bench and lunged at her.

All reaction and no thought, Elise slammed him against the trunk of a tree, her forearm to his throat as she pulled her gun and pressed it to his temple.

His hands shot up and he stammered, “I’m Jay Thomas Paul from the
New York Times
!
New York Times
!”

She stared at him a moment, gauging his fear—the dilated pupils behind hip glasses, the perspiration on his forehead.

She released him and slipped her Glock back into her shoulder holster, as he nervously watched her and rubbed his throat.

“Bad idea to startle a cop,” she said.

“I was excited to finally meet you. I’ve read about you. Heard about you. Sorry.”

That kind of comment raised the question:
What
had he heard? That she’d been left on a grave as an infant? That her dad had returned from the dead decades too late, after she no longer gave a damn?

Behind her, people who’d stopped to watch her initial overreaction moved on, toward the police station. The ones who worked there would probably report the incident to Major Hoffman, who would then feel inclined to ask if Elise needed to schedule an extra appointment with the department psychologist, along with a few days’ leave. And all the while Hoffman would wonder if it had been a mistake to give Elise the job of head homicide detective.

And all the while Elise would wonder the same thing.

Because, hell yeah, she was jumpy. It wasn’t this Jay Thomas Paul person’s fault. Her reaction simply underscored a problem she hadn’t yet gotten a handle on. Her psych evaluation, which she’d never seen, although she’d love to, probably said something about the psychological ramifications of being taken captive and tortured by a madman.

She’d done okay at first, after it was all over. But now she suspected post-traumatic stress disorder was kicking in. She hoped it would eventually kick its way back out. If not, she might have to step down as head of homicide.

“Sorry,” she told the man named Jay Thomas Paul.

He gave her an almost shy smile and pulled out a business card. “That might be the most unusual meet I’ve ever had in this job.”

He was in his early forties, with curly dark hair a bit on the long side, a clean-shaven jaw, and a manner that felt casual and friendly—now that she was no longer trying to kill him. His overall vibe, combined with his multipocketed khaki vest, his jeans, and his sneakers, shouted “reporter”—a type she made a point of avoiding.

She slipped his card into her pocket. “Your name isn’t familiar,” she said. “Why are you here again?”

“From the
New York Times
. We’re doing a piece on you and your partner. I was told you’d been informed and had given your okay. I’m supposed to shadow you.”

She took note of the photo ID clipped to his breast pocket. Curly-haired guy smiling at the camera.

She had a vague recollection of Major Hoffman pulling her aside and giving her a pep talk about an interview. “Good for the department. Good for the city.” Something like that. Problem was, cops and reporters didn’t mix. Elise was sure there were ethical reporters out there—the kind who weren’t so obsessed with their own careers that they would risk blowing a case—but the ones cops tended to run into were barely a step above the paparazzi. And now, to have to play big sister to this guy . . . It didn’t sit well with her.

“I’m too busy today.” She turned and walked away.

He dogged her with all the determination of his occupation, matching her stride with a bouncy step that could only be described as boyish and enthused. It wasn’t hard for him to keep up since she was still in physical therapy for the injuries she’d sustained at the hands of the Organ Thief. At least she no longer needed a cane.

In the parking lot, Elise hit the fob on the key ring she’d been given at the checkout desk upon her arrival. An unmarked car answered, and she shot for it, Jay Thomas still glued to her side while she tried to think of ways to shake him. The easiest would be to simply get in the car and drive off. Yeah, that would work.

“I’m supposed to come along,” he insisted. “That’s what shadowing is. Spend the whole day with you. Well, actually weeks.”

“Weeks?” Cripes. She had to put an end to this right now.

Elise pulled out her phone and poked at the touch pad. While waiting for Major Hoffman to answer, she crossed her arms and leaned against the car, eyes on the man in front of her. Hard to believe an hour ago she’d been enjoying the beauty of the May morning—admiring the flowers that were the glorious harbinger of summer, colorful blossoms everywhere, brightening up even the darkest of streets. Now she had to deal with a dead body and an overenthusiastic reporter.

He smiled at her.

She stared back.

He was actually rather attractive. God, she couldn’t believe the thought had even popped into her mind. Where had it come from? But he was. Not handsome like Gould, who was the kind of perfection that turned heads. This guy was familiar and safe. He wouldn’t notice or care about her scars. More to the point, she wouldn’t care if he saw them.

“I’ve got somebody here who looks like he’s going on safari and says he’s supposed to shadow me,” she said as soon as her boss picked up. “Curly hair. Hipster glasses. Vest with a hundred pockets. Please tell me he’s lying.”

“Jay Thomas Paul. He was just in my office,” Hoffman said.

Elise imagined Hoffman sitting at her desk, a bag of her current choice of snack food in front of her, red nails, red lipstick. Always immaculately groomed.

“I told him to wait outside,” Hoffman said. “Glad he found you.”

At that moment a black Honda Civic squealed into the parking lot. The engine cut, the door opened, and Elise’s partner, David Gould, tumbled out, an insulated coffee mug in his hand. He strode toward her, looking all movie star, coattails flapping, a question on his face as he took in the new guy.

Elise shrugged as Major Hoffman went into a spiel about how they needed to be more transparent, needed to seem more like real people, needed to boost the department’s image; how Elise especially needed to come across as professional, as well as personable. “We’ve already talked about shedding that chilly persona,” Hoffman reminded her.

“I don’t think it’s a bad thing for me to keep my distance, especially now that I’m head of homicide.” A weak argument, Elise realized.

“I’m not saying you need to kiss babies, but just be a bit more approachable, that’s all. And this article they want to run could help you achieve that. Try to be more like Detective Gould. Not
that
casual, but you know what I mean.”

Elise turned her back to the two men and walked away, ducking into a shaded corner of the lot and whispering into her phone. “He’s going to go for the conjurer’s daughter angle. No matter what they told you, that’s the story. You know that’s the story.”

“It won’t be the story, because the piece has to be approved by you and the department before the paper runs it. He signed an agreement. Like it or not, we’re locked into this.”

A contract. Elise had lost the argument before she’d even started. All the things she’d planned to say were kicked to the curb. “I want you to know I think it’s a bad idea.”

“I would have been surprised if you’d said otherwise.”

Elise laughed, disconnected, slipped her phone into her jacket pocket, and turned to see the two men watching her with guarded eyes. One guy afraid she might kick his ass again, the other . . . Well, who knew what David was
really
thinking?

Over the past couple of months he’d made advances that she’d either ignored or fended off until he’d finally stopped. And once he stopped, she’d found she missed the flirty part of their interactions. How ridiculous was that? But his giving up was for the best. She’d even heard he was dating somebody now. Who, she didn’t know. And she didn’t know if it was serious or just something he did for release. For sex.

“Don’t we have a body to visit?” David finally asked.

She dumped her thoughts while hitting the car’s “Unlock” button once again. They all piled in—Elise behind the wheel, David in the passenger seat, and her new friend directly behind her. One cozy family.

“Details?” David asked as he clicked his seat belt.

“Female and dead.” Elise maneuvered the car out of the parking lot and made a left onto Drayton. “That’s all I got.”

David took a sip of coffee. “Who’s your buddy?”

“Somebody from the
New York Times
. He has
three
first names. Jay Thomas Paul.”

“And he’s going to be with us how long?”

“Could be weeks.”

“That sucks.”

“Truly.”

This was what they did. Elise considered it a mental exercise. A type of relaxation. Light conversation to prep themselves for what was ahead.

“Do the crossword today?” David asked.

“Didn’t have a chance.”

She was fast suspecting the whole crossword thing was David’s way of trying to retain some form of relationship. Every morning he arrived at headquarters with the puzzle partially done. They’d share their answers and, with luck, complete it together by grabbing a few minutes here and there throughout the day. It had been going on for two months now, and the crossword device was becoming another thing that irritated her, even though she knew her reaction was extreme. Maybe because it wasn’t really about the crossword puzzle at all. Why didn’t he just come right out and admit he’d butted in where he shouldn’t have? Why didn’t he just apologize?

“I would have had it done in fifteen minutes, but I got hung up on one word,” David said. “The clue is ‘the Cornish Wonder.’ Four letters. What the hell does that mean? Cornish Wonder? Is that anything like a Cornish hen?”

“No idea.” Traffic. The tedious pattern of going around the one-way squares, stopping for horse-drawn carriage tours and tourists clutching maps.

From the backseat came one word: “Opie.”

Gould turned so he could eyeball the reporter. “Opie?”

“John Opie. Known as the Cornish Wonder.”

“That’s obscure.”

“Very,” Jay Thomas agreed.

“You do the crossword puzzle?” David asked, with sudden interest in their new friend.
The
crossword puzzle.

The
crossword puzzle used to be the one in the
New York Times
, but there was a new kid in town, a new puzzle designer who was said to be as mysterious and reclusive as J. D. Salinger. Maybe Jay Thomas and David could bond over crosswords, Elise thought. Maybe she could step aside.

It didn’t surprise her that Jay Thomas was a fanatic. The whole country seemed to be humming about the new puzzles. The first one had run a year and a half ago in a few city papers. Other presses quickly followed, and now a new puzzle was a weekday feature in the
Savannah Morning News
. The popularity of the puzzles had elevated interest in physical paper sales throughout the country—a true phenomenon in this digital age. It seemed most people still preferred to fold the paper and hold it in their hands, filling in the squares the old-fashioned way, with a pencil or pen.

The popularity of the puzzles was a bit of a mystery, but some thought it was because the clues were often clever, sarcastic, and funny, and as toughness went, they ranked in that sweet spot somewhere between those in
USA Today
and the
New York Times
. Adding to the appeal was the mysterious nature of the designer. Nobody knew his or her identity, although many people took stabs at guessing, one of the most popular theories being that it was the president of the United States, due to his well-known love of word puzzles. But you couldn’t have a president supplying clues for words like “manwhore.” Plus he had a job to do. A big job.