Still Life: The Randi Lassiter Series, Book 1 (8 page)

Chapter Sixteen

Randi stood in the doorway to her bedroom, watching her best friend ride her husband like a cowboy astride a bucking bronco, bouncing hard enough to make her hair fly. Stuart’s hands kneaded Marsha’s pendulous breasts and then moved to grip the soft flesh of her ass as he climaxed deep inside her.

Randi could imagine how she must have looked to them when they discovered her standing there, tears running down her cheeks. What she remembered with the utmost clarity was the look on their faces. They’d looked shocked and guilty, but not sorry. Not sorry that together, as the two people she loved and trusted in the world most, they had shattered her heart.

Randi shook herself awake, her breath fast and shallow. She lifted her head off the table and looked around her kitchen to get her bearings. Her mistake had been trying to pull an all-nighter in order to make sense of the information she had gathered so far on the murder. Inevitably, as they always did, her dreams had roamed to that merciless moment in the past—the one fucking place that always left her feeling hollow.

Randi jumped up from her kitchen table and shoved open the door to the deck, feeling suddenly claustrophobic. The crisp night air swept in and streamed across her face. She rubbed her eyes and realized they were damp. Lord, would she never get over this shit? It was because she was overly tired, and Detective Bricksen’s scathing words had sent her into a tailspin.

Unfortunately, some small part of her believed what he had said. And she despised herself for that.

Randi grabbed two beers from the fridge and padded out on bare feet to the weathered Adirondack chair on the porch. She rolled the cold, wet bottle across her forehead and then took a long drink, welcoming the temporary numbness the alcohol provided. She heard the pitter-patter of quick footsteps a second before warm fur brushed against her leg. “Hey, Tater. I miss you too.” She reached down and scratched the marmalade cat’s ear and was rewarded with a purr.

She closed her eyes and the dark enveloped her like a cloak. Her senses heightened, and she could smell freshly turned field dirt from the farm down the road mixed with the scent of honeysuckle hedges from the corners of her yard. Not too far off in the distance she heard an owl hoot and another one answer. She opened her eyes and saw the lightning bugs glimmering a few feet above the lawn and her spirit lifted slightly as childhood memories flashed in her head. Tater ran down the steps and tried to keep up with the insects as they lit up. She strayed further into the yard as curiosity beckoned her with one distraction after another.

The reprieve was broken when her mind returned to the present and refused to disconnect, wandering back to the case.

Randi had spent the evening devising a plan of action. She’d poked around on Larissa’s Facebook account. The popular young woman had 653 friends. Without making a single phone call, Randi was reasonably sure of Larissa’s BFF, which coworker she ate lunch with every day, and learned that her parents were not on her friends list. In addition to the basics, a pattern of personal tastes and tendencies emerged. She knew where Larissa shopped for clothes, which movies she liked and where she got her hair and nails done—far too much personal info to have out floating around the World Wide Web.

Randi was glad she used social media for business only. But from a business perspective she was thankful that there were people who still hadn’t upped their privacy settings. In “creeper” mode, she was able to get a full picture of the woman’s life. Tomorrow she would search out the reason Larissa had come to Mt. Ouisco, and hopefully find a clue to her death. She would not take it for granted that she came for an art gala and nothing more.

Randi downed the last of the beer, set the empty down and opened another. She looked out over her garden and imagined what was out there in the dark. She lived in her grandmother’s old house just outside the city. At dusk and dawn she’d see deer, raccoons, and the occasional coyote or fox—all probably on the move this time of night. She heard a breeze rustle through the trees at the edge of the flower bed and hugged herself, remembering that Detective Bricksen said she’d put herself in danger over this. She wondered if that were true or if he was just trying to scare her off the case.

Randi knew that the police were working the case using every official means and that they had access to Larissa’s life that she did not. And she knew they would solve the case long before she ever could. But that wouldn’t keep her from trying. She felt compelled to investigate the woman’s death, unaware of what was driving her. It was uncharacteristic and nothing she’d ordinarily be interested in, and that made it feel even more like Larissa was reaching out from the grave, imploring her to carry on. Aware of how silly that sounded, she buried the unnatural inclinations to the back of her mind and found a way to rationalize her motivation. She needed to prove it to herself.

There was a loud noise at the far end of the garden. The sounds in the dark reminded her of the night in the alley, and she shivered. It was nothing more than the wind or Tater knocking over a piece of her eclectic yard art, not someone standing behind the arborvitae watching her.

She forced her mind in a new direction. It had been late before she’d finished up with the young couple in her office. The Parkers were expecting their first child and were looking for a starter home. She smiled, remembering how protective the husband had been of his wife, making sure as a mother-to-be of his child her every comfort was tended to.

The smile drifted from her lips as her mind took another turn. Would she have a baby someday? Would she ever trust someone enough to let them into her life again? Was that her heartbeat or her biological clock ticking?

She thought back to the conversation with Detective Bricksen’s mother. Randi felt a bit guilty about throwing the fiancée thing in his face, but she’d been so angry she didn’t care. So he suffered from a broken heart too. It was probably the only thing they had in common.

His words echoed in her head:
You’re a realtor playing at private investigation, nothing more. Most PIs have some sense of what they’re doing. It’s just something you do for the money.

And then another voice followed, mimicking the detective’s assessment.

What makes you think you can sell houses, Randi? For Christ’s sake, you have to know what the hell you’re doing first. It will be a waste of time and money. You always come up with these hair-brained ideas, but you’ll end up on your ass. Again.

Stuart had been cruel. It had taken a while for her to realize that Stu had done her a favor. She had proven him wrong. She was determined to do the same with that smart-ass cop!

Randi held the beer bottle into the air and spoke aloud. “Cheers guys, thanks for the motivation.” Her toast elicited another kerfuffle from the edge of the property, and she jumped at the noise. Tater flew up the stairs and began a series of figure eights around her legs. She lifted her hand and gave the finger to whatever was out there and moved her celebration indoors.

Chapter Seventeen

Jon came to work early Wednesday and in a crap-ass mood, agitated over another sleepless night. It was a quarter after five when he went to the coffee maker, emptied the muddy swill that had dried in the bottom and made a fresh pot. He moved in a harsh, sharp manner that mirrored his mood and damned near broke the glass decanter when it hit the edge of the counter.

“Morning.”

Jon jerked at Terri’s unexpected greeting and ground coffee swept over the edge and scattered across the floor. “Shit.” He slammed the lid and shot her a dirty look. Taken back by the silly grin on her face, he narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “What?”

“So…I heard you were out making friends last night.” Her eyes gleamed with vicious anticipation.

His went still. “What did you hear?”

“Well, according to Jo Binder down at The Donut Hole you practically attacked Randi Lassiter last night in her office.” Terri held out a box filled with a baker’s dozen.

“How the hell…” He picked up a plain cake donut.

Terri broke out in boisterous laughter. “Jo heard it from Stitch Reeder when he came in for his morning bear claw, who heard it from his neighbor Bobbi Salzweidl, who heard it from her yoga instructor Willow Donavan, who heard it from a certain adult student named…CJ.” She patted him on the back sympathetically. “Poor baby, you’re now officially
the
hot topic on the gossip wire.”

Jon groaned as he slumped into his chair and bit into the donut.

“How’s it feel, Mr. Popular?”

“You people should patent that method of communication around here. Hell, we should put out all the details on The Donut Hole’s bulletin board and let the public solve this thing.”

“Isn’t that exactly what Randi Lassiter is trying to do?”

Jon shot her a dirty look.

“So how close to the truth do the gossips come?”

“Well…I can honestly say that while I felt like stifling Lassiter with my bare hands, I only assaulted her with my tongue—
words
,” he corrected. He pictured the feisty blonde as she went toe-to-toe with him and tried to hide a smile. Truth was he hadn’t felt like throttling her at all. That strange image of family life that he’d had still confused him. Jon hung his head over his work, wondering how it had gotten this bad. Truth was he felt guilty as hell. Why had he said those things to Randi? Her only real crime had been occupying his every thought since they met. And he had a feeling Terri knew this.

“You should apologize to her, you know.”

Jon paused. “Yeah, I suppose.” He bit his lip and brainstormed on how he could eat crow and not choke on it. But right now he wanted to avoid all contact with her. He changed the subject. “So where are we at?”

Terri grabbed a file and Jon followed her to the whiteboard. She ran down what she had coordinated so far.

“Vic’s car was located downtown. Nothing unusual about it. Locked up and clean, doesn’t appear to be any transfer of blood, so I don’t think it was used to transport her from the primary. It’s at impound now—day-shift guys are working it for evidence.”

“What else?”

“Walberg left for Woodbury at five this morning. Woodbury PD said Larissa’s parents are coming in for a preliminary photo ID, so Mike will conduct an interview with them then. He’ll schedule a follow-up with us here when they come to make arrangements for the body.”

“Anything else from Walnut Ridge?”

“No prints in the room, except the vic’s and housekeeping. Ostlund and Erland are tracking down the other guests and artists—the ones that are in the area anyway. Seems a number of them are from out of state and go home during the week. The owner has set up semi-permanent housing for the troop. Some will stay and continue to work on their art, but the entire group reconvenes for these weekends. We’ll have to hunt them down individually or catch them all together at the next show.”

“Yeah, I was thinking the same. What about the staff out there?”

“Stanton and Trujillo went out first thing to get statements. Seems Georgia does most everything herself, but she has two maintenance guys that were there this past weekend. The event was catered by a staff of eight, including the coordinator, who stays at the resort for the bulk of the year and is technically part of the troop.”

“Anything from the lab yet?” Terri asked.

“I was just getting ready to see if anything came in.” He made a few rapid taps on the laptop keyboard and brought up the email from the lab. Getting results via his personal computer wasn’t authorized but given budgetary issues on IT equipment in the small department, it wasn’t frowned on either. It beat waiting for the paper report. “Yeah, here it is. Great—we got zip.” He pointed to the screen. “Zip on latent prints, zip on fiber and hair. Wait. Here’s something—no defensive wounds or skin under the fingernails. That usually means no struggle, which means Larissa might have known her attacker or didn’t feel threatened. There’s nothing on the toxicology screen, so she wasn’t drugged—at least with any standard compounds.”

“So caught off guard?”

“Exactly.” Jon tapped a few more keys. “Okay, looks like we got finals on our autopsy. Madison must have a light load—that was fairly fast.” He studied the screen while Terri pulled up a chair. “Huh. Looks like cause of death is blunt-force trauma.”

Terri rose to hover over his shoulder. “Really? Not the giant slit across her throat?”

“Bashed the back of the head first. Medical examiner reports the wound to her skull was fatal. The gash at her throat would have been immediate but post mortem. Only way to explain the cast off. The rest of the cutting he did in the alley,” said Jon.

“And if she was hit on the back of her head, that explains why there weren’t any defensive wounds.”

“ME says extensive animal damage to tissue on her face and head.”

“This guy killed her, dumped her in the alley, then he cut up her face and left her for the animals.” They stared at the photos that were part of the online file. Jon pointed to the screen. “How do we know for a fact the cutting was done after the BD?” asked Terri.

“There’s no way those wounds would have remained that clean during the transfer. There’d be fiber or grit collected on the open tissue. The cuts are clean. Here, look at this.” The photo was one of several showing the crime scene from different angles. “There’s something not quite right about these pictures.”

“What do you mean?”

Jon’s head tilted as he scrutinized the photo. “I think he posed her.” He saw confusion on Terri’s face and explained. “If the killer had just tossed her down, her hands would not have flopped into that position. Plus, there’d be refuse under her. See the extension of her arms and the unnatural state of her fingers?” He pointed. “Those limbs are stretched out, pulled into that position. And see the way the garbage is, or should I say isn’t. The area was cleared from trash before she was on the ground and filled in around her. With the exception of where Randi Lassiter crawled to the body.” He pointed. “There’s no way our boy would have let the corpse get chewed on until he got what he needed from this kill.” He was miffed that he hadn’t noticed that at the scene—but then he had been called there at two-thirty in the morning after sleeping off a few beers.

Terri nodded. “Shit, you’re right. Is that some sort of message?”

“Who the hell knows?” He shook his head. “Let’s follow up on the database. Those are pretty specific signature items. Maybe something will shake loose in the system.”

“I’ve got Wacko going over security cam footage.”

“Wonderful, can’t wait to read that report. Does he still write in crayon, or is he using the big boy pencil now?”

“Hey, it keeps him out of our hair and I figured either you or I will review it when he’s done regardless.”

“Yeah, guess it couldn’t hurt,” said Jon.

They stood staring at the whiteboard, checking for anything they might have missed.

“What’re you doing?” It was Wacko’s version of both a greeting and an intelligent query. He’d managed to waddle up behind them unnoticed like some ninja hippo.

“We’re working.” Terri said as if she were speaking to someone new to the English language.

“Yeah, funny.” He scratched his beer belly and unknowingly popped a button. It bounced and rolled under Terri’s desk.

Terri turned away and rolled her eyes at Jon.

Jon looked down at what Wacko held in his hand. “Is that by any chance for us?”

“Yeah, but I’m telling you now, this is my work and my collar. You damned well better include me on the arrest!” Wacko thrust the envelope into Jon’s chest and left.

“What the hell?” Jon tore open the envelope Wacko had marked
camera footage
, dumping the contents out and handing Terri half of the photos. Each stack was clipped together and labeled with an identifier showing the security camera it came from within a five-block radius of the motel. They were from a couple of banks, a gas station, a used car lot, and a floral shop. On the third stack, they saw the only vehicle within the time frame of the murder and body dump. There was a note in Wachowski’s handwriting attached:

-Black truck (possibly Ford F-150)

-Seen driving on 20th St. in direction of Hometown Café at 9:15 p.m. and returning down same street at 9:30.

-WI Plate RJQ 153 comes back to a silver Dodge Durango—plates reported stolen in Racine 2 days ago.

Attached was a list of all black Ford pickups registered in Wisconsin. There were nearly fifteen hundred of them. They were both taken aback at the efficient, timely report.

“Holy shit.” Terri exclaimed. “What do we do now?”

It took Jon a moment to get over Wacko’s surprising proficiency. “We have a lead to follow, which is more than we had five minutes ago. Let’s call Racine.”