The Sholes Key (An Evans & Blackwell Mystery #1) (23 page)

“What way, Mr. Smithwick?”

“A couple of times I have returned home from work and found my door open.”

“Unlocked or actually open?”

“Both. My wife, twice a day, took our dog for a walk and when she returned… I was always on her about it and she laughed it off, saying that she had Maxwell to protect her.” He smiled to himself. “She lived a happy life in her own little world when she wrote.”

As Theo watched Mr. Smithwick turn the corner, he felt his mobile buzz. A text message.
Have some vital information. Come see me. Dr. Nevega.

Entering the cold, bleak room again, Theo saw the pathologist standing near the body. Dr. Nevega placed various instruments beside the victim on a small movable table, saying the names aloud as he did.

“Dr. Nevega?” Theo asked as he neared. “You wanted to see me?

He looked up sharply. “Oh yes, you got my message, wonderful. I have something interesting to show you. Come.”

“Autopsy done?” Theo approached cautiously. The writer’s body lay cut open, exposed. He covered his nose. The smell grew stronger as he neared.

“Soon. Look at this. You’ll find this interesting. Switch on that small lamp there on the steel table.” When Theo did so, Dr. Nevega went over to the wall and switched off the lights.

“Whoa,” Theo said. “What’s going on here?”

“You’ll like this.” He grabbed a long tube and flipped a switch on the side. “I ran an ultraviolet light over the body. It detects things such as odd fluid marks: semen or saliva. As I ran the light over the hands… look at this.” Lifting up her fingers, he shined the blue light down on the tips.

Leaning in closer, Theo strained his eyes to see. The first pass of the lights revealed something noticeable but small. “Go back,” he said, pushing Dr. Nevega’s arm exactly where he wanted it. The letters stamped onto the tips came into view.

“I almost missed them, didn’t see them the first go round. What do you think they mean?” Lifting the light from the fingers, Dr. Nevega shined it into Theo’s eyes.

“Not sure.”

“What are you two doing in the dark?” asked Dorland, pushing the swinging doors open as he entered. The outside light shone into the room.

“Shut the door,” Theo yelled at him. He took the light from Dr. Nevega and lifted the victim’s left hand. “Dorland, do you have any paper?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Write this down for me: q… e… t… k.” Then moving the light to the four fingers on the right hand, Theo said, “W… r… y… b. Have you written down the letters?”

“QETKWRYB? Why is he leaving us messages with letters and not numbers? Why the change?” Dorland asked.

“I don’t know. Have you checked the toes, Dr. Nevega?”

“Yes. After I found the letters on the fingers, I checked everywhere else including eyelids.”

“Thorough. Do you have anything else for me?” Theo turned on the lights behind him and squinted to examine Helena’s face.

“She was definitely strangled, most likely cause of death. Pick up her hands again, look at her fingernails,” Dr. Nevega said.

Lifting her fingers, Theo turned them around. Her hands were soft but cold. All of her nails were broken or half torn off.

“She clawed at her neck. Notice the scratches?” Dr. Nevega pointed to her throat. “In an attempt to loosen the scarf, she dug her nails into her skin.”

Theo moved the folds of skin around her neck to examine the bruising more closely. “This doesn’t really fit his MO, does it? Our serial killer hits his victims over the head before he strangles them.”

“That I don’t know, but perhaps he tried and she stopped him,” suggested Dr. Nevega. “All I know is she was strangled.”

“Were there any blood or knife wounds found on the body?”

“Blood? That belonged to her or her killer? No, none. There were no cuts or stab wounds either. Was there supposed to be?”

“Just curious. Was she raped?” Theo asked.

“No, just like the other body, she was left alone in that aspect.”

“Body number two does have a completely different MO, except for the strangulation,” Dr. Nevega said. “By the way, both were strangled by a similar type fabric—women’s silk scarves. The one around her neck I sent off to forensics. It had no tag so I’m not sure if they can trace it.”

"Time of death?”

“Some time Tuesday night. Rigor mortis has come and gone already. I will know more when the autopsy is complete. You’ll receive my full report.”

Chapter 25

When Sophia awoke Friday morning, she walked down the hall to her other flat. No one answered when she knocked. She used her spare set of keys to open the door. In the bedroom, the bed looked slept in. The smell of shampoo still lofted in from the shower room. She wandered into the kitchen and spotted the paper immediately.
“Thanks,”
it said simply. She held the note in her hand longer than her heart said was wise. Why couldn’t the men in her life be uncomplicated? Why couldn’t the answer be simple? Marc’s story ran though her head. It answered all her questions, explained his hesitation and the guilt that appeared on his face every time he told her he loved her.

His innocence had to be the reason she couldn’t find the key. Although she didn’t want the last five months to be a waste, she took comfort knowing that the time had built the bond between them. Going undercover had introduced them, and if it worked out in the end, perhaps she would be with him for many years to come. Her father liked him, too.

Sophia hadn’t heard from Marc all day. It worried her. The repeated messages from Liam reminding her of her cock-up made her second-guess herself. She knew it was only a matter of time until the next bomb went off. She felt all eyes on her. They expected her to prove Marc guilty. They expected her to find the key. They were not looking into other leads; they were convinced of Marc’s guilt. If they refused to explore other options, her hands were tied. What she needed was a clear mind, and all this emotion clouded her judgment.

At five, she stood at Marc’s door, her right hand balled into a fist, ready to knock. The door opened before she could. Marc motioned her in and shut the door.

“Did you come alone?” he said, peering out the window.

“Who else would I be with?” she replied. “Is that why you’ve not rung me all day? What’s the matter with you? Why are you on edge?”

“I don’t know. I think people are following me.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why would anyone follow you, Marc? You’re not in any trouble, are you?”

“No reason. No, you’re right. I’m overly stressed, that’s all. Did you get my email?”

“No.” Sophia cocked her head. What was Liam up to?

“I sent you an email.”

Sophia pulled the mobile from her bag. “Let me check. Why wouldn’t you just ring?”

“Check your email.”

She did. “You sent me an e-card?”

“I made you an e-card, and it took me all morning. Watch it. That’s why I thought you came. I thought you forgave me.”

The video popped up on the screen. A sweet song played, as photos of the two of them sitting on a bench in Hyde Park flashed by.

       “I once held the beauty and uniqueness
       Of a snowflake in my hand.
       But, because of my selfish actions,
       Only had a teardrop left on my palm.”

“That’s so sweet.”

Marc turned slightly and Sophia caught him wipe a tear from his cheek. “Did you like it?” he asked her softly.

She laughed. “Are you kidding me? Romeo couldn’t have uttered sweeter words.”

Marc put his hands to her waist and brought her close. “Do you feel better now?”

“Maybe. I brought something for you.”

“What?”

She held keys in front of his face.

“You’re going to let me drive your car?” he asked.

“No, I’m going to let you drive
your
car. I was going to knit you a cardigan, then I was going to buy you one, then I drove past the dealership. Whatever you do, don’t tell me you’d have preferred the cardie.”

“Do you normally buy your boyfriends a new car?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“No, not really, you knob. Besides, it’s on lease. I can take it back at any time.” She gave him a gentle push. “So are we going for a ride or what?”

* * *

Shortly after midnight, Marc dropped Sophia off at the Mercedes Benz dealership, and she drove her own car toward home. She wanted to ring Liam and tell him to stop following Marc, but then it hit her. What if the killer was following Marc? The hairs on her arms went up. The rest of the way home, she drove a different route, sped through three yellow lights and one red to see if someone would follow. No one did.

When she approached her block of flats, she slowed down and studied the cars in front of her building. A white vehicle caught her attention. She met the driver’s eyes. When she descended into the car park, the other car followed. After she parked in her spot, she pointed to an empty stall behind her. The white car pulled in.

“How did you know it was me?” Theo asked. He pressed the fob and a horn resounded.

“It’s your mother’s number plate, isn’t it?”

“Do you have all my plates memorized?”

“Yes.” She pressed the button for the lift and watched the numbers decrease. “You have good news?”

“Remember we thought the writer wasn’t related, because she had no code etched into her back?”

Sophia turned to him. “Don’t tell me you found…?”

Theo held up his fingers and wiggled them. “Stamped on her fingertips.” From his pocket he pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to her.

“These are letters.” The lift doors opened and Sophia walked inside. “Coming?”

Theo didn’t move. Instead, he looked at his car and down at his watch. “I should go. I haven’t been home much the last few days.”

Sophia held out her hand to stop the doors from closing. She suddenly felt ill, her stomach jumped into her throat.

“Is that all right?” he asked.

“What? Yes, all right. Near the entrance there’s a button that opens the garage door. I will work on this code.” She held up the paper and let the lift doors close. Why did she feel so uneasy? As the lift ascended to her apartment, she took a deep breath and started the search engine on her mobile. This code was different—only letters. QETKWEYB. The lift doors opened on the third floor and she stepped out.

In a search bar, she typed Cryptogram Solver and picked the first result. When she typed the eight letters over six hundred possible options appeared. It could also be a name. The killer was testing her. As she walked toward her door, she scrolled through the list. Nothing stood out. She pulled her keys from her bag and placed it in the lock. The lift dinged behind her. She turned around to see Theo disembark. He walked toward her, shoulders slouched, but didn’t say anything. She grabbed his hand, led him inside and kicked the door closed behind them.

She took some notepaper from her bag and sat down on the sofa.

“I gave the security footage to forensic,” Theo said. “I begged them to make the killer’s face clearer. Let’s keep our fingers crossed.” He sat down next to her.

She nodded and picked up her copy of code two. Counting numbers and repeating the same division she had done with the first, she wrote down the results on the paper.

“What are you doing?” He leaned over her shoulder and watched her write.

“I’ve determined that the code is neatly broken up into double digits rather than four. After writing down each two-digit number I come across, I’m only left with the numbers 11, 12, 13, 14, 21, 22, 23, 24, 31, 32, 33, 34. That’s only twelve numbers. Twelve. We need twenty-six to make up the alphabet. I’m missing something.” She picked up the paper Theo had given her. “This must mean something.”

“What?”

Sophia lifted her eight fingers and held them in Theo’s face. “What would you use these eight fingers for?” She wiggled every finger except her thumbs.

“I don’t know. I use my hands for everything. Why? What’s wrong with your fingers?”

“What is the killer trying to say?”

“He’s trying to press our buttons?”

She sat back and closed her eyes, trying to picture the crime scene. She opened her eyes. “I think I have it.”

“You do?”

“Theo, listen. About the letters found on the fingers—the third code—I think we’re all wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

She stood up and walked back and forth across the carpet. “We’ve found all the crime scenes staged very carefully. The killer left nothing willy-nilly, especially the codes. We’re trying to solve it instead of looking at it. What I mean is, look where we found the code, not on her back or in numbers. The letters were found hidden on her fingers.”

“We could have missed that code. Easy to pass over the fingers and miss it completely.”

She waved him off. “But we have found it. Now we have to think about what’s being staged. Why put the code on her fingers? Why letters? Personally, I think it’s more important to know what it means, not what it says. What does it mean? Why write on her fingers, why not her back? Then it came to me. The killer stamped the letters on her fingertips.”

“Yes?”

“Well,” Sophia replied, “what does a writer do? She writes. Every word she types out, she touches her fingers to letters, letters on a keyboard. They don’t actually leave a mark on the fingers, thus the invisibility. But they do leave a mark on the page, and on other people’s lives.”

“And that’s why he strangled Helena?”

“That I don’t know.” She picked up the letter code again and studied it.

“What point is he trying to make?” Theo pondered. “There are many authors who type, and many more of them make stronger statements than she does. She only writes bloody romances.”

“The letters mean something. He didn’t just pick random letters.” Sophia sat down at her computer and pulled up a search engine.

“What if he’s trying to waste our time? Make us spend time figuring it out, and it’s all gibberish. Do you think it’s important?”

“I think everything’s important,” Sophia said. “But the letters are letters; I doubt they represent numbers.” She typed “Scrabble helper” into the search bar. Picking the first page that came up, she used the page’s program and typed in the letters QETKWRYB. Lists of words appeared on the screen. “There’s a word that begins with Q without a U,” Sophia said. “QWERTY.”