the lights. Care to explain to me why the bedroom lights are on?’
‘You must’ve left them on by –’
‘Can it,’ she said, and brushed past him.
But the patrolman wasn’t finished with her yet. He jumped between her and the front door, and his expression morphed into a man who had just discovered his jockstrap had been spiked with Bengay.
‘I didn’t have a choice,’ he hissed. ‘This isn’t my fault.’
‘Who’s in there?’
‘Someone with the power to deep-six me with a phone call.’ His voice cracked and he had to clear his throat. ‘If I get shit-canned, I lose my pay and my medical. My wife’s pregnant and outta work. I can’t afford to get mixed up in this pissing contest between us and –’
‘What’s your name again?’
‘Nelson. Mike Nelson.’
Darby turned the doorknob. It was unlocked, and she saw that there wasn’t a police seal on the door.
‘This is what you’re going to do, Nelson. You’re going to park your ass in your car. You’re going to sit there and shut your mouth until I’m ready to talk to you, got it?’
‘Yeah. Yeah, sure.’
‘Next time you need to take a leak, don’t do it at the site of a crime scene. Now get out of here.’
Darby entered the house. After slipping on a pair of cloth booties, she picked up the clipboard holding the security log. Hers was the last name on the sheet. She put the clipboard down and climbed the steps, bright red spots flaring across her vision.
Not your case , that inner voice warned her again, only it was growing dimmer, drowning in her growing anger. You’re just a consultant, not your case …
The man standing at the foot of the bed and writing on a clipboard was rail thin and had a squared-off jaw and a chiselled profile. He wore bifocals and tan polyester slacks and a thin black tie draped across a starched taupe long sleeve shirt with epaulettes, and he smelled of cigar smoke.
He was also short. In his thick-soled Red Wing boots he stood no taller than five seven. He wasn’t wearing booties or latex gloves – the stupid son of a bitch hadn’t taken even the most basic precautions to protect the integrity of the crime scene.
He glanced at her over his shoulder, looking over her person. He had country-boy good looks and cornflower-blue eyes, and his dark blond hair was immaculately combed and parted razor-sharp.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Yeah,’ Darby said, aware of the heat climbing into her voice. ‘You can explain to me why you’re contaminating my crime scene.’
His eyebrows arched and his mouth opened and heflinched like a man who had just been treated to a surprised rectal exam. ‘ Your crime scene,’ he said.
‘Who are you?’
‘Theodore Lancaster.’
The Brewster deputy sheriff , Darby thought, and then recalled what Ray Williams had said about the man, how Lancaster was angling to take the Ripper investigation away from Red Hill. Don’t give him any fuel .
‘My name is Darby McCormick. I’m –’
‘I know who you are and why you’re here.’ His tone was calm and indifferent, maybe even slightly bored. He sounded like he had been asked to impart information about the day’s weather. He used his pen to point at the evidence markers placed in the corner area the killer had wiped down. ‘Tell me what happened over there.’
‘Detective Ray Williams. He works here in Red Hill.’
‘I know who he is.’
‘Then you know he’s the lead detective and that this is his case.’
‘This is a joint investigation between –’
‘If Williams wanted you involved, he would’ve called you here. You wouldn’t have had to sneak in.’
Lancaster turned and held his arms behind his back, almost in a military stance, and gave her his full attention. She could hear the heat rumbling through the wall and ceiling vents.
‘I noticed your vehicle isn’t parked anywhere out front,’ Darby said. ‘My guess is you parked somewhere close by where no one would see you. After we left, you came
‘You must’ve left them on by –’
‘Can it,’ she said, and brushed past him.
But the patrolman wasn’t finished with her yet. He jumped between her and the front door, and his expression morphed into a man who had just discovered his jockstrap had been spiked with Bengay.
‘I didn’t have a choice,’ he hissed. ‘This isn’t my fault.’
‘Who’s in there?’
‘Someone with the power to deep-six me with a phone call.’ His voice cracked and he had to clear his throat. ‘If I get shit-canned, I lose my pay and my medical. My wife’s pregnant and outta work. I can’t afford to get mixed up in this pissing contest between us and –’
‘What’s your name again?’
‘Nelson. Mike Nelson.’
Darby turned the doorknob. It was unlocked, and she saw that there wasn’t a police seal on the door.
‘This is what you’re going to do, Nelson. You’re going to park your ass in your car. You’re going to sit there and shut your mouth until I’m ready to talk to you, got it?’
‘Yeah. Yeah, sure.’
‘Next time you need to take a leak, don’t do it at the site of a crime scene. Now get out of here.’
Darby entered the house. After slipping on a pair of cloth booties, she picked up the clipboard holding the security log. Hers was the last name on the sheet. She put the clipboard down and climbed the steps, bright red spots flaring across her vision.
Not your case , that inner voice warned her again, only it was growing dimmer, drowning in her growing anger. You’re just a consultant, not your case …
The man standing at the foot of the bed and writing on a clipboard was rail thin and had a squared-off jaw and a chiselled profile. He wore bifocals and tan polyester slacks and a thin black tie draped across a starched taupe long sleeve shirt with epaulettes, and he smelled of cigar smoke.
He was also short. In his thick-soled Red Wing boots he stood no taller than five seven. He wasn’t wearing booties or latex gloves – the stupid son of a bitch hadn’t taken even the most basic precautions to protect the integrity of the crime scene.
He glanced at her over his shoulder, looking over her person. He had country-boy good looks and cornflower-blue eyes, and his dark blond hair was immaculately combed and parted razor-sharp.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Yeah,’ Darby said, aware of the heat climbing into her voice. ‘You can explain to me why you’re contaminating my crime scene.’
His eyebrows arched and his mouth opened and heflinched like a man who had just been treated to a surprised rectal exam. ‘ Your crime scene,’ he said.
‘Who are you?’
‘Theodore Lancaster.’
The Brewster deputy sheriff , Darby thought, and then recalled what Ray Williams had said about the man, how Lancaster was angling to take the Ripper investigation away from Red Hill. Don’t give him any fuel .
‘My name is Darby McCormick. I’m –’
‘I know who you are and why you’re here.’ His tone was calm and indifferent, maybe even slightly bored. He sounded like he had been asked to impart information about the day’s weather. He used his pen to point at the evidence markers placed in the corner area the killer had wiped down. ‘Tell me what happened over there.’
‘Detective Ray Williams. He works here in Red Hill.’
‘I know who he is.’
‘Then you know he’s the lead detective and that this is his case.’
‘This is a joint investigation between –’
‘If Williams wanted you involved, he would’ve called you here. You wouldn’t have had to sneak in.’
Lancaster turned and held his arms behind his back, almost in a military stance, and gave her his full attention. She could hear the heat rumbling through the wall and ceiling vents.
‘I noticed your vehicle isn’t parked anywhere out front,’ Darby said. ‘My guess is you parked somewhere close by where no one would see you. After we left, you came
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