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Cold Truth Page 4


  “It’s not going to be a problem.” Cass was beginning to bristle.

  Denver sighed. “I’m asking because I’m concerned about what you might have felt, looking at that body today …”

  “She wasn’t my first dead body, Chief,” Cass told him softly. “She won’t be my last.”

  “I’m aware there have been others. But this one … I just wasn’t sure if this might not be … troubling for you.”

  “Of course it troubles me, but not in the way you might think.” She smiled at him with true affection, grateful for his kindness, understanding where he was going with this. “I appreciate that you … remember. And that you care enough to ask. But I’m fine. I have to be. This is my job.”

  He nodded. “I’m going to have to take your word for it. Give the county CSI team a call and see if they have anything yet.”

  She started for the door, then turned and said softly, “You know, Chief, I didn’t see her that day. I never saw her body.”

  “I’m sorry I brought it up, Cass. I really am. It’s just that …” He shook his head, not certain that he could put into words what he wanted to say.

  “It’s okay. Thanks, Chief.” She walked through the door and closed it behind her.

  Denver rose and walked to the window and watched a pair of catbirds as they diligently built their nest in the tangle of rosebushes not ten feet away.

  “I didn’t see her that day. I never saw her body …”

  Denver wished he could say the same. When he’d seen the young woman’s body this morning, he’d had one of the first true déjà vu moments of his entire life.

  And even now, in his mind’s eye, he could still see the body of Jenny Burke, lying on her back on the floor of her bedroom, her hair spilled around her like a dark halo, her eyes open but unseeing. For just a moment, back there in the marsh this morning, it had been Jenny’s face he’d seen. It had been the hair, he told himself. It was just all that long dark hair, and the way the arms had been positioned.

  Of course, that was where the similarities between the two situations ended. The crimes—and the crime scenes—had been totally different. And Jenny had not been sexually assaulted.

  And, he reminded himself, Jenny’s killer had been found hiding in the garage, covered with Bob Burke’s blood. He’d been arrested, tried, convicted. The Strangler, on the other hand, had never been identified.

  It had just been the hair, Denver told himself again, that had reminded him of Jenny. All that long dark hair, spread out over the rock, had, just for a split second, brought back that day. For just a moment, he’d been a rookie again, standing in the doorway looking at the first dead body he’d ever seen. That it had been the body of a woman he’d known had marked his baptism with that much more fire.

  He’d hated to bring it up to Cass, but he’d needed to put it on the table. Had he overreacted? Maybe so.

  Oh, hell, of course he had. He had forgotten that Cass had never made it to her mother’s bedroom before the killer had turned on her. She wouldn’t have known the way the body had lain, the way the hair had fanned out.

  “I didn’t see her that day. I never saw her body …”

  He shivered, remembering that nightmarish day.

  They’d talked about it, when she’d come in for her interview. She had her reasons for becoming a cop, and he respected her for it. But she had to know up front he’d been there that day, and if she had a problem with that … if working for him would be a daily reminder of things she couldn’t deal with, she needed to face up to it before she started.

  “No,” she’d said. “I knew who you were before I applied for the job. You knew my parents before … before. I know what you did that day. I want to work for you.”

  “I won’t give you special treatment because your folks were old friends,” he’d told her, “or for any other reasons.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to.”

  “Well, you scored highest in your class in all areas. You’re the best marksman in your group. I’d be a fool not to hire you, wouldn’t I?”

  “It could be construed as discrimination, sir,” she had said, a tiny smile turning up one side of her mouth.

  “Yes, well, we wouldn’t want to discriminate against you, would we? Don’t want the FOP on my back.”

  “Thank you, Chief Denver,” she’d said before she left his office that day. “I’ll be a good cop.”

  And she had been. When the detective position had opened up three years earlier, she’d been the first to apply. He’d had no doubts that she’d qualify, and he’d been secretly pleased when she’d beaten out all the other candidates for the job. Only the fact that she couldn’t be everywhere, day or night, had prompted him to ask the town for a second detective earlier in the year.

  In his heart, the chief knew that he’d been bound to her by the events of that day twenty-six years earlier, and he made an effort to never let it show.

  Was she aware of it? He wondered sometimes.

  True to his word, he’d never shown favoritism in any way, and in fairness to her, she’d never asked for any. She did her job well, was well liked in the community, and had been commended on a number of occasions. Today was the first time in her ten years on the force that he’d ever even brought up the subject of their shared past. He hoped it would be the last time he would feel compelled to do so.

  He picked up the stack of photos of the still-unnamed victim and studied them, one by one.

  Coincidence, or copycat?

  We’ll know soon enough, he thought as he tossed the photos back onto the desk. If someone’s following in the footsteps of the original Strangler, he’ll strike again in the next week.

  And then, God help us, all hell will break out.

  Again.

  Three

  Cass stepped over the heap of mail that lay like poorly dealt cards on the floor inside her front door. She snapped on the nearest lamp—an ugly old porcelain thing that had belonged to her grandmother—and picked up the litter, which she proceeded to sort. Junk, junk, junk, bill, bill, junk, magazine, junk. She took the entire pile into the kitchen and tossed the junk into the trash before setting the two bills and the magazine on the counter.

  She turned on the overhead light and opened the refrigerator, took out a beer, twisted off the lid, and took a long, steady drink while she listened to the messages on her answering machine. Cass wasn’t sure which aggravated her more, the hang-up, or the message from her cousin, Lucy, reminding her that she’d be coming into town next week but hadn’t yet decided how long she was staying and hoped that Cass wouldn’t have a problem with that.

  Damn.

  The last thing Cass wanted right now was company, who would have to be, at the worst, entertained, and at best, tolerated, for an indefinite period of time. Even if that company was one of her closest living relatives and had been, once upon a time, her closest friend.

  Her rumbling stomach reminded Cass that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and suddenly that seemed like a very long time ago. She pulled one of the two chairs from the table and sat down, then pushed back the other and rested her feet on the seat and her head in her hands. Seeing the dead woman’s body that morning had shaken her more than she’d let on. Being reminded that she’d have to share her home with Lucy for the next month was merely the icing on that day’s cake.

  Between now and Thursday, she’d have to find time to put fresh sheets on Lucy’s bed. Stock the kitchen with real food. Have something to drink in the refrigerator besides a six-pack of beer and some iced tea from the local convenience store.

  And she’d have to find time to vacuum. Dust. Clean the bathroom. All the chores she generally put off until she could avoid them no longer. She bit the inside of her lower lip, wondering when, in the midst of a homicide investigation, she’d find time to make the house hospitable.

  The fact that Lucy’s ownership in the beach house was equal to hers wasn’t lost on Cass. Their grandparents had left everything to be
equally divided between their only two grandchildren. That Cass had chosen to live in the house year-round had never been an issue between the two women. Lucy, who was married and had a lovely home in Hopewell, was content with her month at the Jersey Shore every year and couldn’t care less that Cass had made the bungalow her permanent residence. God knew Cass was grateful that the other eleven months of the year she had the house to herself. And she should be grateful—she was grateful—that Lucy was coming alone this year and not bringing her husband and her two kids with her as she had every other year.

  What was up with that, Cass wondered as she took another swig from the bottle, well aware that she was deliberately focusing on Lucy as a means to avoid thinking about the body they’d found in the marsh.

  The phone rang, and Cass stood to glance at the caller ID before answering. She picked it up.

  “Hello.”

  She listened for several moments without response, then said merely, “Thank you. See you in the morning.”

  The body now had a name and a story.

  Linda Roman.

  Cass leaned back against the counter and picked at the label on the beer bottle until only slim shreds remained intact, the peeled-away slivers tucked into the fist of one hand.

  Linda Roman had been thirty-one years old, a year younger than Cass. She lived in Tilden, she worked in a branch of Cass’s bank, and she had a husband of four years and an eighteen-month-old daughter.

  Too young to really remember her, Cass thought. All that child would ever know of her mother she’d learn from others.

  Cass sighed wearily. At least she’d been older when she’d lost her family. She had vivid memories of her mother and her father and her sister. If she tried really hard, she could almost recall the sound of their voices. Almost, but not quite. It had been a long, long time ago.

  Twenty-six years this month.

  And now another little girl would have a sad anniversary to mark, year after year. It occurred to Cass that what Linda Roman’s daughter would most remember of her mother would be the date on which she died.

  Cass emptied the bottle into the sink and tossed it into the bin, which she rarely, if ever, remembered to put out on recycling day. She opened the refrigerator and searched for something she could reheat in the microwave for dinner, but nothing appealed to her. She called in an order for takeout and took a quick shower in the bungalow’s one small outdated bath.

  It was long past time to renovate the bathroom—not to mention the kitchen—but every time Cass thought about it, and considered the options, she got a headache. Once last summer, at Lucy’s insistence, she’d made it all the way to the local home-improvement store to check out what was available, but she’d returned home in less than forty minutes, her head spinning. All she’d wanted was a simple tub with a shower, a new toilet, a new sink. Some new tile. But she’d found all the selections overwhelming and left with less of an idea of what she wanted than she’d had when she’d set out.

  I like things simple, she was thinking as she dried her hair and towel-dried her legs. Simple, easy, basic.

  The only real improvements she’d made since she’d moved in were to purchase a new microwave—a necessary fixture because it enabled her to reheat leftovers or takeout faster—and a new refrigerator, because the other one had given up the ghost three years ago. Other than those two items, she hadn’t even bothered to change the color of the walls or the old carpets.

  But I will, she assured herself. As soon as I have time, I will.

  She recognized her procrastination for what it was. Just as she recognized that for the past hour, she’d thought of anything but the body in the marsh.

  Linda Roman.

  Cass dressed in sweatpants and an old rugby shirt left behind by an old boyfriend, and slipped into a pair of rubber flip-flops. She rarely wore anything else on her feet in the summer months when she wasn’t working, though she’d be hard-pressed to explain why they appealed to her so much. They were not very practical, as foot-coverings went, and yet she’d bought them in almost every color she could find. Pink, yellow, red, blue, white, turquoise, and this year’s new favorite, orange.

  She walked the four blocks to the new Mexican takeout restaurant and picked up her order. She considered staying and eating there—the place was almost empty—but the owner of the restaurant was all too eager to discuss the crime with her.

  “Hey, Detective. You in on that investigation? The body down by Wilson’s Creek?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, were you there? Did you see it?”

  “Yes, I was there.”

  “Must have been something, eh?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, you guys got some clues? Suspects? I know they’re saying on the TV that you got no leads, but sometimes they say stuff like that to throw off the killer, you know?”

  “The investigation is just beginning.” She had her wallet out, waiting for him to give her a total for her order so she could pay and escape, but he was holding on to the bag containing her food as if it were a hostage. He held her captive and was going to take advantage of the situation, so he’d have some inside dirt to dish with the breakfast crowd in the morning.

  “I heard they just found out who she was. Linda Roman was her name, they said. Didn’t ring a bell with me. Did you know her?”

  “No. I didn’t know her.”

  “Someone who was in earlier said they knew her from the bank. You bank there?”

  “Yes. Now, if I could just—”

  “Say, I’ll bet my cousin Roxanne knows her.” He snapped his fingers. “She works for that bank. Different branch, but I bet they all know one another. I think I’ll give her a call and see if—”

  “Dino, I hate to cut this short, but I need to get moving here.”

  “Oh, right, right. Sorry.” He laughed self-consciously and rang up the total on the old-fashioned cash register. “It’s just so weird to have something like this in Bowers Inlet, you know? When I heard about it this morning, I said, ‘Hey, no way.’ Then when some of the guys from the newspaper stopped in at lunch and told us what was going down, I said, ‘No shit!’”

  Cass handed over a ten-dollar bill and waved off the change, anxious to leave the small storefront and its owner’s excited curiosity. She pushed open the screen door and headed back onto the quiet streets of Bowers Inlet. The sidewalks were deserted now at almost eight P.M., the other year-round residents no doubt all at home watching the special news reports pertaining to the murder. She wondered who among them might have known Linda Roman; who, behind the shades of the houses Cass now passed, might be grieving over her death. As a cop, Cass knew she shouldn’t let it get to her, but it did. God knew, it did.

  She turned up the narrow walk in front of her small house, noting that once again this year the grass grew in stubborn tufts from the coarse sand in the front yard. This weekend she’d make it a point to pull it all up and rake out the sand so that it lay flat and weedless. Maybe she’d even put a pot of some kind of summery flower out there near the sidewalk. If she got around to it. Which she probably wouldn’t.

  Gramma Marshall used to keep pots of petunias out there at the end of the walk. Red petunias. The pots were still in some forgotten corner of the garage. Cass had never tossed them out, but neither had she ever filled them. Lucy, on the other hand, would look for them if Cass suggested it. Lucy couldn’t sit still for more than five minutes, and had never been one to let things be.

  She went up the worn wooden steps and through the screen door that opened onto the porch that ran across the front of the house, noted the screening that encased the entire porch had a rip here and there. Put it on the list of things to do, she told herself as she unlocked the front door and headed for the kitchen. Just put it on the list.

  Cass slid some of the burrito from the takeout container onto a plate, and took a bottle of water from the small pantry. She tucked the bottle under her arm and grabbed a fork from the drawer next
to the sink and carried her dinner into the living room, where she sat on the same worn sofa she’d sat on as a child, and looked under the cushions for the TV’s remote control. She caught the special report on the day’s events on the local station, and stared at the screen as the anchor repeated all the details of Linda Roman’s sad death.

  Cass sat the bottle on the coffee table and rested her elbows on her knees. She’d been fighting off a bout of melancholy since early that morning, carrying it around inside her and trying to pretend it wasn’t there. Everything she’d done all day—from the interviews she’d conducted, to the photos she’d viewed and the reports she’d written, to the beer she now swallowed—everything had been calculated to keep her from focusing on what had happened to Linda Roman in that marsh, because thinking too much could take her down roads she did not wish to travel. It was too late now, however. She’d made eye contact with the still photo of Linda and her family. She’d allowed herself to feel what Linda Roman’s child would feel, and she knew she was lost.

  “Son of a bitch,” she whispered as videos of Linda Roman appeared on the television screen. Linda with her husband on their wedding day. Linda with her newborn daughter. Linda and her sister on the beach with their babies not two weeks ago. Watching was making Cass sick.

  Literally.

  She put the water down on the table and went into the bathroom, and threw up until there was nothing left in her stomach to be expelled. Only then did she return to the living room, where she turned off the television and the outside lights, picked up her plate of food, and carried it into the kitchen, where she dumped her food into the trash. She checked the lock on the back door, and went to bed. Once under the covers, Cass curled up in a ball and mourned for Linda Roman and for all the Linda Romans whose beautiful lives had been taken from them for no reason, other than that someone had wanted to, that someone could.

  Sleep had been a long time coming, and had not lingered long enough for Cass to shake the fatigue that had been plaguing her. On top of everything else—or perhaps because of it—the dream had come back, and in its aftermath, Cass had dressed and fled the house, heading for the deserted beach. From half a block away she could hear the pounding of the surf, and it led her on through the night. She walked directly to the ocean and welcomed the cold spray as the waves threw themselves with abandon onto the shore, welcomed the sensation of the swirling tide tugging at her ankles in the dark.