splotches of faded scars and puckers of skin-graft seams. She took a long-handled sponge, dipped it into an open jar of emollient, and rubbed every inch of the damaged skin until the lotion was absorbed. She rinsed the sponge, then donned pajamas before slipping into the smooth robe of real Chinese silk Jenna had brought back from a mission trip to the Far East.
On slipper-clad feet, she wandered to the kitchen for a glass of milk. Bastian, recovered from his sulk, twined around her legs and purred. Milk in hand, she surveyed her domain. Once the business was up and running, she’d have to remodel this apartment. Fifties retro was back in style, but all this burnt orange wasn’t trendy décor; it was the real deal.
A blinking light on the phone caught her attention. She crossed the room and pushed the button. Static hiss came through, then a shaky sigh, followed by, “I’m coming over. We’ve got a big problem.”
Sam frowned. That husky growl sounded like Hallie. Couldn’t be. Nothing ever got the queen of poise that ruffled.
A buzz sounded near Sam’s ear, and she let out a squawk. Someone was downstairs at the private entrance. The buzz sounded again, loud and long, like the person was leaning on the button. The noise let up. Gingerly, she pressed Talk. “Hello?”
Heavy breathing answered. The hair on Sam’s arms stood at attention.
“It’s me.” A familiar voice spoke—familiar but off. “Let me in. I have to see you. Now!”
“I’ll be right down, Hallie. Are you okay?”
“In! Now!”
Sam bounded down the stairs and opened the door. Hallie barged past her. She’d changed clothes into embroidered white capris and a fitted button-down shirt. Her long legs devoured the steps to the apartment two at a time. Sam trotted behind.
“What’s the matter?”
Hallie didn’t look at her. Lips pressed together, she was laying out photos in a long line on the kitchen table.
Sam crept forward and gazed down at the pictures. Chills cascaded down her spine. Bloody bodies. A woman’s head lolled back on a couch, bright spatters on her slack face. A young girl stared from a separate frame, crimson-chested, eyes wide and lifeless. Another showed someone—maybe a man—with the barrel of a shotgun tucked under his chin and a good portion of his head missing. Samantha let out a shriek and leaped backward, hand to her throat.
TWO
“What are we going to do about those?” Sam stabbed a finger at the photos on the table.
“Burn them, shred them or report them. Take your pick. It’s probably someone’s idea of a sick joke—a staged Halloween prank or something.”
Sam shook her head. “The people look too real. And the blood.”
“Lots can be done with makeup and cameras. I should know.”
“But you raced over here with them. You think they’re genuine. We have to turn the pictures over to the police.”
Hallie blew out a long breath. “I thought you should see them first. Shall I make the call?” She pulled a cell phone from her purse.
“No! We’ll take them to the station ourselves.” Keeping her eyes averted from the gruesome evidence, Sam swept the photos into a stack. “I’m not having a police cruiser pull up outside and cops knocking on my door. This is an upscale neighborhood. If anyone sees, they’ll wonder what hinky things are going on with the new owner.” She handed the pictures to Hallie. “Put these in something. I’ll get dressed.”
Half an hour later, they stood facing the night duty sergeant on the other side of a thick window—bulletproof, no doubt. The man stared at them with pale eyes set in a square face above a pair of Brahma bull shoulders. Intimidation on the hoof.
Sam swallowed. Hard.
“I’m Sergeant Garner. You wish to report a crime?” The officer’s voice was surprisingly gentle coming from that massive package. Graying hair and a lined face put him in his upper forties.
“I’m Hallie Berglund, reporter for Channel Six news, and this is my friend—”
“Samantha Reid.” Sam raised her hand like she was in grade school. Her face heated, and she offered a weak smile as she tucked her arm to her side.
Hallie placed the bag containing the film casing into the dip in the counter that allowed objects to pass under the barrier. “This was found at my friend’s place of business. I developed it tonight and came up with these.” She set another baggie with the prints into the tray. “They appear to be photos of a multiple murder.”
Garner eyed the material without touching it, and then assessed both of them with his gaze. “You haven’t actually seen any bodies?”
Sam and Hallie shook their heads as one.
“Just pictures, and no idea where and when the crime may have occurred.”
They nodded in tandem.
The sergeant pursed his lips. “Can you show me some ID? We’ll take your names and contact information. If we need to talk to you after we see what you’ve got, we’ll be in touch.”
On Wednesday afternoon, Sam lugged another sack of junk out to the rented Dumpster in the back of the building. She hefted the bag and slung it over the edge. A crunch-thump announced a safe landing. She dusted her hands together and headed back inside, humming.
She hadn’t heard a peep about the pictures. That must mean they weren’t really crime scene pics. Good thing, too. She was neck-deep in renovations. Of course, she’d had to break down and hire a cleaning crew—an expense not in the budget, but worth every penny if she could open her business on schedule.
She waved at a couple of the workers as she threaded between machines to her cracker-box office beside the customer service area at the front of the building. Seated behind her desk, she pulled out the ledger and checkbook and started working on the stack of bills. Honestly, how did that inheritance money evaporate faster than snow in July? Her business plan showed start-up capital available for at least a year…but only if she didn’t have any setbacks.
Sharp raps sounded at the front door. Who would be at the customer entrance when they were clearly not open for business? The knock came again, and she hurried to answer, then stopped dead in her tracks.
The wide front window showed a police cruiser parked at the curb. At the door stood a lean man in a suit and two uniformed officers, one male, one female. The suited man flipped open a black case and displayed the PD insignia. The guy looked around the age of the duty sergeant from the other night, but he had thinning, silver-sprinkled hair and was angular-bodied where the sergeant had been bulky.
Maybe the visit had nothing to do with the photos. And maybe water flowed uphill.
Sam unlocked the door and eased it open.
“I’m Detective Connell,” the man said. “Are you Samantha Reid?”
“Yes.”
“May
