style="font-size:15px;"> “Been called.” Hank nodded toward the food bag. “Thought you were swearing off fast food, Chief.”
“Yeah.” Hitting the gas, Jack nosed the car forward before casting a jaundiced glare down at the bag.
Hank was right. He really had to start eating better. He also needed to begin carving out some kind of life for himself. He’d thought making the move to Deep Water would be enough, that with the change of scenery, he would also change. But he hadn’t. It was pretty much business as usual, his life revolving around police work, and not much else.
Except, of course, for that one night nearly two months ago when he’d met a woman. A very intelligent and beautiful woman.
He’d thought they’d made a real connection. He’d called several times after that, hoping to pursue something with her, but she had been pretty blunt the last time he’d contacted her.
Just his luck, the only woman he’d met who interested him wasn’t interested in return. And to make matters worse, he couldn’t seem to get her out of his head.
Reaching down, he switched on the defroster to clear the windshield. Though he’d relocated from Atlanta nearly two years ago, he still couldn’t get used to the damp cold of a Florida winter, where thirty-nine degrees cut through you like thirteen. And where three days of gray skies felt like an eternity.
There was no sign of any media yet, but he suspected it would be only a matter of time before they made an appearance. Reporters and bluebottle flies. Both fed on the dead, but it was the reporters who usually showed up first.
Like any midsize, modern city, Deep Water had its share of murders, but up until tonight, none of them had taken place in Thornton Park, an affluent area of large, historic homes with sweeping, deep-green lawns and brick streets.
Jack looked up as the house came into view. Most of the homes in the area were dark now, but light flooded from this one, and vehicles crowded the driveway as if some swank gala was under way. And in some ways, it was a party—a morbid one—attended by crime scene techs and police officers, and with the host already dead.
Jack swung in behind the department’s white crime-scene van—a recently purchased, fully equipped vehicle. It had taken him nearly a year to convince the city council that the vehicle wasn’t a luxury, but a necessity.
Jack grabbed gloves and shoe covers, dug a roll of mints out of the center console and flicked off two. He could still taste the cheeseburger. In another hour or so the sour taste in his mouth would be even worse.
A patrol officer, Billy Ellis, stood just outside the front door, hunched in a jacket that was too lightweight for the weather, stamping his feet against the cold. As Jack approached, Ellis scribbled down his name in the security log.
“You first officer on the scene?” Jack asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Still outside, Jack slipped on vinyl gloves—he was allergic to the more common latex variety. Glancing up as he was tugging on the second shoe cover, he noticed the kid’s lack of color and shell-shocked expression. “First homicide?”
Ellis nodded nervously. “Yes, sir.”
Jack suspected that no matter how many other homicides Billy Ellis worked in his career, tonight’s would always be the most vivid. At some point during the next week or so, the kid would probably tell himself that the next one would be easier. It wouldn’t be. In Jack’s experience, they never got easier—a man just got better at coping.
Another new recruit looked up as Jack stepped into the foyer. The officer, who stood in front of the chest against the opposite wall, was sifting through what appeared to be mail, and used his head to motion toward a set of double doors. “Body’s in there.”
“Who called it in?”
“The ex-wife. Fitz is in the kitchen with her now.”
After the week he’d had, Jack would have liked to bypass the room with the body—to spend time with the living instead of the dead. But no matter how much he wanted to, he wouldn’t. Because when it came right down to it, homicide investigations weren’t about the living. They were about the dead—about attaining justice for those who were beyond needing it.
Jack stepped inside what appeared to be a home office. Every lamp had been turned on and additional lights had been brought in to flood the space.
It wasn’t the type of room you expected to see in one of these older homes. The wood floor had been left bare and the walls were a stark white, as was just about everything else in the room. Even the large brushed-metal-and-glass desk seemed too cold and sterile for the space.
The body was slumped over the slick surface and belonged to a white male with his head—at least what was left of it—resting on the desktop.
It was always the odor that hit Jack the hardest. With a new body, there was the raw, metallic scent of fresh blood, sometimes so strong that when you opened your mouth to speak, it seemed to collect on your tongue. If the victim had gone undiscovered for a longer period of time, the odors were even stronger, but no more unpleasant. Death was simply death.
Two men worked the room. Detective Frank Shepherd was a 30-year veteran of Deep Water PD. A tall, rail-thin man with sharp features. Even though the department had relaxed its dress code for detectives, Shepherd continued to wear starched shirts and neckties. And freshly polished shoes. Jack liked him for his intellect and his thoroughness—both important qualities in a detective. At the moment, Shepherd was shining a flashlight at an oblique angle, looking for prints around the front window.
“Window’s unlocked. And I have what appears to be a decent thumbprint,” Shepherd called over his shoulder. Neither man had yet seen Jack.
The other man was 26-year-old Andy Martinez, the only crime scene tech currently employed by Deep Water PD. Where Frank wore a starched shirt and a necktie, Andy wore a white T-shirt, with CRIME SCENE printed on front and back, and jeans. A black ball cap turned backward and athletic shoes encased in paper covers completed his uniform. At the moment, Andy was digging through the large, black case that he liked to call his toy chest. The box contained everything he needed, from pencils and pliers to dusting powder and a strong flashlight.
“Been expecting you, Chief,” Andy commented without looking up.
Everyone in the department knew that Jack showed up at every homicide. Mostly to make sure his detectives were getting what they needed to do their jobs. Sometimes, especially if there was DNA evidence involved, that meant contacting the Florida Department of Law Enforcement lab in Daytona Beach, and other times it just meant handling the media and running interference with several town councillors.
“I didn’t get the call until the plane hit the ground,” Jack said.
Shepherd had turned as soon as Andy had spoken, and nodded a greeting in Jack’s direction before going back to studying the area near the window.
“That explains the suit,” Andy said as he walked across the room to hand Shepherd dusting powder and lift tape.
“How’d it go in Philly?” Andy asked as he passed Jack the second time.
Jack had flown up to Philadelphia to be at his brother’s side. Not because Alec wanted company, but
