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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 we come in and speak with you?”
“Certainly.” Sam held the door wide. “Is this about—”
“It is.” The detective and the uniforms stepped inside. Voices and clatter from the work area drew Connell’s hawkish gaze. “Who’s here with you?”
“Just my cleaning crew. I’m getting ready to open, and this place was a mess.”
“Could you tell your people to stop work?”
“Now?” Sam blinked at the detective.
“Right now. We have a warrant to search.” He handed her a folded sheet of paper.
What had she just been thinking about setbacks? “You’d better come to my office and explain what’s going on.”
Connell jerked a nod to the uniforms and followed her alone.
Sam faced the detective from behind her desk. “Those photos were for real?”
He nodded, dark eyes flat. “A family named Davidson. Ten years ago, they were shot to death in their home a few blocks from here. The incident was ruled murder/suicide. But those photos prove there had to be at least one more person at the scene. Maybe someone who set it up to look like the dad shot his wife and daughter and then himself. The case has been bumped up to straight murder, and now we’re looking for a killer a decade after the deaths.” He jaded tone said he didn’t hold out much hope of solving the crime.
Sam sank into her chair. Here she’d told her mother this was a safe neighborhood. “What do you want with me? I was a clueless teenager ten years ago, zits and giggles and all. And I lived in Eau Claire, Wisconsin.”
“You’re not a suspect, Ms. Reid, but we need to search this building.”
“What else could you possibly expect to find after all this time?”
“We have to be thorough. The film was here. Something else could be.”
“Fine, but you’ll have to assign someone to Dumpster diving.” She marched out into the work area. Her cleaners were gone, and the two uniformed cops were already digging into things.
The detective stepped up beside her. “Could you show me where the film was discovered?”
“Just the room where it was found. Except for some perc cleaning solvent awaiting pickup by the hazmat people, the box it was in and everything else has already been cleaned out. Good luck sorting through the garbage.”
Connell frowned. “Did you save anything from the box?”
Sam headed back toward her office. “Odds and ends. They’re in here.”
She handed him the paperweight from her desk. It was a smoky crystal rendering of a trout mounted on a hefty slab of black obsidian. “That was in the box. And this.” From the front of the filing cabinet, she plucked a ceramic magnet that featured a picture of a baby sitting in a high chair, bawling. The inscription said, No Whining! “Seemed like a good daily reminder.” She gave it to the detective.
“There were any number of hotel key cards accumulated from customer pockets, but I threw them out. I did keep these, however.” She opened the top drawer of the cabinet and pulled out a small bucket. The contents clattered as she plunked it onto the desk. “Lots of regular keys, but no way to know what they open or who owned them.”
“I can have this stuff tested for blood and prints, but if nothing pops up, you’ll likely get them back.” He shook the contents of the bucket. “I’m surprised you haven’t tossed these.”
Sam smiled. “There’s a crafter in my hometown who makes wind chimes out of old keys. I was saving them for her.”
“What else was in the box?”
“I’m not sure. I knocked a shelf over, and the contents spilled out when I was getting it down.” She crossed her arms. “We found assorted manicure items, a few eyeglass cases, combs, pill-boxes, that sort of thing scattered on the floor. But they’re—”
“In the Dumpster.”
“Right.”
The detective’s gaze traveled around the room. “Did you bring in the furnishings for this room, or were these things here when you bought the place?”
“Mr. Morris used this room as a storage area, not an office. Everything in here came from outside.”
“What about the contents of the closet?” He jerked his chin toward the closed door at the side of the room.
“Same thing. I emptied this whole area.”
“More Dumpster work.” One side of his mouth curved downward.
“No. Sorry. This was one of the first places I cleaned out. That Dumpster-load has already been collected by the city. How do your officers feel about combing the landfill?”
Connell shook his head. “I’ll tell the uniforms to leave this room out of their search.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
The detective reached inside his jacket and pulled out a five-by-eight photo. Sam took a step backward.
“Don’t worry, Ms. Reid. This one isn’t of a dead body. Have you ever seen this man?”
Sam took the picture and studied a man a little older than herself, wearing faded jeans and a Nike T-shirt. He stood on a dock with a sparkling river in the background. The Mississippi? Close-cut blond hair framed a bold-featured face—straight nose, square chin, wide lips pressed into a thin line. Nothing extraordinary, except for the eyes. Blue as a mountain lake and twice as chilly. Her pulse rate jumped up a notch. “I don’t know him, and I’m glad. Is he a suspect?”
“Our job would be a lot easier if he was. Relatives usually top the list.” Connell took the picture back. “Ryan Davidson. He came home from college and found his family like your photos showed. At least that’s what he’s always claimed, and we have reason to believe he’s telling the truth.”
Sam pressed her palms together. “How awful for him. He still lives around here?”
“A houseboat near Hastings, about thirty-odd miles from here, right where the Mississippi and St. Croix Rivers converge. He owns a rental houseboat company that caters to tourists.”
“Really! What does he do in the winter?”
“He’s got no ties. Just takes the whole shebang south to Missouri.” He shook his head with a tight smile.
Either the detective envied Davidson’s footloose life or thought he was nuts. Personally, she’d go with the latter. What was life about except settling in to become a vital part of a community? “How long will your people be out there?” She gestured toward the workroom.
“At least twenty-four hours. We’ll finish as quickly as we can. Since this isn’t a crime scene and you’re not suspected of anything, feel free to come and go, but don’t remove anything further from the building. Have a good day, Ms. Reid.” The detective walked out.
Sam wilted into her chair. By the end of tomorrow, the rumor mill could have her reputation as trashed as the garbage out back. With that cruiser parked in front and uniformed officers searching, what were the neighbors already thinking in their fine houses up the street? A cloud of suspicion could doom her business before she even opened the doors.
A muted clatter outside her bedroom window jerked Sam awake. Save for the glow from her bedside clock, her room lay wrapped in darkness. She lifted her head from the pillow and looked at the time. The digital numbers read 1:32 a.m. A sharp bang resounded below.
Outside or inside? Her heart kabumped and every nerve ending buzzed. Maybe it was just some critter digging in the garbage. Not likely. She’d closed that lid.
Bastian mewled and leaped up on the captain’s bench in front of the window, his lean form a shadowy outline. The direction of his stare was fixed as if he could see through the curtains and make out something—or someone—in the alley. A rattle carried to Sam’s ears. That sounded like an attempt at the private entrance door.
Muscles rigid, Sam lay motionless. Her pulse throbbed.
Bastian growled, deep and low.
She couldn’t just lie here until whoever it was found her and did whatever he came to do. How many books had she read where the stupid character did that? Or, dumber still, snuck around with some lame weapon like a bat to try and nab the burglar herself? She’d always wanted to yell, “What do you think nine-one-one is for, dummy?”
As suddenly as the paralysis had gripped her, it lifted. Sam sprang upright and grabbed the cordless phone from her nightstand. A few punches and she was talking to a no-nonsense woman who took her information and promised to get a car there immediately.
With the line still open to the dispatcher, Sam scooped Bastian up and perched on the edge of the bed, staring into the darkness. Her hand ran the length of her cat’s back. Again. Again. Bastian’s fur crackled and stood on end. He hopped off her lap, growling a protest. The operator kept assuring her help was on the way, but where were they? Sam gripped the edges of the mattress, ears perked. Sure, the police hung around here all day, and now when she needed them—
Sirens blared outside and lights flashed. Voices yelled, followed by clatters, then quiet. The cruiser lights continued to strobe.
Her intercom buzzer sounded. On jelly legs, Sam padded to her kitchen and answered.
“Ms. Reid, this is Officer Johnson of the Apple Valley Police Department. Your intruder says he has a right to be here. Would you mind coming down?”
Why did the police always ask questions like a person really had the option to say no? “Let me get my robe.”
A few seconds later, Sam unlocked her private entrance and peered out into the night. Under the entrance light, a pair of officers she’d never seen held a man between them—someone she did recognize. She glared up into the stone face of Ryan Davidson.
Their gazes locked, and raw emotion flickered in those intense blue eyes. The power of his bewildered pain snagged her breath. In times not long enough past, she’d seen that look of a stunned victim in another pair of eyes…whenever she looked in the mirror.
Why was this woman staring right through him, all white face and big green eyes? Was he a ghost or something?
Ryan studied her. One arm hugged her trim waist. The opposite hand clutched her robe at the neck. She was kind of cute with that heart-shaped face and tousled hair, but it looked like he’d scared her something fierce. Not his intention. So what had he meant to accomplish by his impulsive visit to the old neighborhood? Insomnia wasn’t much of an excuse.
His shoulders slumped, but the officers retained their grips like manacles around his biceps. He was lucky he wasn’t in handcuffs. Yet. “I’m sorry, ah…Miss Reid, isn’t it? I didn’t mean any harm.”
She frowned. “Why are you skulking around my property?”
“I wasn’t skulking exactly. Not even looking for physical clues. I was searching my memory of that night. Did you know I cruised by here right before I went home to find—” His voice cracked. “Anyway, I ended up pacing back and forth in this alley. Kicked the Dumpster in frustration, and I’ve got the throbbing toe to prove it.” He lifted a tennis-shoed foot. “I suppose that’s what woke you.”
“Do you want us to run this guy in for trespassing, Ms. Reid?” asked the officer who’d identified himself as Johnson.
Ryan held his breath. She wouldn’t. Would she?
