The Scent of Murder (A Veronica Shade Thriller Book 2), page 6
A decision he didn’t regret for a second.
Chapter 11
There were no Rolex watches listed on Facebook Marketplace. Nor on Craigslist, but Veronica wasn’t surprised. Neither of these platforms was known for selling high value items and considering that the mandatory minimum sentence for second-degree robbery is just shy of six years, the perps had probably entertained more lucrative and anonymous dark web forums.
Veronica sighed and pushed her laptop away from her. Then she took a sip of wine, realized that the glass was almost empty, and promptly refilled it from the open bottle sitting on the side table.
A car pulled into the driveway, and a few seconds later, she heard the front door opening down below. She didn’t say anything, but she did position herself to get a better view of downstairs
Bear County Sheriff Steve Burns removed his hat, put it on the hook by the door, and then ran his hand through his medium-length brown hair. The hat was mandatory while in the field, but Veronica knew that Steve hated it. She recalled the first time she’d met the sheriff—he’d been in uniform then, hat and all, and she’d guessed that he was in his mid-forties. But when he removed his work clothes, the sheriff transformed into a young thirty-six-year-old man who was in good shape with a square jaw and a well-manicured five o’clock shadow.
But today, as Steve undressed to his white undershirt, he didn’t lose those ten years—he still looked tired… early forties tired.
“Long day?” Veronica asked. Even though she had deliberately spoken softly, Steve was still startled. He turned and looked up at her, and when his eyes met her gold-flecked irises, he grinned.
“Not yet.”
Veronica made her way downstairs and hugged Steve.
“How about you?”
“Meh. First case jitters, you know?”
Steve kissed her on the forehead.
“They got you on a case, huh?”
“Yep. Two guys knocked off three jewelry stores in just over a week. Only stole luxury watches.”
“Appreciate in value,” Steve remarked.
“That’s right,” Veronica agreed. “But the weird thing is, they didn’t bring any weapons. Just smash and grab.”
Lucy, the cat that she’d adopted from her previous case, appeared out of the ether as she was apt to do, and nestled up to her leg. Veronica scratched the animal beneath her chin. As she filled Lucy’s bowl, she thought about the curious coincidence that she and this seemingly random animal shared the same name. Lucy…
Her father liked to say that the past was boring, that it had already happened, and that the future was far more interesting. While perhaps true, as Dr. Jane Bernard had reminded her on many an occasion, the past wasn’t gone—it heavily influenced the future.
“No weapons? Has to be an insurance scam.”
"What?” Veronica asked, still scratching Lucy.
“Inside job. Has to be.”
Steve made his way to the fridge and grabbed himself a beer. He offered one to Veronica, but she told him she had a glass of wine on the go upstairs.
“You’re never going to guess what I did today,” he said.
“I’m not even going to try,” Veronica replied, rising to her feet. “You look tired.”
“I am tired. You would be too if you chased a black bear through Hilltona Forest all damn day.”
Veronica raised an eyebrow.
“A bear? In Bear County?”
“Yep. And this bear just happens to have a taste for dead humans.”
Veronica pulled away from Steve and looked at him.
“Long story.” Steve paused, and his eyes searched the kitchen. There was nothing on the counter or stove. The fridge was nearly as bare. “Tell you what, V, maybe I can pick your brain on some things over dinner?”
“Nope, not V. Only my dad calls me V.”
“Sorry.
Veronica smiled. He was cute when he was apologetic.
“But dinner?” Veronica took Steve’s hands in hers. She gently massaged his palms. Unlike her scars, Steve’s were proving more resilient and were taking their sweet ass time to heal. “I can do dinner. I’d much prefer to order in, but—”
Steve opened his mouth to protest but Veronica didn’t give him the chance.
“—but, tonight I’ll go out. You have anywhere specific in mind?”
“Sure do. New noodle spot in town, Ramanaki on Planter St. Finish your wine and let’s get going.”
***
Veronica licked her lips and pushed her empty bowl away from her. She usually didn’t like restaurants—in crowds, you could always find liars and at least one person who was angry, angry enough to hurt somebody. Whereas others smelled fresh food and saw tasteful decor, Veronica smelled gas and saw fire.
But today, her symptoms were muted. Initially, this had made her anxious, thinking back to her lack of visions at Alfred’s Jewelry and her conversation with Dr. Bernard. A massive bowl of noodles topped with scallions and thinly sliced pork belly, her first meal of the day if you didn’t count the wine, muted her unease.
“That was fantastic. Who knew that Ramen could be so good?”
Across from her, Steve’s expression was one of similar gluttonous satisfaction.
“You’re not joking. Must be all that MSG.”
“Well, whatever it is, I want more of it. On the daily.”
The waiter came by and removed their bowls. When asked if they wanted anything else, they both ordered a Japanese beer. During dinner, during rare pauses in frantic noodle slurping, Steve had elaborated on his hunt for the black bear.
“And you’re sure that the woman was killed before the bear got to her?”
“Oh, I’m sure, all right. Strangled. And… I don’t know, V—I mean, Veronica. This case is… strange. Doesn’t feel like a frenzy killing or a one-off.”
The sheriff seemed apprehensive about speaking, and Veronica thought that she knew why. It had nothing to do with the integrity of the case—the Sheriff’s Office often collaborated with PDs located in the county—it had to do with her.
Captain Peter Shade wasn’t the only one treating her with kid gloves, trying to ease her back into the fold.
Veronica wondered if they would treat her the same way if she’d been a man.
It was equal parts thoughtful and insulting.
“Can’t help you if you don’t talk to me, Steve.”
Steve sipped his beer. They’d been together for a little over three months, but because they lived together, and both worked in law enforcement, it felt as if they’d known each other for three or four times as long. And it showed—he read her like a book.
“Okay, okay.” He lowered his voice. “Two things. She wasn’t wearing any underwear—bra or bottoms—and her face was painted to look like a doll.”
Veronica considered this for a moment.
“Prostitute?”
This seemed to surprise Steve, suggesting that he hadn’t considered it. Strange, because to Veronica, this was the most obvious scenario: their victim had been a prostitute and had met an unfortunate end at the hands of a psychopathic John, who dumped her in the woods.
“The outfit and makeup could be part of a routine, a fetish,” Veronica continued.
Steve made a hmph sound.
“Maybe,” he mused. “You want to go for a walk?”
“Sure.”
After finishing their beers, Steve picked up the tab, and hand in hand, they started walking down Planter St.
The City of Greenham had a population of just over a hundred thousand people, but there was really only one area of downtown that they liked to visit. Thankfully, Ramanaki, which had only opened a few weeks ago, was situated pretty much in the center of the main drag. Being a Monday, the streets were fairly empty, but there were still a handful of people wandering around, heading to or from dinner, just like them.
The difference was these bystanders were oblivious to the fact that a murderer was walking among them.
Ignorance was a luxury not afforded to police officers, detectives, or sheriffs. Veronica had once heard a story about inmates who spent years in maximum-security prisons. When they were released, integration into society was next to impossible. While some—most—gave the appearance of being normal, productive members of society, their brains just couldn’t take a second off. In prison, you had to always know your exits, and constantly be aware of who was entering the room at any given time. You also made sure your back was against a wall to avoid being attacked from behind. Crowds were a constant source of anxiety, as it was next to impossible to track everyone at once. Even sleeping was problematic and when your brain was alert 24/7 strange things happened.
Things that were often the source of recidivism.
Law enforcement officers experience something similar. Perhaps not as daunting, but their brains were always working, scanning people, not just for what they might have done but for what they might do in the future. Veronica’s synesthesia only compounded this issue.
“You all right?” Steve asked.
Veronica shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts.
“Yeah, just a little tired.”
“Me too. Why don’t we—” Steve tensed, and Veronica felt her own body reacting to his change of state.
“What is it?”
Steve spun her around and kissed her full on the lips. His tongue probed hers, and even though she felt that this was more about distraction than romance, Veronica could do with a little distraction.
She lost herself in Steve’s kiss, managing to achieve a moment—a fleeting, fraction of a second—of pure bliss. He felt it too, he must have, because when he pulled back, she saw that look in his eyes: glassy, passionate, feverish.
But then Steve glanced over her shoulder, and his face changed, and the moment was lost. He guided her in the other direction, and even though she could have resisted, she didn’t. She did, however, look over her shoulder to see what Steve had reacted to.
What ended up being a who: a large man with short orange hair and freckles on his nose, who not so subtly leered at every skirt that passed.
Steve, not satisfied even though they were heading in opposite directions now, pulled her into one of only a few stores that remained open at this hour.
“Who was that?” Veronica asked once they were inside.
“Statie. Some guy I—”
“Only flash art after eight,” a gruff voice informed them.
Veronica looked around, noticed the neon signs, the black lights, the obnoxious metal music.
They were in a tattoo parlor.
“You have to be kidding me,” Veronica said, not bothering to shield the hurt in her voice. “You planned this.”
Steve put his hands up.
“I swear, I didn’t.”
“You told me that the victim had a butterfly tattoo on her hip,” Veronica reminded him through clenched teeth.
Steve made a face.
“It’s a—a coincidence,” he protested.
“You picked the restaurant.”
“Yeah, because it was new. And delicious, I might add.”
Veronica just stared.
And it also happened to be just half a block from the tattoo parlor.
She didn’t mind that Steve was still working—Veronica knew what it was like to be on a difficult case that refused to leave you alone. But it was the deception she absolutely loathed.
“V, I didn’t—”
“Don’t call me that,” Veronica snapped more viciously than she’d intended. Before she could apologize, the tattoo artist spoke up again.
“You guys gettin’ a tattoo or what?”
Veronica spun around. The tattoo artist had a shaved head, multiple piercings, and flame tattoos creeping up his throat.
“He will,” Veronica said as she opened the door. “Give him a dick right there on his forehead.”
Chapter 12
“Dr. Julia Thorpe, meet Sheriff Steve Burns,” Kristin Newberry said.
Steve extended his hand and then winced.
“Sorry,” he grumbled. “Back is a little sore.”
Sleeping on the couch would do that to you.
He took a step forward and shook the pathologist’s hands. She was a large woman, with round eyes and doughy features. Steve figured she was in her late fifties or early sixties. Just a little younger than Kristin.
She had an air of no-nonsense about her, probably a consequence of diagnosing disease day in and day out.
“Nice to meet you, Sheriff,” Dr. Thorpe said. “You can call me Julia.”
“And I prefer Steve.”
The pathologist took him to the body which was on the same gurney as yesterday. Only now, her chest had been opened in the familiar ‘Y’ pattern.
“Already started?” Steve asked. He was early, which was by design. He wanted to make sure that he got to the morgue before Phil, and he needed to be out of the house before Veronica woke up. They didn’t fight often, but when they did, he’d quickly learned that she was the type of person who needed her space. This was different from what he was used to in past relationships, but also refreshing.
“Dr. Thorpe arrived just after five,” Kristin said, and Steve thought he detected a hint of reverence in the coroner’s voice.
The sheriff liked Kristin Newberry and thought she was good at her job. But Steve wasn’t used to not having a pathologist on staff. It was annoying to have to call someone in, someone who had to squeeze County duties into their regular schedule. But there just wasn’t the money in the budget for anything else.
Another oddity of life as an elected official County.
“Once I heard it was a homicide, I got here as soon as I could,” Julia said. “I’ve already analyzed her stomach contents. Our vic had peanuts in her stomach and what I believe to be vodka soda. I have to wait on the blood test results, but it’s pretty safe to assume that she was—”
“At a bar,” Steve blurted.
In his experience, many doctors had superiority complexes and didn’t like to be interrupted. And as he was dependent on the dial-a-pathologist to help him solve Bear County crimes, he was in the habit of waiting his turn.
But he was working on only a few hours of fitful sleep.
Thankfully, Dr. Julia Thorpe didn’t seem to mind his intrusion.
“That’s what I think, as well. I read Kristin’s report,” she said, offering the other woman a nod, “and I agree with everything. Death due to strangulation, ligature across the throat. Died between ninety-six and one-hundred and sixty-eight hours ago. Based on the lividity in her lower gluteus, I’m leaning toward the latter. What I can tell you, is that our vic was otherwise healthy, and between twenty-four and twenty-eight years of age.”
Steve looked over at the body and was reminded of what Veronica said last night, before suggesting that he get a tattoo on his face.
“What about sexual intercourse?”
“Negative. No evidence of sexual intercourse in the forty-eight hours preceding death or postmortem. No venereal diseases, either.”
This didn’t eliminate the theory that the girl on the table was a prostitute, but it definitely didn’t support it.
Steve scratched the back of his head as he pondered this new information.
“I visited the tattoo parlor on Planter Street last night,” he said almost absently. “Showed the picture of the tattoo we found on her hip. The guy was a pain in the ass, no pun intended—I got the impression that he wasn’t a fan of having two police officers roaming about his store. But he did say that he remembered doing three of the same tattoos on women just last week. “
“They do that? Same tattoo? Same location?”
Steve shrugged.
“I guess. Probably frowned upon, which is another reason he was reluctant to talk. I mean, would you want the exact same tattoo as three other women from the same city?”
“I have a section of barbed wire on my lower back.”
Steve blinked at Dr. Thorpe, trying to figure out if she was being serious. Eventually deciding that she was, he chuckled.
“Hey, we all make mistakes.”
Now, they all laughed. This was short-lived, however, given the circumstances.
“Kristin, did you manage to look into missing persons?”
“I did, but only briefly. Nobody with a butterfly tattoo on their hip reported missing. I got bogged down with paperwork at the office—some asshole trying to sue for…” Kristin shook her head. “Never mind. I’ll look into it again today.”
“Thanks.”
“Did you end up going out last night with your buddy?”
Steve looked at the coroner, confused.
“Excuse me?”
Kristin, thinking that she’d overstepped, quickly tried to backtrack.
“It’s just that you said the tattoo guy wasn’t happy with two cops in his store. I just thought—”
“Ah,” Steve said with what he hoped was a disarming smile. “No, he’s not really my—”
The radio on his lapel squawked, and he held up a finger and excused himself.
“Sheriff Burns, over.”
“Sheriff, it’s McVeigh. We’ve, uhh, we’ve got a situation here, over.”
The sheriff frowned.
“Where? What situation? Over.”
“The Bellinger Ranch. There are—ah, shit, hold on.” Deputy McVeigh’s voice became muffled. “No! No, you can’t go in the forest. Stay back. Stay behind the tape! And lower your gun! Now!”
The radio went silent.
“McVeigh, is it Kurt? Kurt Bellinger? Over.”
When there was no answer for several seconds, he clicked the radio again.
“McVeigh? Over.”
There was a burst of static followed by his Chief Deputy’s voice.
“Yeah, I’m here. Sorry about that, Sheriff. Things are crazy here. Sheriff, we really could use your help. Over.”
“I’ll get there as fast as I can. And McVeigh? Don’t let Kurt into the forest. Over.”
Shaking his head, the sheriff turned back to Dr. Thorpe and Kristin Newberry.
“I’m really sorry to do this, but—”
“Completely understand,” Dr. Thorpe said. “As soon as I find out about the blood alcohol level, I’ll let Kristin know.”
