AllFreeNovel
Share Us
PROLOGUE
“William Alves was twenty-five years old,” Detective Archer Malone recites from the other side of a blood-soaked recliner chair. He flips our vic’s tattered leather wallet open and reads from the license. “He turned twenty-five last month.”
“Auto-body mechanic by trade,” Detective Charlie Fletcher adds, carefully wandering the living room and studying the myriad of framed photos on the wall. “Grease monkey to pay the bills.”
“That tracks.” I know we’re on the record. Every word each of us speaks is documented by law and stored away for the investigation that homicide detectives Malone and Fletcher conduct.
But that’s not my job. To catch a killer, not strictly my goal. Instead, as I count each wound on the man’s chest, I make a note and prepare to autopsy a young father who was stabbed to death while he lounged on his recliner, television on and a beer in his hand. “Grease-stained fingers,” I murmur. “Callused palms. Doctor Emeri,” I inch to the side and make room for my second in charge—my best friend, I suppose, though the latter is not relevant on a crime scene—to photograph William’s hands. “I’m counting twenty-nine entry points.”
“Twenty-nine?” Archer hisses. “Jesus.”
“Plus defensive wounds.” I draw my eyes along the victim’s body and down to his forearms. “Killer got him a couple times before he woke up. Then he brought his arms up and attempted to defend himself.”
“Fat load of good that did him.” Fletch turns from the wall of photos, holding one in his hand and twisting it for the rest of us to see. “Wife. Two cute little kids. Nuclear family.”
“Where are they now?” While Aubree photographs for our records, I make a small slice in William’s abdomen and prepare to take his temperature, “The wife and kids.”
“Wife’s outside with an officer,” Archer answers. “She called it in.” Then he casts his eyes around the room. To the larger, more gruesome picture of a massacre gone exactly as planned. William’s blood coats the ratty carpet beneath our feet. The walls, marred with red handprints, and the ceiling, gory with the black of cigarette smoke and sprayed over with arterial blood.
His killer wanted him dead. They didn’t care if it was messy. Nor did they mind if he woke during it.
“The kids are being watched nearby too,” he continues, “Child Services is already here. And the maternal grandma is on her way.”
“Will they be placed in care in the meantime?” Curious, Aubree glances up, her shoulder-length blonde hair and pink streaks obscuring one eye. “Wife was the only adult on scene. Wife’s hand prints are on the wall. Wife’s hands are covered in blood. Wife called it in.”
“Wife has a brand-new shiner,” Fletch adds, pointing up to his left eye. “Bet she says she ran into a doorknob.”
“Projection.” I pull the thermometer from William’s body and make a note of his temperature for my files. “Rigor is setting in.” Then I cast a look at the clock on the wall and do a little math, reciting the details for the record, “It’s Thursday, June thirtieth. The clock reads seven-forty-nine a.m., and I estimate time of death between nine to eleven hours ago. Placing it between the hours of?—”
“Nine and eleven-ish.” Archer rocks onto the backs of his heels and digs his hands in his pockets. “Twenty-nine stab wounds, Chief Mayet. No one was home but the four members of the Alves family, two of which are five and seven years old.”
“I don’t wanna be that guy,” Fletch grits his teeth in trepidation, “but battered women have snapped before. Mrs. Alves wouldn’t be the first to take revenge after her husband tuned her up. Again.”
Unimpressed, I look to my husband, Detective Malone, and fake a cynical smile that has his brows popping high on his forehead. “While I understand women have killed in the past, I assure you, making assumptions about this one would be detrimental to your case. I intend to bring William into my facility so I can run diagnostics that will aid in your investigation, Detective. My initial thoughts lead toward your killer being much taller and much stronger than the woman in that,” I point to the photograph Fletch still holds, “picture. She’s too small.”
“She’s average size!” Fletch spins it around to study the woman holding her children. Two piggy-tail, dress-wearing little girls. “She’s about your size, Delicious.” His honeycomb eyes swing up to meet mine. “Not for a single second do I discount your strength or determination when you’re unhappy about something. If he,” he points at Archer, “hit you?—”
“I wouldn’t leave my handprints as paint on the walls.” I glance down to hide my smile as Aubree chokes on her laughter. She continues to snap-snap-snap pictures of our victim, taking particular interest in his face—reddened skin and broken capillaries stretching along his nose and cheeks. “Can you call transport, Doctor Emeri?” Schooling my expression, I bring my gaze up once more and meet those of the detectives. “I expect to have my prelim report in your inbox by close of business this afternoon. Until then…” I turn my back to the men as though to dismiss them.
Though of course, Detective Archer Malone wouldn’t be the man I married if he was so easily discouraged. “Chief Mayet?” His voice is hard. Deep and demanding. Best of all, his dangerous timbre sends tingles throughout my body and down to the tips of my toes. He comes closer to where I stand, though he doesn’t mess with our crime scene. He doesn’t touch anything he shouldn’t, or smudge the splatter of blood all over the floor. “Can I speak with you for a moment?” Then he adds, deeper and darker, “In private.”
“Of course.” I straighten my back and peel the gloves from my hands. I turn to Aubree, who already has a small evidence bag open and waiting for me. She, like my husband, has a way of knowing my needs, even before I acknowledge them. They know my thoughts, even when I don’t speak them.
I’m in love with one. Truly, madly, with all of my heart in love.
And in the other, I found a sister.
“Thank you, Doctor Emeri.” I drop the gloves inside, then reach into my pocket and take out the recorder I bring to every crime scene. Switching it off, I add, “And call?—”
“Transport,” she finishes with a smile. “I’m on it. Detective Fletcher,” she glances across to the fourth in our group of misfits and bats her lashes. “Would you like to hang out with me? In private?”
He laughs and carefully sets the framed photograph down. “With pleasure, Aubs. Though it sure chaps my ass knowing a certain other Malone has already laid claim to your heart.” Dramatically, he presses a hand to his chest. “It aches. It aches so, so much.”
“Oh shut up,” Aubree grumbles. Now that the recorder is off, my team falls apart at the seams and devolves into their immature selves. “Timothy Malone does not have my heart.”
“Chief Mayet?” Archer touches my elbow to draw my attention. “A moment, please. I have shit to do and a crime scene cooling off.”
“You could skip the ‘make sure you eat and be careful’ speech and get straight to the finding a killer portion of your day.” But of course, I carefully step away from the worn and old recliner. The fabric that was once a muddy brown, now a concoction of grease, sweat, alcohol, nicotine, and blood that ran black the moment the killer hit the big arteries. I take care not to disrupt my scene, and step around when CSIs walk through to do their job.
