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“Okay. I can be there in thirty minutes.”
“I’ll be here.”
She ended the call and willed away fatigue. The edges of her faded police academy T-shirt brushed her thighs as she surveyed the room.
“Shit,” she muttered as she ran fingers through a tangle of dark hair.
Automatically she removed her second to last cigarette from the pack, but then caught herself. Last night, she’d taken the capture of the killer as a sign to ditch the dirty habit. With a twinge of regret, she threw the pack on the rumpled sheets. “Damn it.”
Across from her bed was a large gilded mirror; its streaked and faded silver backing hinted at its decades in an old hotel lobby. Below it, her secondhand dresser, painted a bright indigo, was covered with perfume bottles, makeup, and earrings. A rocking chair in the corner was draped with yesterday’s jeans and a white T-shirt. Beside it were ankle boots kicked off midstep in her rush to get into a hot shower and wash away today’s homicide scene.
Controlled chaos. Just as she’d left it when she went to bed.
Julia hustled to her closet and yanked on slim dark pants and a black T-shirt. She threaded a worn leather belt through the loops. The belt buckle had been her father’s and doubled as a knife. Fastening it, she shrugged on a jacket.
Her black hair curled around her face as she tugged it up into a ponytail. High-heel boots and a collection of beaded bracelets around her wrists made her look more like a rocker than a cop. She secured her service weapon, badge, and handcuffs to her belt. She tucked the cigarette pack in her pocket for good measure.
Julia had been with the Virginia State Police for eight years. As all agents did, she’d started as a trooper and worked the highways for six years before she landed an uncover gig in Virginia Beach. Turned out she had a knack for slipping into pretend lives and found working back alleys and smoky bars preferable to a cruiser. Six months ago, her arrest record had landed her a promotion to the criminal investigations team in Richmond.
Her single-cup coffee machine spat out a strong blend, and with travel mug in hand, she made her way down a back staircase leading to the alley where she’d parked her unmarked car. She drove east on Cary Street and then up to Church Hill. She turned north toward Broad and spotted the blue lights flashing atop three city cruisers. She parked in front of the smoldering old town house. Rolling her head from side to side, she drained the last of her coffee. She stepped into the cold night air. Cursed.
Julia spotted Novak’s tall, broad-shouldered frame. He stood by his unmarked vehicle, feet braced and a cell phone pressed to his ear. He was one hell of a cop. One of the good guys. One day he’d figure out she hauled too much emotional baggage around and leave, and their late-night encounters would end. Too bad. Because if she could have liked a guy, it might have been him.
She stepped into his peripheral vision, and he turned, holding up a finger. She shifted from foot to foot, folding her arms over her chest, telling herself she wasn’t really that tired or cold. He quickly finished his call.
“Julia.” His tone wrapped an unwanted familiarity around her name.
“Novak, this better be good.”
He tucked his phone into his breast pocket. “Nothing excites me more than meeting you at a crime scene in the middle of the night.”
The dry humor tempered some of her irritation. “So seduce me with sweet talk. Make me glad I’m not at home asleep in a warm bed.”
“Asleep?”
“Or whatever.”
Lights from a squad car highlighted the small smile that didn’t soften a carved jawline shadowed with the hint of stubble. “The house caught fire, and crews found a nasty surprise in the basement. Hence the call to you.”
“You said a young female.”
“Correct.”
“How long do you think she’s been dead?”
“That’s the odd part. Better to let you see than me tell.”
“The plot thickens.” She waited for the grin that had literally charmed her pants off a couple of weeks ago to flicker at the edge of his lips. When it didn’t come, she slid long fingers in her coat pocket and retrieved a pair of latex gloves. “How long have your people been on scene?”
“I’ve been here close to an hour.”
“Scene’s been processed?”
“The forensic technician has done a preliminary sweep, and the medical examiner’s rep should be here in a matter of minutes.”
“Lead the way.”
His booted feet crunched the cold earth as they moved into the glare of spotlights illuminating the house with a wide front porch. “The generator is running what lights we have. No electricity to the house, but if there were, it wouldn’t matter. The light fixtures were stripped a long time ago.”
Floor-to-ceiling windows flanked the front door. In the foyer, the floor was coated in decades of dirt, though there were a couple of spots cleaned as if pickers had salvaged some of the flooring. The heavy scent of fire lingered in the long hallway.
She studied the wall with black scorch marks. “Place was torched.”
“Maybe. Or it was electrical.” He led her into a kitchen that was a throwback to the sixties.
“I bet torched.”
Novak motioned toward a doorway leading to a basement staircase. “Let me go first. Stairs are shaky.”
“Of course. Bet there are also spiders, too.” The hang-up began when she was a kid. And in the last year, the annoyance had bloomed into real anxiety.
“You’re afraid of spiders?”
“I am not. But I hate tight spaces.”
“Didn’t know that.”
There was a lot he didn’t know about her. That’s why it worked for them.
He descended wooden stairs that tunneled toward the bright forensic lights that cut through most of the soggy darkness. A small creature scurried in the corner where the light didn’t reach. It was always the shit you couldn’t see that bit you in the ass.
Novak’s towering frame skimmed under the low ceiling, and in a couple of spots he ducked under a low-hanging duct. The air was cold and stale.
“How old is this place?” she asked.
“Built around 1920.”
The basement was L-shaped, and around the bend the lights of a camera flashed. She tugged at the edges of her gloves and braced herself as she rounded the corner.
A forensic technician snapped pictures. It could be years before some cases went to trial. The technician’s notes and images would help put the images in proper context while she was testifying in court.
At the center of the activity was the door leading to a root cellar or furnace room. “No smell of decomposition,” Julia said.
“Wait,” Novak said.
Julia braced herself again. She’d seen some horrific sights during her years and had learned emotional distance was the best way to cope.
What she saw in the room was a first. She didn’t speak as she studied the woman’s skeletal expression. Her mouth appeared open, and her eyes were empty sockets. Death had frozen her as she’d dragged in her last breath. Bony fingers lay palms up, and her legs were spread, feet turned out.
The low dark ceiling made the room oppressive. Jesus. What a place to die. Julia imagined the woman’s final terrified seconds. The panic. Fear. As an undercover agent, she’d learned to bury her true feelings and discovered the talent translated well in moments like this.
Stoic, she moved toward the body. The victim was dressed in faded, distressed jeans and a pale-blue top. A collection of metal bracelets banded a wrist, and a burgundy ring encircled her left ring finger. Her hair was red, and pierced earring hoops lay on the floor.
“Do you have any identification?” she asked.
“We found a small purse in the corner. Inside was a wallet. ID says she’s Rita Gallagher.” He nodded to the tech. “Natasha, can you show her the purse?”
“Will do.” Natasha handed her a clear evidence bag containing a black purse. “We’ve inventoried
it, but be careful. Touch as little as possible. I want to do a work-up in the lab.”
“Sure. Thanks, Natasha.” Julia held up the bagged purse as she faced Novak. “What am I looking for, Detective?”
Novak shifted his weight. “You tell me.”
“So this is a game?”
“I want you to have fresh eyes when you look at it.”
She arched a brow, in no mood for a game that she knew she had to play. She carefully removed the purse from the evidence bag. Squatting, she flattened the bag on the ground and laid the purse on it. She poked around in the faded cloth interior. Lipstick. Small knife. White pills in a small brown glass vial. She saw nothing out of the ordinary. She opened the wallet and read the name on the ID card. Rita Gallagher. The picture matched the remains lying just a few feet from her.
Julia squinted to read the girl’s stats. “She was born in 1969, and judging by her clothes, she was in her early twenties when she died. That puts time of death almost twenty-five years ago.”
“That’s what we’re thinking. Assuming the medical examiner confirms the theory.”
Julia looked up at Novak’s stone features. “She had a shitty ending to a short life, but it doesn’t necessarily warrant a call to me.”
“There’s a small pocket in the wallet.” He clicked on a flashlight.
A sigh leaked from her lips as she accepted the light and shone it into the pocket. Carefully she worked a gloved index finger between the fabric folds and grabbed the tip of the picture with her fingers.
Julia held up the picture of a man and a child. Her first assumption came quickly, but she immediately dismissed it as too out of the box. She blinked and refocused. “Is this some kind of sick joke?”
Cops played pranks on each other, and after the remarks she’d heard at the awards banquet about her father, she wouldn’t be surprised. Still, this was in poor taste, and though she could fit all she knew about Novak on an index card, she didn’t peg him as the type to pull a stunt like this.
He searched her face, clearly trying to dig below the layers as he often did. “I don’t play jokes like this, Julia.”
