Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
“No bloating, not seeing any discoloration,” he says quietly. “Damn, so when? Maybe this morning?”
“Late last night,” I answer, carefully capturing his position and the blood spread with my phone. “There’s dew on his skin. It hasn’t rained, but there’s liquid pooled in the corners of his eyelids and under his neck. Plus, the blood looks like it’s been congealing for at least six hours.”
“I will never get over how you notice things like that, mon ami.” Henri stares at me in awe.
“Check his clothes. If they’re damp, you’ll see I’m right.”
Henri carefully pushes up the flap on the breast pocket of the man’s red and black plaid flannel shirt. “Yep. Just a lil’ wet, but there. Oh—” He whistles softly as he fishes a soft black leather billfold out of the victim’s pocket. “What do we have here?”
He flips open the billfold. In the small laminated window, an ID peers out at us. He arches both brows and offers it to me.
I snag it with two fingers.
“Brian Newcomb of California,” I rattle off. “Time to find out what Brian was doing in Redhaven so far from home.”
It doesn’t take long to track down Mr. Newcomb.
Within a couple hours, we’ve marked, photographed, and packed up the crime scene, transferring the body over to Raleigh’s morgue and a proper workover by the Raleigh PD forensics team.
We don’t have much bagged and tagged to enter into evidence except the backpack and billfold, and when we break everything down to catalogue what’s inside, we just find a canteen, a change of clothes, a pop-up tent, emergency knife and rope, flashlight—the usual camping supplies, along with his phone.
It's his phone that leads us to pay dirt.
It takes our dispatch officer, Mallory, two seconds to get past his lockscreen, revealing a history of texts as recent as last night with a contact named Ariana Lewis. Girlfriend, judging from the conversation.
Looks like she’s staying at The Rookery.
Janelle Bowden greets me warmly when I stop by the bed and breakfast.
I can’t help being reserved with her, wondering if she’s oblivious to Chief Bowden’s side hustle or an accomplice, as hard as it seems to imagine. I flash my professional smile and lean against the counter.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Bowden,” I say. “Came by to see one of your guests. Ariana Lewis? Here with her boyfriend?”
“Oh, yes—those two.” She flutters a little over the keyboard of her computer. “They’re staying in the Statesman suite on the third floor, second door from the right. I’ve been bringing the poor girl hot water bottles all day. She’s having a terrible time with—oh.” She drops her voice as primly as any proper lady of a small colonial town. “You know. That time of the month.”
“Sounds rough,” I say dryly, pushing away from the counter. “Thanks. I won’t be long.”
“Is something wrong?” She gives me a worried look.
“Yes, but let me talk to her first,” I call back, already heading for the polished oak stairs leading up to the walkway ringing the upper floors.
I can feel Janelle’s eyes following me as I make my way up to the third-floor landing—but I don’t look back.
Maybe she’s completely out of the loop with all this.
But with most murders in this town tied to the Arrendells and the Arrendells tied to the Jacobins and the Jacobins tied to her husband?
I’m not about to trust her with anything related to a pending investigation.
Even if, technically, I should be reporting those details to my boss.
Hell, I haven’t seen Chief Bowden in the office for days. There’s a sort of mutual understanding with the guys now.
We don’t tell him anything if we don’t have to.
We can all do our jobs just fine without him, running on autopilot.
When I knock on the right door, a soft, feminine voice calls through it, “Coming, just a minute!”
I hear a faint shuffling from inside before the door pulls open on a small, thin blonde girl with a wispy layered cut and sad brown eyes. She can’t be older than twenty-five.
She’s very obviously just thrown on the fluffy sky-blue bathrobe wrapped around her. She’d started to smile—but when she sees my uniform, that fades.
She frowns as her eyes flick down to the shield on my chest and then back to my face.
“Can I help you?”
“Ariana Lewis? Officer Micah Ainsley, Redhaven PD.” I offer my hand. “Mind if I come in to talk?”
“What’s this about?” She eyes my hand suspiciously but doesn’t take it.
I hold in my sigh.
I’m not the best person for this.
I can be a little too clipped, too blunt. Then again, there’s never an easy way to tell someone their partner is dead.
Even so, I try to soften my voice as I say, “It’s about your boyfriend. Brian Newcomb?”
“Oh, no.” Her eyes widen. She clutches harder at her bathrobe like it can protect her. “Is he in jail?”