bad need of some type of order and we needed someone to answer the phone and make coffee and food runs. Even when she was wearing the cast on her arm, she proved herself capable. The cast is a thing of the past and, best of all, she’s dating Marley Yang, who is the supervisor at the crime lab. I finally had an in. I wasn’t above using people. And I was doing her a favor at the same time.
Ronnie comes to my desk holding her notebook so I can see what she’s written. “Detective Carpenter, this just came in.”
Her handwriting, like everything else about her, is stylish. I read the words she’s written. My jaw drops and I feel a lump growing in my throat. I don’t recognize the address but I sure know the name. For a moment I make myself hope she’s written the name wrong, or it’s someone else. But my gut tells me otherwise.
Monique Delmont is dead.
She’s been murdered.
Sheriff Gray got the call an hour ago and is just now notifying me. Not that he would know to notify me. He has no way of knowing about my relationship with Monique. But he knows I work murder cases and get good results. He should have called me. Plus, I’m curious why Sheriff Gray is working this one himself. He doesn’t usually act as lead investigator.
Ronnie stares at me like I’m a hair sample under a microscope. I haven’t hidden my shock very well. I used to be good at it; back then I didn’t have any attachment to anyone or any place and lied about who I was. One day I was a college student, the next with a newspaper, and so on.
I’ve been with the Sheriff’s Office here a long time. At least, it seems like a long time when my life used to consist of living in one random place after another for short stints.
“Do you know her?” Ronnie asks.
Of course she would ask. I don’t say anything and keep looking at the notebook page. Mrs. Delmont doesn’t live in Jefferson County. She lives just south of Tacoma. I don’t understand.
“You’re sure about this?” I ask.
“That was Sheriff Gray on the phone. He said you should come.”
I get up and close my laptop.
“Can I come along?” she asks. I knew she would.
“Not this time. You’re on light duty. If something happens and you get injured, it will be the sheriff’s ass on the line.” And mine for bringing you, I don’t say.
Her disappointment is as clear as the shock of the news was on my face. “I need you here,” I say. “Maybe later if the sheriff agrees.” She’s not satisfied but I don’t expect her to be. She has good instincts most of the time. But it still didn’t stop her from opening her door to a stranger and getting kidnapped.
Three
There are two marked Jefferson County Sheriff’s Office vehicles parked in the yard, two white panel vans, and an unmarked Jeep when I arrive. One marked vehicle is Sheriff Gray’s; the other belongs to Deputy Copsey, who is standing at the front door of a two-story pre-Victorian home. The Chevy panel vans and the Jeep Cherokee are parked closer to the house. One van has a flower shop logo and belongs to my friend and forensic consultant, Mindy Newsom. The other van is Jerry Larsen’s; Jerry is our coroner. The back doors of the coroner’s van are swung wide open. The Jeep belongs to the crime scene unit.
I don’t remember coming to this particular part of town before. But this is in Port Townsend, my town, not two miles from my place. The house is nice, in a nice area, with a good view of the bay and the forest behind, but it’s a step down from the last place I saw Monique.
I’m unsure if we were friends or what. What I know is that we were bound together by murder.
Her daughter, Leanne Delmont, was sixteen when, along with my mother, she became one of my biological dad’s victims. My bio-dad is, or was, Alex Rader, policeman by trade, serial killer by choice. Leanne died helping my mom escape from that psychotic bastard.
When I first met Monique, I pretended to be a reporter writing an article about how murder affects families.
I lied to Monique about who I was and what I was doing, but she finally figured it out. When I really needed help, she was there for me. She helped me