The Forgotten Girls (Book #1 in The Suburban Murder Series) E-Book

Alexa Steele

• Herausgeber: Lukeman Literary Management
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Suburban Murder
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 326

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

In an elite suburb of New York City, girls are dying. That doesn't happen in Greenvale, with its immaculate lawns, exclusive yacht clubs and multi-million dollar mansions. But behind its perfect façade, its trimmed hedges and luxury cars, a darkness lies. Girls, dependent on Adderall, outmaneuver each other to get into top colleges, while the mothers' need to live vicariously only makes it worse. Bella DeFranco is one of the Bronx's top SVU detectives. At only 37, she disarms everyone with her stunning good looks, yet she is as tough as most men—and a lot smarter, too. Yet when is summoned to Greenvale, she finds herself getting lost in a case that even she can't comprehend. She stumbles into a land of secrets, a place where husbands hide their pasts from their wives, where friends are not what they seem, and where no one wants to know too much. As she digs deeper into layers of suburban dysfunction, she comes to learn that, behind all the fake smiles, there is a subtle violence--rivaling even her crime-ridden streets of the Bronx. With a killer on the loose, time running out, and a new partner who never recovered from his washed-up alcoholic days, the odds are stacked against Bella. She is determined, though, to save these girls, whatever the cost. Yet as she gets close, the depth of psychosis she discovers shocks even her….

Leseprobe

the forgotten girls

(A Bella DeFranco Mystery)

Book #1 in the Suburban Murder Series

About Alexa Steele

Alexa Steele is an attorney, practicing in New York City, where she lives with her family, and a lifelong mystery reader. THE FORGOTTEN GIRLS is her debut work of fiction. Alexa loves to hear from you, so please visit www.alexasteele.com to join the email list, receive a free book, receive free giveaways, get the latest exclusive news, connect on Facebook and Twitter, and stay in touch!

Copyright © 2014 by Alexa Steele

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Jacket image ©iStock.com/Casarsa

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

PROLOGUE

Joslyn Freed had always been terrified of water. Tonight, as she made her way down to the shore on the jagged, uneven path alone, in darkness, she felt a rising sensation to turn and run as fast as she could. She didn’t, of course. She had said she would be there and she would.

Carefully and slowly she navigated the trail, her shimmering, sky-high stilettos faltering under the pressure to support her. They gave way on a pile of loose rocks when she slipped and fell, catching herself as she landed on her side.

Shaken, she lifted herself, brushed dirt off her dress and continued, unsteadily, down to the yacht she had promised she would go.

Joslyn had regretted agreeing to this meeting before she even snuck outside and now, as she approached the dock, she felt queasy, gagging from the smell of salt water and fish.

She bent over and vomited.

Miserable, she straightened herself and looked back up the hill at the well-lit club, the faraway sound of voices and laughter eerily distant.

She turned. The gate to the marina stood before her, hanging loosely off its hinges, tempting her. Swirling, agitated water slapped against the side of the pier. She felt queasy and turned away.

Joslyn had never liked the sea, found it way too unpredictable. Even as a young girl she could never relax when in its grip. On her family vacations, her father would hold her hand and walk her out, deep into the water, to a spot where they could dunk under the gigantic waves that crashed for them, one after another. She would hold her breath even after she came up for air and beg him to let her go back to shore. He would just laugh.

Joslyn stood frozen, staring at the churning, deep water, and wished she hadn’t allowed herself to be talked into coming down here. She needed to learn to say no, to not worry so much about others’ feelings. That was her problem; she was too kind. After tonight, she decided, it was time to make some changes.

For starters, she would get out of Greenvale this summer to spend time with her sister back home. The years had passed without her having shared with her daughters the simplicity of her childhood in rural Wisconsin—so different from the life they knew here. She would plan a surprise girls’ trip in honor of Carly, her oldest, off to college this Fall. A pang of sadness tore through her as she thought of the double suicide of two high school senior girls in town, both of whom Carly knew. Now, instead of sending their girls off to college, their mothers had just finished burying them. What was wrong with this town?

 Leaving for a while wouldn’t be enough, though, and she knew it. She was going to have to end the toxic relationships that permeated her life, starting with this one, the worst of them all. Really, what was left to say? Their differences were glaring, and this last-ditch attempt to revive something was a waste of time. This would be the last time she would engage, she promised herself. Ending this relationship was way overdue.

Joslyn forced herself forward, through the gate, out onto the dock and toward the yachts, lined up like sardines. Her instructions were clear: walk to the very end. Paradise Found would be on her left.

She hadn’t been on a yacht in years, though she had been invited many times. As she walked past them, she had forgotten how imposing they looked up close, each one grander than the next. They screamed money and leisure like nothing else. She thought of the gala that evening, how it too broadcast the same message: a self-congratulatory air for being rich, privileged, and fabulous.

Suddenly it dawned on her. It wasn’t the wealth in her town that bothered her—she liked beauty and luxury as much as the next person. It was the way everyone around her idolized it. It was the way they all strived to project an image of perfection, especially through their kids; succeeding at all costs, at any cost, had become everyone’s number one goal.

She was sick of all the affect, the self-absorption, the constant preoccupation with themselves and their children. No one she knew had saved the world last time she checked, or found a cure for cancer or worked as a firefighter and saved a life. She was disgusted with it all quite frankly, and with herself, for having become so fully lost in it. Somewhere along the line, her life had morphed into a bubble of money, privilege, status, and inordinate self-obsession. She was suffocating in it; she had to get out.

It was eerily still as Joslyn meandered down the rickety, wooden dock, an invisible force pushing her along. Two lampposts at either end cast a shrouded light, and a few errant stars hung in the sky, defying the quickly-moving cloud cover. The yachts groaned angrily, struggling against their tethering ropes.

After a few more reluctant steps, Joslyn reached the 54-foot Alden Ketch, nestled proudly into a side slip at the very end. A small white note was taped to the piling, its words barely legible in the dim light:

“Come inside.”

Joslyn looked down the gangway and saw the cabin, lit.

Trying to be cute, she thought.

As she unstrapped her heels she heard a door slam on the yacht and looked up.

No one was there. Where was Fred? He always worked the marina during parties, but she’d noticed he hadn’t been in his chair near the entrance.

Leaving her shoes on the deck, Joslyn gripped her clutch and the gangway rails and gently made her way down the plank. She felt like an intruder as she stood, barefoot, on the rocking teak deck, steadying herself.

The cabin door stood slightly ajar and a warm, comforting light glowed inside like a refuge from the elements, from the churning sea. Tentatively, she made her way toward it.

As she reached for the door, Joslyn suddenly had an awful premonition; before she could understand what it was, she sensed motion and saw a face, contorted in rage, and rushing for her at full speed. She was confused as she saw hands, wearing gloves despite the warm weather, rushing up for her mouth—and the last thing she saw, as they clamped her mouth, was the teak deck of this million dollar yacht, rushing up to meet her.

CHAPTER 1

Billy knew, as soon as he hung up the phone, a familiar knot in his stomach, that Isabella was the only detective to call for a case like this. As the smartest detective in his Special Victims Unit, Isabella’s edge was her skill in handling women. As a woman herself she had an advantage, but she had taken that edge and honed it by handling the unit’s most sensitive scenarios. That skill would come in handy here—country club set, tony town, mother of two daughters—a lot of women to handle.

At thirty-seven, Isabella was one of the youngest female detectives in the country. A twelve-year member of the police force, she had made a name for herself participating in one sting after another. With her stunning Irish looks—long, wavy strawberry blond hair, big green eyes, freckles dotting her small, delicate nose, and a killer body to boot—she looked like anything but a detective. The Master’s in Forensic Psychology she earned from John Jay at night hadn’t hurt her career either. So when his precinct opened a dedicated unit for special victims—the first of its kind in the country for women and children sexually attacked and/or killed—one of the first names Billy thought of was Isabella.

Billy had met her once before and knew her reputation when he contacted her. Three months later her transfer was complete. As with most others, her beauty blinded him a bit. His only worry was whether the guys in his place could work with her. He hoped her track record would give her the credibility she would need with them, and made sure they all knew her reputation and her latest achievement when she arrived—solving the murder of a city councilman’s daughter, a girl found dead in a crack house in East Harlem.

“She’s too good-looking to ever be taken for a cop, and she knows how to use it to advantage,” Billy confided to his superiors. “A lethal combination.”

In the five years since she had joined the unit he had grown to love her like a daughter. She had come into his precinct willing to do whatever was needed. She worked harder than most of his guys, spending hours poring over endless paperwork. She could read and interpret a psych report, knew forensics, interrogated like a pit bull, and could work both sides, aggressive with a suspect, sensitive and solicitous with a victim. She went home later than everyone, didn’t need to take credit, and took on whatever assignment was thrown at her. He didn’t know what drove her, but driven she was. It was hard not to love her.

He had wanted to partner her up and tried out a few guys but, as most were single, divorced, or going through a breakup, it inevitably turned incendiary, on their end, not hers. Hell, even he—happily married for thirty years—would be hard pressed to concentrate with her in the car. So she worked alone most of the time. Something she didn’t seem to mind.

This case was different though—she was not going to have the luxury of time here. There would be eyes all over it, everyone breathing down her neck. It could spiral down fast and bring his buddy Dennis’s career with it.

Billy picked up the phone and called her. She answered on the first ring.

“This better be good,” she greeted him sleepily.

“It’s better than good. I need you down here right away.”

“Or else?”

“No joke, Bella. Wife of a hedge fund guy. Mother of two. Sexually assaulted and killed. In Greenavle. I’ll explain the rest when you get here. Just get your ass in the car and get over here. Now.”

Billy hung up the phone and thought about sending Bella up to Greenvale. He needed to give her a partner on this one. The only issue was who to give her. Menendez had popped into his mind. A bit tricky maybe, but his gut told him it just might work. After pondering its wisdom a few moments, he picked up the phone and dialed a number from memory. Leaning back in his chair he swiveled around to glance at the rain pouring down. Only 4:20 in the fucking morning. A real dreary day. A real dreary life. He heard Mack’s voice on the other end.

“Rise and shine, sunshine, it’s your morning glory.”

Billy broke into a grin.

“Well, that’s about to change, my friend. Get your ass in the car and get down to the precinct. Now. Right now. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

CHAPTER 2

4:30 a.m. flashed in neon blue on the digital clock as Isabella DeFranco’s cell vibrated relentlessly on the bedside table. Reaching over, she knew it was a follow up text from Billy. She was already awake from her phone call with him..

“Shit,” she said to herself, as she buried her head in her soft down pillow and pulled the silk-lined duvet tightly around her shoulders. She listened to the morning rain tapping against the windows and lay still, peeking out at the steady stream of cars moving across the bridge in the distance, little specks of light traveling, one after another, all on their way to somewhere.

Their conversation still rang in her head: wife of a hedge fund guy, mother of two, sexually assaulted and murdered in Greenvale.

Greenvale?

Bella sat up in her bed. She had heard of the place but it was way out of her jurisdiction—about an hour north deep into Westchester County, land of the rich, beautiful, and carefree. Why the hell was he calling her in on this?

She hauled herself out of bed reluctantly and went into the bathroom. With eyes half opened, she looked in the mirror at her long, wavy auburn hair and began to brush it out of its unruly mess into a sleek ponytail. She brushed her teeth, still half asleep, sprayed on perfume, put some eye cream under her big, green eyes, and dabbed Vaseline on her pouty lips, the extent of her morning beauty routine. Back in her bedroom she slid into tight jeans, black leather ankle boots, and a black tight-fitting button-down. She contemplated making her bed but decided it wasn’t worth the time—not like anyone was coming to visit.

Bella pondered Billy’s call as she drove to the precinct. She was not thrilled at the thought of being sent into a suburb. She had never spent time in small-town America—not that Greenvale was going to look or feel anything like the rest of country—and she had no particular desire to do so now. She had seen enough to know the rich and powerful lived differently than the rest of humanity: holed up in expensive digs, maybe to avoid lesser beings who were different or, God forbid, poor, they seemed to be a breed unto themselves. She remembered a conversation she and Ryan, her ex-boyfriend, once had when he suggested they buy a house in the burbs so she could switch gears. That idea had gone nowhere fast.

Bella kept her eyes on the dreary roads of the Bronx, squinting through the pouring rain. It would be another day in paradise.

*

Bella arrived at the precinct and walked into Billy’s office carrying two cups of steaming hot Dunkin’, but was surprised to see he was not alone. In a corner stood a hulking man of 6’3’’, 280 pounds, long, dark, wavy hair graying at the sides, a chiseled face with strong cheekbones, and a jawline covered in gray stubble. He wore a black T-shirt, black jeans, and black combat boots, like her. He looked to be in his mid-fifties and didn’t crack a smile or fawn over her like most guys. His expression remained constant as she entered the room and Billy greeted her. It was an expression of boredom.

“Bella, Bella,” Billy said, his face brightening when she walked in. “Come in. Is this coffee for me?” he asked, noticing two cups in her hand. Without waiting for an answer he took a cup, opened the lid, sipped, and sat back in his chair with a contented look on his weathered, crinkled, lovable face.

“How did you know this is just what I needed, darling?” Billy asked.

“It’s five thirty in the morning and you’re sitting here in this crappy office. It wasn’t much of a stretch,” Bella answered.

He grinned, took a few more sips, and said:

“I have someone I want you to meet. This is Detective Jimmy Menendez. We call him Mack.”

“Who’s we?” Bella asked, her eyes meeting Mack’s.

Mack looked amused and extended his hand to shake hers, exposing a large tattoo splayed across his right forearm, a woman wrapped around a snake, with the name Mary underneath. His hands were big and rough and his grip was strong.

“Morning,” was all he said.

Mack looked like a grisly version of Benicio del Toro, Bella thought.

“Mack, this is Detective Isabella de Franco—we call her Bella,” said Billy.

“Gotta love the pet names,” was all Mack said.

“Sit down, you two,” Billy instructed.

Neither Mack nor Bella looked at the other as they sat.

“So is this how we’re getting started?” Billy chided when he saw the mutual lack of enthusiasm. “Come on, kiddies, act like the adults you are and get over whatever the hell it is that’s grabbed you. This day is just getting started and it’s going to be a long one.”

Of all people to load on her Billy had called Jimmy fucking Menendez. It wasn’t enough he was sending her out to some purebred, snooty suburb, but it appeared he was making her go with an old-timer whose drinking problem was lore in the precinct, having become so bad it had interrupted his career. She had heard his name referred to and had heard the rumors—he was a hero to some and a waste of a life to others.

“With all due respect, Billy, what is this?” Bella asked. “What’s going on?”

“Dennis needs some help,” he began. “He’s a close friend, hell, he’s like a brother, and he’s twisting in the wind right now. Mack is going to keep you company, provide some support. I know you are not going to be thrilled about working this and I get it. But if this thing isn’t solved, and solved quickly, it’s his career. He needs me, which means I need you.”

She looked at Mack and wondered how the hell a guy like him was going to blend into a suburb. Besides his height and size, he looked to be Cuban—not a problem for her, but she didn’t think the odds of him connecting with folks in suburban land were very high. He looked more like a character out of WWE than a guy who could mingle with the refined.

“Mind filling me in?” Mack asked Billy, sounding tired. “You woke me out of my pretty little slumber to come in here and I’m still in the dark.”

Bella cocked her head to the side to check him out more carefully. He was actually very good-looking, underneath his demeanor and his scruff, but he seemed like a prima donna, big time.

Billy took a deep breath and brought them both up to speed on what he knew: a female found dead with signs of sexual assault on a yacht at an exclusive marina up north. Name: Joslyn Freed. Husband: powerful hedge fund manager Jamie Freed. Two daughters in high school. Manner of death unknown.

“There was a big event at some club up there last night. Hundreds of people there. But this thing has a twist—that’s why you are both here.” Billy paused and rubbed his hair. “It’s not just about her.”

“What do you mean?” Bella asked.

“Last month, two high school seniors were found dead in the town, hanging in a garage. The girls’ deaths were ruled a double suicide and the case was closed.”

“OK?” Bella’s brow furrowed.

“When the girls were brought down from the rafters each had a ribbon around her neck, with a crest at the end, like some kind of trophy. Reason Dennis is in such a panic is because the crest has shown up again—Joslyn Freed had one hanging around her neck.”

He stopped for a minute so they could take in what he had said. Neither said a word.

“Looks like our killer is having some fun,” Billy noted.

“Why me?” Mack asked.

“Why him indeed?” Bella added.

“My guys are spoken for—knee deep in other matters. This is not our usual circus of clowns, kids.” Billy spoke slowly, looking back and forth between the two of them. “This one’s going to attract press like bees to honey—the media trucks are already lined up. If it gets out there’s a link between the murder and the high school girls, all hell will break loose. On top of that, these folks are cut from a different cloth—they’re used to being handled delicately. We need a real gentle touch.”

Bella looked over at Mack and smirked. Billy read her mind.

“That’s your department, my dear. Mack’s got his own kind of leverage.”

Billy and Bella exchanged a look.

“Bella, he’s an old-timer,” Billy continued as though Mack wasn’t in the room. “We have worked together for longer than I can remember. I called him out of his self-imposed sabbatical”—this with a sly look at Mack—“because I think you two complement each other and will work well together. You each have what it takes to crack this one open and to do it quickly.”

Bella sat back and frowned, clearly not happy.

Billy turned to Mack.

“Bella’s become my girl in sex crimes. She practically runs these cases down singlehandedly. She’s an ace in the hole. I want you back in the game, my friend, and this could be the one to do it,” Billy said with a glint in his eye.

Mack kept his gaze on Billy, but cracked a slow, smug smile. Billy continued:

“This thing has to be solved yesterday or I am telling you, heads will roll, especially Dennis’s. I need you to work it together, no drama.” Billy leaned forward in his chair and studied the two of them with that look Bella knew too well.

“I am asking for a favor here. I know it’s to neither of your likings, but I am asking for a favor. Dennis hasn’t had to deal with much more than traffic violations for twenty years. I’ve got Brad and Marlowe working the Ritgar murder, Chase and Tony jammed up, the Clayton Boulevard case going nowhere fast.”

“I have some leads on Clayton,” Bella said, although that wasn’t exactly true. “Let me stay on it and send Quinn up to Greenvale. I am getting somewhere.”

“Not fast enough. Besides, Quinn wouldn’t know what to do with all the women,” Billy said with resignation in his voice. “Hell, you’re about to enter girl land, what with all the victim’s friends, her daughters, the high school girls, the mothers—forget about it. Quinn won’t know which end is up. As soon as you wrap this one up then Mack, you can go back to doing whatever it is you do these days, and Bella, you can have that long-deserved vacation you refuse to take.”

“Working a case in Greenvale will be vacation enough.” Bella sounded deflated.

“Ah man, you didn’t mention it was Greenvale,” Mack said, rubbing his chin. “I actually spent some time there in my youth.”

“Ha,” said Billy. “So did I.”

“No, seriously, I knew a girl who lived there…” Mack trailed off.

Bella couldn’t tell if Mack was joking or not, but Billy seemed to consider the possibility it was true.

“Good, then my gut was right you were the one to call,” said Billy. “It will be familiar territory for you.”

“We didn’t much make it out of her bedroom, but I might remember how to get back up there.” Mack chuckled, as though his comment was adorable.

Bella was not amused. She was used to guys like him. Pure testosterone and arrogance, so full of themselves they couldn’t find a clue if it hit them on the head, especially if the clue was about themselves.

“OK, let me tell you what I want,” said Billy.

He got up from his chair and came around to the front of his desk, where he stood directly between them, like a principal with two students. In an almost fatherly tone, he looked at Mack and said:

“You need to get back in the game, my friend. It’s been long enough. Put those goddamn demons back in their box and give me what I need here.”

Demons? Shit, thought Bella. Billy was going for the jugular right in front of her, which she didn’t much appreciate. She stole a glance at Mack and noticed he didn’t react to the comment at all. He looked as emotional as a worn-out trucker being told his route for the thousandth time.

Billy then turned his attention on her.

“Bella, we are one off on this one, gonna be playing catch-up. I’ll provide support on my end. You’re my girl. You two head up there and see what you can learn.”

These were the magic words. When Billy told her she was his girl that meant there was no point in arguing. This was a done deal.

She nodded to Billy as she stood up, and Mack followed her lead, stretching as he sauntered into the corner to get his black leather jacket off the coat hook.

“I guess that’s the thing about life, Billy, the thing I’ve never quite gotten used to,” Mack said, as he put his motorcycle jacket over his shoulders. “You can start the day a stone cold loser—and end it a hero.”

Billy looked surprised at the comment and for a split second Bella thought she saw concern in his eyes.

Mack shrugged.

“Or you can start the day high on the hog—but by bedtime be dead.

CHAPTER 3

Bella rode shotgun as Mack drove the regulation blue Ford sedan up the parkway, heading north. She looked out the window as they drove and took in the industrial urban decay of graffiti-covered projects, garbage-strewn hills, and chain-link fences put in place to separate the people from the highway, or maybe the other way around. Mile after mile of dilapidated neighborhoods abutted the parkway, places whose underbelly Bella knew intimately.

Before long and like magic, burnt-out warehouses, abandoned businesses, and empty, broken playgrounds gave way to trees in full bloom, manicured athletic fields, and well-maintained shopping centers. Even without the benefit of early morning light it was hard to deny the beauty and order upon entering Westchester County, a beauty equal parts natural and imposed.

She thought of her apartment in the Bronx—a small standard-fare one-bedroom with linoleum kitchen floors and eight-foot ceilings. It was nothing special when she signed the lease, but she had turned it into her very own sanctuary, with muted colored walls and a few select pieces of beautifully wrought furniture collected at high-end flea markets over the years. In fact, she had made the place a miniature jewel box. An eighteenth-century French antique mirror hung in her tiny foyer, an eggplant-colored arched velvet sofa sat in her small living room flanked by a pair of steel end tables from ABC. Two black and white signed photographs of Greta Garbo as a young woman in matching chestnut frames hung on a gray-toned wall; and her favorite find of all—a faded pink woven cotton George Smith chair, slanted under the window next to an ultra-modern 1970s floor lamp.

Finding well-designed, beautiful furniture at bargain prices was the one hobby Bella had loved since her childhood. Some of her happiest memories were spending Saturdays with her aunt scouring high-end thrift shops and flea markets. To this day, it remained a pleasure she indulged in when she had time, which was rarely. In her next life, she told herself, she would deal in furniture. For now, she had a murder to solve.

As they drove in silence Bella consoled herself by viewing this as the break everyone kept telling her she needed; a reprieve from the recent spate of prostitute murders on Clayton Boulevard. What would be so bad about taking a brief break from the dangerous chaos of her life? It would be a mini-vacation, a walk in the park, a go through the motions kind of situation, she reassured herself. She would use it to recharge.

As though reading her mind, Mack suddenly spoke up.

“You bummed about working this one, huh?”

Bella wasn’t sure how to respond.

“I am,” she admitted. “Though I shouldn’t be. Murder is murder after all.”

“Yeah, but I can see why this would suck for you. Sounds like you’re used to quite a bit of action.”

“Working Special Victims is pretty intense,” Bella reflected. “Don’t know what we’re gonna run into up here, but I’m sure it’ll be a lot cleaner.”

He smiled at her for the first time. “Is that what you think?”

She couldn’t tell if he was being sweet or condescending. He sounded a little of both.

“I’m guessing,” was all she answered.

“Don’t bet on it,” he advised with an arrogant tilt of his chin.

She was put off by his manner. “Clean or dirty—it’s all the same to me.” She looked straight ahead as she said this, clearly sending the message she was in no mood to talk anymore.

The rain pelted the window as the darkened sky turned deep pink and purple. She and Mack didn’t make small talk again, each in their own head until they reached their destination: the Greenvale Yacht Club. An enormous gated entrance shielded the magnificent white stucco mansion behind it, a structure resting on a knoll not too high above the Sound. A long winding driveway lay behind the wrought iron, lined with hundred-year-old oaks.

“So this is how the other half lives,” Mack said, with a dazzled look on his face. “Man, this place is awesome.”

Bella did not respond. She focused on a local reporter heading toward them. She gave Mack and the officer at the gate a quick heads-up and they got inside before being pounced on. Mack drove slowly along the driveway, whistling in astonishment. Bella ignored him, not half as enthralled. She had never much liked the concept of gates; they locked oneself in or kept others out. Come to think of it, she never much liked clubs either. Same idea.

Half a dozen police cars, an ambulance, and a blue and white van sat parked in front, yellow crime scene tape everywhere.

“What is this, Halloween?” Bella remarked. It seemed amateurish to have used so much tape, and she wondered if the guys running the show here had ever investigated a real homicide.

A couple of high school–aged boys sat on an ancient stone wall looking tired and bored. They must be valet, Bella thought, as she and Mack got out of the car to do a meet-and-greet and ask questions. It turned out one of them had noticed a fire in the Dumpster around midnight and alerted the manager, while the other stayed with the cars, taking care of the long line of people wanting to leave. Other than that, they saw and heard nothing.

Bella turned her attention to the flurry of activity down by the water. A dozen cops swarmed the grounds behind the mansion and a few stood blocking the entrance to the marina. A cluster of figures stood on the dock behind, two officers with dogs walking the property as a photographer snapped away. She felt irritable all of a sudden.

“Let’s go take a walk,” Bella said, and headed in the opposite direction of the marina, toward the front of the club. Mack followed like he couldn’t care less. The black wrought iron fence surrounding the perimeter protruded fifteen feet high, pointed at top. No one’s scaling that baby, she thought.

A video camera was visibly perched on a tree out front, but she did not see one near the entrance of the club. The driveway wrapped its way under a huge portico, which hovered above two grand mahogany entry doors, dwarfing those who entered.

Mack followed as Bella made her way to the right side of the club and followed its horseshoe shape to a perennial garden in back, where outdoor lighting fixtures flanked a long bluestone path down to the crowded marina. Even in the gloom of the morning, the sweeping vista of blue water, dry stone sea wall, and sparkling white yachts made for a breathtaking sight. Bella couldn’t believe she was only twenty minutes outside of the Bronx. It was like she had entered a different world.

She looked across the yard about 200 feet or so and noticed another path down to the boats: a narrow, neglected-looking pebbled walkway. Bella walked over to check it out; true to form, she was drawn to whatever looked discarded. Unlike its twin on the other side of the clubhouse, this path was craggy and jagged, filled with loose rocks and unclear borders. It began outside the kitchen area, edged past the Dumpsters, and ended abruptly in a patch of dirt near the marina. Meant for employee use only, she guessed.

She led Mack to it and they followed it down to the water. When they were almost at the dock Mack suddenly exclaimed, “God dammit!”

Turning around, Bella saw he had stepped in what looked like vomit.

“God dammit!” he said again, scraping his boots in the grass.

“Hey, are you kidding me? Don’t scrape it off!” she reprimanded, as she called a CSI guy over. The rain had diluted it, but she wanted to preserve what was left.

Mack let the guy examine his boot as Bella examined the old wooden fence separating the lawn from the dock. It was rotted in some places, missing boards in others. Its latch hung loosely to the side and the gate swung open and shut easily. Mack came over when he was done and opened the gate for Bella in a gesture of mock chivalry. An officer stopped them and put their names in his security log. Mack told him about the pile of vomit he stepped in and the officer expressed sympathy and offered to get him a towel. It didn’t seem to dawn on him it might be potential evidence. What a dolt, Bella thought, as she brushed by him.

The smell of the morning sea wafted as Bella lifted her hood to shield herself from the steady drizzle. They moved down the dock, through the mist, slowly checking out the colossal, luxurious yachts that greeted them one after another.

“Man oh man,” Mack hooted. “Can you believe these babies?”

Despite herself she too was overwhelmed. The yachts stood powerfully upright, defiant and proud, their names and their stature broadcasting power and invincibility: Lucky Lady, The Good Life, Riches Galore, Sweet Success. A moment later they stood at their destination: a fifty-four-foot Alden Ketch named Paradise Found. She was berthed sideways along the furthermost portion of the pier, her left side grazing the dock while her right side stood exposed to the open harbor. A shiny aluminum gangway connected the vessel’s stern deck to the gray-planked pier above. It stood at a steep angle, its slick metal surface wet and slippery from the rain.

“Let me go first,” Mack offered, as he descended the swaying gangway onto the boat. Bella held both rails tightly for balance. When she reached the transom, Mack was there with an outstretched arm to steady her.

“I got ya,” he said instinctively.

She accepted his hand, ignoring the unfriendly stares of three male officers huddled together on the deck above them.

“Good luck!” one of them yelled at Bella, laughing. “Paradise ain’t what it used to be!”

CHAPTER 4

There was always this moment in a homicide investigation—the moment before she entered a crime scene, the place the victim had spent his or her last moments on earth. It had always felt a bit sacred to her and still did, after all these years. Usually the place she entered was abandoned: a ratty motel room, an alley. The victims had usually died some kind of death long before she saw them, their murder the final formality. Prostitutes, drug addicts, unwanted children, runaway teens—souls whose light went out long before leaving their bodies.

These were the kinds of murder victims she did this work for, the ones who were truly alone in this world. The ones who broke her heart. But here, on this yacht, there wasn’t much pulling her heartstrings; nothing but a life of privilege and paradise, as the boat’s name advertised.

She stood on the teak deck of the massive white and walnut specimen of luxury and tried to take it in: two white sail masts protruded thirty feet into the gray sky, perfectly polished aluminum railings fended off the drizzling rain, blue and white striped seating arched around the stern and the bow. The cabin stood directly before her and, through its open door, she could see into a room lined with walnut-paneled walls. A trail of dark blood led from inside out onto the deck, then back around toward the right.

Seagulls circled the overcast sky, squawking loudly, looking for breakfast. A burly forensics officer was bent over, studying something. When he saw Bella and Mack, he stood and introduced himself.

“You Bronx?” he asked.

They nodded. His name tag said McLeary.

“Where is she?” asked Bella.

“She’s over there,” the officer answered, pointing toward the gunwale.

“After you,” Mack said to Bella.

A clear, plastic tarp covered the body, but even so, Bella could see the face right through it, eyes wide open, terrified. The deck beneath was dark with bloodstains. While the rain had washed much away, a makeshift cover had been placed over the boards in an effort to preserve what evidence might be left.

There wasn’t much room to maneuver. The narrow strip of gunwale barely accommodated her, let alone her and Mack. Mack walked around to the other side of the body, crouched down, and lifted the tarp, exposing her naked, bent, rigid form. He was eye to eye with her, as though he wanted to have a chat.

“If only the dead could speak,” he said slowly.