Aim to Kill (2 page)

There had to be a mistake. Hall’s new attorney had switched the evidence. It was corrupted. Not enough to match. The sample degenerated over time. There was a
reason
for this lie. There was always a reason. Hall was guilty. He killed Missy. He killed her,
dammit
!

With every step up, Olivia’s fear and rage grew. Rage that justice had not been served. That Hall would be getting out on a technicality instead of rotting in prison. That he was playing the system, his miserable defense lawyer trying to make a name for himself as an advocate for murderers.

Then came fear. Deep, bone numbing fear jolted something deep inside Olivia, fear that Hall was innocent. That Missy’s killer was still at large. That he was still killing girls. Destroying families. Breaking hearts.

And it was all her fault.

She faltered in her brisk stride and reached out for support, her hand shaking as it touched the wall.

Greg caught up with her in the corridor outside the DNA laboratory. “Olivia, stop.”

She couldn’t look at him, fearful that her eyes would expose her raw soul.

“I’m okay.”

“No you’re not.”

“I just need to see the evidence.” She spoke each word carefully, clearly, her jaw clenched.

“You’re shaking.”

“Show me the damn report!”

She took a deep breath and bit the inside of her cheek to control her emotions. With every ounce of willpower, she composed herself and turned a blank face to her ex-husband.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “That was uncalled for. I shouldn’t take out my frustration on you.”

She would not break down in front of Greg. Olivia St. Martin would not break down in front of anyone.

Even herself.

He opened his mouth to say something and Olivia steeled herself to defend her position professionally. She
was
a professional after all, able to look objectively at evidence. To see the truth in the facts, and present those facts clearly, concisely, to her peers or the court.

She could do it now.

He closed his mouth and used his passkey to unlock the lab door.

“The report is on my desk.”

CHAPTER

2

Detective Zack Travis pinched the bridge of his nose as if fighting back tears. But those who knew him stepped aside. The vivid pulse in his neck bespoke barely contained rage, anger simmering beneath the surface, a tangible force radiating from Zack’s hard body.

Nothing was worse than the murder of a child.

The scene had been secured before his arrival. He looked everywhere but at the ground and the bright blue tarp with the small bump beneath.

The body had been dumped in a garbage-strewn, light industrial area north of Interstate 90, near Quest Field, where weathered cinder-block and steel buildings stood sentry, dark and forbidding at night. During the day their wear and disrepair was a sad reminder that this area of town wasn’t going to recover anytime soon, city council platitudes, promises, and redevelopment funds notwithstanding. With clean, modern business parks popping up in recently developed neighborhoods, the dilapidated areas failed to attract new business. Half of the warehouse storefronts within Zack’s sight had
FOR LEASE
signs.

The sparse security lighting in front of each door turned the fog a sickly yellow. The illumination ended at five feet. The fog hung low tonight, this close to the water, the glow from the flashlights creating a dry-ice effect in the wide alley.

When Zack worked Vice, they had raided several of these warehouses over his three-year tenure. Desperate hookers foolishly strayed this far from the relatively safer streets north; Zack’s first month as a homicide detective, he’d found two prostitutes dead of an overdose, walking distance from where the current victim lay.

Breathing deeply, he squatted, knowing there was no way to truly prepare himself for what he was about to see. He pulled back the tarp.

No child should die, especially in a squalid alley in a decaying section of town. But Zack immediately determined nine-year-old Jenny Benedict hadn’t been killed here. There was little blood. And from the number of stab wounds, there would have been plenty.

He didn’t look long. He’d face her again in the autopsy, but right now he needed to focus on finding the bastard who killed her.

“Coroner?” he asked his partner.

“On his way,” Nelson Boyd said.

Zack sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. Boyd was a rookie, Zack’s responsibility, and he didn’t like it one bit. He’d never wanted to be a field training officer, but when Rucker up and retired, Zack had been stuck with Boyd.

The kid was as green as they came, right down to his sparkly blue eyes. Zack would be surprised if he shaved daily. But Boyd had spent five years in uniform in quiet suburbia, and now that he had his shield, he’d been transferred to the big city. The chief had assigned Boyd to him, no doubt as revenge because his ex-squeeze had hit on Zack at the Guns and Hoses football game. The chief
knew
how much Zack hated being an FTO.

“What next, sir?”

“Can the
sir,
” Zack mumbled. Boyd made him feel ancient, reminding him that his fortieth birthday was only months away. Not that he cared about the number, but his body was beginning to protest his vigorous morning workouts.

He pushed his frustrations aside and asked, “Where’re the damn crime techs?”

“On their way,” Boyd said, bouncing. Yes,
bouncing
on his heels. His fidgeting drove Zack crazy, and they’d only been partnered up for two weeks. How the hell was he going to last six months?

“Where’s the guy who found her?”

“Officer Paul has him on ice inside the electronics company next door.”

Zack raised an eyebrow.
On ice?

“I want to talk to him. Stay here and keep everyone away until the crime techs arrive.” He frowned. The fog and
subpar
lighting would make searching for evidence next to impossible, even if they brought in high-watt industrial lamps. They’d have to stay on scene until well after sunrise. But if this was a body dump like Zack suspected, there’d be little to find.

The witness, a young skinny guy with a long face, sat at a secretary’s desk inside the nondescript building. Zack looked around. This could be any business in the lot, the same dirty chairs, stained industrial-grade carpeting, beat-up metal desks worse than Zack’s back at the station. But the computers in the cubicles lining one wall looked state-of-the-art, and Zack noted a high-tech security system by the door.

“Travis,” Officer Tim Paul acknowledged and crossed over to the door, out of the witness’s earshot.

“Who do you have?”

“Reggie Richman, twenty, employee of Swanson and Clark Electronics. Said he was coming to run computer backups, does it twice a month after close of business. Checks out. I called his boss, verified his employment and his story. He’s been with the company two years, goes to
Seattle
Central
Community College
part time.”

Zack nodded, observing Reggie Richman, who looked down at his constantly moving hands. Drumming fingers, tapping pencils, flipping through papers without reading them. Nervous energy? Or guilt?

“What’d he say?”

“He almost rode his bike over her.”

“A motorcycle?”

“No, the kind you pedal.” Paul cracked a small smile, then grew serious again. “He lives in a walk-up a mile away, halfway between here and the college, doesn’t have a driver’s license though does have a Washington State ID. Says he went to class after work, grabbed a burger, and returned here, probably about 9:30. He didn’t see her until she was only feet in front of him. He came in the building, called 911. The call came in at 9:42.
Urbanski
and I arrived on scene at 9:55. We called it in and secured the scene.”

Zack glanced at his watch. Ten thirty-five. “Thanks. I’ll take it from here, but I’d appreciate you covering the door.”

“No problem.”

Reggie glanced up as Zack approached. “Can I go?”

“Not yet.” Zack sat in the metal-legged chair in front of the desk. The chair creaked, showing its age, and Zack hoped it held him. He wasn’t overweight, but he was a big guy. He leaned forward more to balance in the flimsy chair than to intimidate the kid, but he was pleased with the secondary effect. He’d get the truth.

“Reggie?”

“Yes?” The kid broke a pencil in half and stared wide-eyed at the two pieces, then dropped them like they burned. He crossed his hands in front of him. “Sorry.”

This kid didn’t look like a killer, but Zack didn’t have much faith in appearances.

“I’m Detective Zack Travis, Homicide. My officers tell me you found the body and called it in.”

“Y-yes. I did.”

“Could you go over what happened? When you got here, what you saw, when you called?”

“Um, sure. I told him.” He motioned toward Officer Paul standing by the door a dozen feet away.

“I need to hear from you how you found the body.”

“Oh. Okay.” He took a deep breath and started playing with a box of paper clips. “I knew she was dead, so I didn’t like, um, touch her. I wasn’t supposed to, was I? I wasn’t supposed to do mouth-to-mouth, was I?”

“You did fine. You say you knew she was dead.”

“Yeah. Her eyes were open and they didn’t look—you know, like they were alive.”

“I know what you mean.”

“I, um, I was riding my bike and—”

“Maybe it would be easier if you started from when you left work today. What’s the deal? Why’d you come back tonight?”

“I left at four, like always. I have classes Monday, Wednesday, and Friday: Computer Engineering at five o’clock and Advanced Database Programming at 7:15. That gets over at 8:45, and I went to McDonald’s after.”

“What’d you eat?”

“Um, two Big Macs and a chocolate shake.” He turned away.

This kid wasn’t a killer. Zack felt it in his gut. He’d passed the remnants of a McDonald’s meal on his way into the building. The kid must have puked at the sight of the body. Zack was glad he’d managed to get away from the crime scene before he lost it.

“Then where’d you go? Home?”

“
Naw
, I came here. It was getting foggier by the minute, and I wanted to finish the backup and get home before cars couldn’t see me even with my light. Cars don’t care much about bikes on the road. I’ve been hit twice.”

Zack nodded. “I hear you.” Most cars didn’t respect motorcycles, either.

“So, I was riding down the alleyway and there she was, right in the middle. I would have hit her, but I swerved. I went back and looked and—well, that’s when I knew she was dead. I came in here and called 911. And that officer came to the door and I let him in. I, um, kept it locked because I didn’t know what was going on, you know?”

“You did the right thing, Reggie. You left here at four today. When do people normally leave?”

“It’s Friday, people cut out early, but the boss usually stays until six. I can check if you want; the last person who leaves sets the alarm.”

“It was on when you came in?”

“Yes. I can print out a report.”

Zack knew he was getting into the area where he might need a warrant, but the kid had offered him the reports—Tim Paul was here to witness that, so he decided to let him.

“Great, get me the report.”

The kid sighed, obviously relaxing, and his fingers whizzed over the keyboard. A couple of minutes later, the printer kicked into life and Reggie spun around, pulling a page as it came out.

He explained it to Zack. “This shows that employee 109—that’s Marge, this is her desk—entered and turned off the alarm at 7:04 this morning. And here—see, Mr. Swanson set the alarm at 4:45, but he didn’t leave.”

“How can you tell?”

“He only turned on the outside doors. Full alarm is both internal and external sensors. He left at 6:10 and set full alarms. And this is me, employee 116, coming in at 9:40 tonight.”

“What does the company do?” Zack looked around, couldn’t see a business name.

“Refurbish printers. We buy them on the cheap from governments, schools, whatever, in big blocks, clean them up, replace worn or broken parts, then sell them to a wholesaler.”

“And your job?”

“I’m the IT Department. I make sure everyone’s computers are working, the network, run reports, things like that.”

Everything Reggie said made sense. He was just the unlucky guy to come across a dead body.

“Did you see anyone? On foot or in a car? Did you see a vehicle, either moving or parked?”

Reggie shook his head. “This place is dead at night.” He reddened. “Uh, I didn’t mean anything by that.”

“I know.” Damn. The body couldn’t have been here more than a couple of hours.

There was a lot of work to be done. It was Friday; few people would be working tomorrow. They’d have to track down the owners over the weekend, see what they could learn about schedules, anyone who was working after six tonight. It would be much better to interview people tomorrow, but there was no way they could track down the hundred or so employees who worked on this side of the industrial park over the weekend. Any leads one of them might have would be cold by Monday.