Sweet Dreams Boxed Set (126 page)

Back home, any guy she might be interested in was the friend or brother of someone she already knew—Pittsburgh was such a small town that way—or worse, the son of someone her mom worked with in law enforcement. Since part of Lucy’s job was to forge connections with all the local police and sheriff departments, that was a lot of someones.

Down here, she could flirt without pressure. If she made a fool of herself, no one back home would ever know. Plus, no way could things get serious, not when she was here only for a week with her mom hovering on the sidelines.

Best of all worlds, Megan thought, satisfied she’d finally found a way to parlay her mother’s overprotectiveness into a positive. Not that she would ever tell Lucy that. Just like she’d never tell her father she knew his work “emergency” was a sham to get her and her mom to spend “quality” time together instead of their usual constant fighting.

Parents. She rolled her eyes. They were so transparent.

Promptly at three, Megan waited outside the gate to the Flemings’ mansion. Thankfully, Lucy was taking a nap, so hadn’t noticed the extra time Megan had spent on her hair—she’d inherited Lucy’s long, dark curls that went frizzy with the slightest whiff of humidity and fought every effort to bring them under control—or the fact that she’d taken time to apply a little eyeliner and lip-gloss, even though she usually didn’t wear makeup, only carried it because all her friends did.

The Flemings’ place was some kind of modern-style architecture, all concrete and steel with angles designed to get the maximum beach exposure. The gate at the end of the drive was constructed of interwoven steel circles, more artistic than an actual barrier to entry. Through it Megan could see the empty driveway, a well-loved garden—Mateo’s handiwork—along the concrete wall at the boundary between their property and the hotel, a kidney-shaped pool, and the path leading over the dunes to the beach. Mateo’s bike was parked outside the open garage door, but there was no sign of him or any cars.

He’d mentioned Pastor Fleming’s collection of orchids; those must be inside the house. Seemed like a pretty fancy place for a pastor. As she waited, Megan wondered what kind of congregation he led—maybe one of those TV ministries where people were always sending money?

Finally at twenty after, she tried texting and calling Mateo’s cell but no answer. Had he forgotten? Then why didn’t he reply to one of her texts?

Bored, impatient, and fearful she’d been made a fool, she bounced her weight against the gate. It swung open. He’d said to meet him there—maybe he’d meant inside the property?

She stepped inside. No alarms or anything, it was just another driveway that happened to lead to a really fancy, expensive house. She tried texting him once more. Nothing.

Now she was getting angry. Just because he was older than her and worked for rich people didn’t give him the right to blow her off. She marched up to the front door and knocked on it. Like the gate, it was open.

“Mateo?” she called inside the house, her voice echoing in the emptiness.

Air-conditioned air rushed out to greet her, but no signs of anyone. No sounds, no movement. She stepped into the high-ceilinged foyer, her footsteps echoing from the slate floor.

“Mateo?” she called. No answer. She stepped farther into the foyer, glanced through the arch into the living room facing the ocean, and froze.

Megan covered her mouth with one hand as the afternoon sun filtered through windows streaked with blood. Blood covered the sofas, the overturned glass tables and knickknacks, the slate floor, even speckled the orchid blossoms.

So much blood. “Mateo!” she screamed. No answer.

Panicked, she ran from the house and back to the drive. Her breath heaving through her chest, she fumbled for her phone and called the one person who would know what to do. “Mom? I need help. Something terrible has happened.”

Chapter 4

Lucy couldn’t remember the last time she’d indulged in the luxury of a mid-day nap. But after spending the morning soaking up the warm sunshine—80 today, almost twice as warm as back home!—watching Megan and Mateo, and stressing her newly-rehabbed ankle with a couple of long strolls along the beach, she was exhausted.

Sleep pulled her in deep with its thick, heavy tendrils. Until the sound of her phone jerked her awake with a stunning blaze of adrenaline.

“Guardino,” she answered automatically, her gaze scouring the unfamiliar room for any hidden threat.

“Mom? I need help. Something terrible has happened.” Megan’s voice was rushed, choked with sobs.

Lucy leapt from the bed, panic charging through her. “Megan, where are you? Are you hurt?”

“I’m at that house next door. The one Mateo said to meet him at. I’m fine, but someone’s hurt.”

“Mateo?” Lucy asked, already out of bed and reaching for her bag. Wallet, keys, Glock, good to go. She was out the door, skipping the elevator to use the stairs, bum ankle be damned. Halfway down the first flight, she realized she’d forgotten shoes.

“I don’t know. He’s not here. No one’s here. Just blood. A lot of it. Too much.” Her voice broke.

“Get out of the house now,” Lucy ordered. “Meet me at the hotel entrance. Go now.” As she scrambled down the steps, her uneven gait creating a strange echo in the concrete enclosed area, a dozen scenarios ran through her mind. Call the locals? Not if it meant disconnecting from Megan. Assess the scene first in case someone needed immediate medical attention? Go in without backup?

She emerged on the far side of the lobby and aimed for the doors leading into the bright sunshine outside. No sign of Megan. She pushed through the doors, maternal instincts warring with her training. “Megan?” she called both into the air and the phone in her hand.

A familiar set of dark curls appeared in her peripheral vision. Lucy pulled Megan to her, tight. Even as relief swept through her, she still stayed on full alert, noting how the desk clerk stared at them from inside the lobby, pivoting her head to scan the area, assessing the elderly couple driving up to the hotel entrance in a late model Cadillac SUV.

Assured there was no immediate danger, she took a moment to stroke Megan’s hair, soothing it until Megan’s distress had eased.

“Tell me everything.”

***

Megan took a few deep breaths and held Lucy’s hand as she began. “I went inside the house after Mateo wasn’t answering my texts and there was blood, blood everywhere.”

She hated how her voice trembled, tried her best to emulate Lucy’s calm.

“Did you see or hear anyone?” Lucy asked, her posture already shifting away from caring mother to can-do cop.

Megan frowned. She hated when Lucy did that—she understood why, but sometimes she needed her mom to be a mom.

“No. But I stopped just inside the door.” She whirled, pulling away from Lucy. Mateo, where was he? “I shouldn’t have left. What if he’s lying there, bleeding, hurt?”

“You did the right thing.” Lucy glanced around the hotel entrance. Not assessing the pretty purple flowers or nicely shaped shrubs. She was in red alert mode and wanted someplace safe to park Megan. As if Megan were a child. When would her mom start treating her like an adult?

“Wait here,” her mom ordered. “I’m going to call the local police. While I’m on the line, I’ll do a quick sweep, make sure no one needs help.”

She strode away, leaving Megan behind. Even with her limp and bare feet—leave it to her mom to run to help and forget her shoes—Lucy appeared imposing. Hard to do when you were only 5’5”, but when her mom was on the job, no one messed with her.

Megan watched, shifting her weight as the desk clerk helped the arriving couple with their luggage. She debated for a moment. What if Lucy did find Mateo, hurt, and needed someone to do first aid? And who knew how long the police would take in a small town like this on a Sunday afternoon? Did a tiny island like Harbinger Cove even have its own police force? The closest real town was almost twenty miles and four bridges away, back on the mainland.

Or—the thought she was trying to deny punched through to the surface—what if whoever did this was still inside the house?

It made no sense—she hadn’t been quiet when she’d entered earlier. Actually, she’d screamed like a silly girl in a horror film, the one too stupid to live. There was no way if someone was still inside that they hadn’t heard her. They had plenty of time to flee the scene while she went to get Lucy.

That was the logic of the situation. But every horror story turned stupid-criminal joke she’d ever heard from her mom’s cop friends crashed over her. Crooks weren’t just stupid—that’s why they were caught, after all—they could be maddeningly blind to the obvious and do what they damned well pleased despite any consequences.

Including not fleeing a crime scene before someone’s mother walked in on them.

Megan followed Lucy, hesitating at the open gate at the end of the drive, then going through, waiting a few feet away from the front door, clutching her phone as if it were a lifeline.

Chapter 5

Lucy called 911 and explained the situation as she entered the Fleming house. She kept her phone on speaker and slid it into her shorts’ pocket to free both hands to hold her Glock.

The house was silent. She paused in the foyer, the slate floor cold against her bare feet, and surveyed the bloody scene in the living room. The room faced the ocean and had high ceilings, three walls filled with windows, slate floors, large white leather couches, a TV bigger than a school chalkboard, and a rainbow of orchids flowing from shelves, hanging from wall sconces, and draped along the few tables that were still upright. Most of the furniture had been knocked out of place or turned over along with books and knickknacks that had been scattered throughout the room.

No sign of a body. No sign that any injured party had been stationary long enough to allow blood to puddle. Instead, blood streamed like confetti across the otherwise pristine white surfaces.

As she stood, allowing the house settle around her, random sounds cut through her adrenaline. The clack of an icemaker coming from down the hall. The whish of the overhead ceiling fans with their large, palmetto-shaped blades. The stir of air slipping cold from the vents. Nothing human.

She cleared the first floor; the blood appeared to be confined to the living area, culminating in a chef’s knife lying in a pool of smeared blood as if dropped, a clear thumbprint visible on its stainless steel handle.

There was no blood in the hall or on the steps, the family photos arranged on the stairwell wall were undisturbed and revealed a couple in their late forties or early fifties, both trim and smiling. Several photos of them on a cabin cruiser, him wearing a captain’s cap and looking bashful about it. Wedding photos, photos of the wife when she was young with an older girl blowing out birthday candles, shots of the husband and wife with friends and family at celebrations on the beach and around the pool in their backyard, and photos of the husband preaching and hugging grateful parishioners. Two lifetimes collected for display. With no clues as to what they might have done to invite bloodshed and violence into their home.

On the second floor, she found three bedrooms, none with any signs of disturbance, and a fourth that was a home office. Here there were more signs of a struggle but the only blood was a palm print on a piece of paper lying below an empty wall safe. On the paper was a set of scrawled numbers. The combination?

Okay, then. Quite a story to tell, it seemed. She reassured the dispatcher that there were no victims on scene, and slowly retraced her steps. In the kitchen she noted that the bloody knife was part of a set. She double-checked the pantry and utility closets, making certain no one was hiding or had collapsed inside. Still nothing.

How many cuts had the victim suffered? And all of them sustained on the move since there was no pooling? Did that mean there was only one actor, chasing the victim around? No, that made no sense; the victim would have fled out one of the many doors. At least two subjects, perhaps one dragging the victim while the other slashed. Weapon of opportunity, possibly some kind of warped spree-type of home invasion where the valuables taken were secondary to the thrill of the chaos and violence?

She reached the front door and saw Megan waiting outside. Typical. She swore that girl only heard every other word out of Lucy’s mouth—and she cherry picked the words she wanted to hear, ignoring the rest. Lucy glanced back for one last look at the scene. Bloody mess. She was glad it was none of her business.

***

Megan didn’t have to wait long. Lucy emerged, one hand holding her phone to her ear, the other gripping her pistol. She shooed Megan back down the drive, returned her pistol to her bag, and joined Megan at the gate, hanging up when a police cruiser appeared.

“Thought I told you to wait,” she said to Megan as a patrol officer stared at them through his windshield, assessing the threat.

“Did you find Mateo? Is he okay?”

Her mom frowned and shook her head. “He wasn’t in there.”

The officer’s lips moved—talking to his dispatcher, no doubt. Finally, he left the patrol car. He was black with short-cropped hair, taller than her dad, which placed him at 6’2” at least, wearing a short-sleeved uniform shirt that revealed his muscular arms, and no hat. His sunglasses were the kind the SWAT guys Lucy trained with wore, with the same special anti-glare tint. Megan knew they cost a lot; she’d been saving to buy Lucy a pair for her birthday.

He eyed them both for a long moment, his fingers caressing the woven leather of his holster. “You the woman called in a disturbance?”

“Yes. I’m Lucy Guardino, a Supervisory Special Agent with the FBI’s Pittsburgh field office. There appears to be—”

“FBI. Dispatch said you’re armed?”

“My off-duty weapon is in my bag.” Lucy slowly lowered the bag to the ground and stepped back. “Along with my credentials.”

The officer remained beside the car, one hand on the butt of his weapon. He jerked his chin at Megan. “And this is?”