Her Last Summer: A Veronica Lee Thriller Page 5

  Pointing down the hall to the stairwell exit, Alma glanced back at Nessa. Her eyes gleamed behind her protective glasses.

  “Whatever it is, there’s a trail of it leading toward the stairs.”

  “A trail of what, exactly?”

  The deep, exasperated voice startled Nessa. She spun around to face the hotel manager she’d met earlier the lobby. Dennis something. He looked as unhappy as he sounded.

  “Sir, I need you to step back toward the elevator,” Alma commanded, stepping forward to block the man from moving further down the hall. “This is a restricted area. No one will be allowed to enter this corridor until we complete our investigation.”

  Stealing a glance at the manager’s angry face, and then at his name tag, Nessa tried a softer approach.

  “Mr. Robinson, I know this must be a huge inconvenience to you and your guests, but we’ve opened an official investigation into Portia Hart's death. We need to determine how she died, and we haven’t ruled out foul play yet.”

  Dennis Robinson opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again. A variety of emotions played over his face as he absorbed her words.

  “You mean Ms. Hart may have been…murdered?”

  “Well, it certainly is a possibility,” Nessa said, wondering how long it would be before Dennis Robinson spouted off this information to the press. “Which means we need to do everything we can to protect your guests and this community until we know exactly what happened in this room last night.”

  Gazing toward the room with a forlorn expression, Dennis sighed and shook his head.

  “Well, I hope it doesn’t take very long. That’s our finest suite. I’m losing eight hundred a night while this investigation goes on.”

  The man’s callous words caused Nessa’s back to stiffen. Her voice rose an octave, and she gave her southern drawl full rein.

  “We’re gonna be here just as long as it takes to find out what happened, Mr. Robinson. And we’ll need to talk to all the employees, of course, to find out what they may have seen. And any guests who stayed on this floor.”

  Alma moved toward Dennis, ignoring his startled protest, and shooed him back down the corridor. When they reached the elevator, Alma pointed a gloved hand at the camera mounted on the wall over his head.

  “I’ll stop by the security desk later. We need to review video from the cameras on this level, the lobby, and all entrances or exits.”

  “And the parking garage,” Nessa called out as the manager stepped into the elevator, still shaking his head.

  Hurrying back down the hall, Alma knelt to open a hardcover case. She pulled out a handheld device and flicked a switch. A bright beam of light illuminated the floor as Alma stared into a small display on the back of the device.

  “It’s my new toy,” Alma murmured to Nessa. “Portable high intensity light. Helps find trace evidence and check for blood stains.”

  “Blood?” Nessa frowned. “But Portia wasn’t bleeding…”

  Alma didn’t seem to hear her. She bent and searched through her case until she found a small container. Twisting open the lid, she extracted a small plastic strip, then crouched next to the stain.

  Nessa held her breath. She’d seen the little strips before. If the strip turned green, then that meant the stain contained hemoglobin.

  “Bingo!”

  Alma’s raised voice caused all three of the other technicians to come to the door. They looked out at Alma through their protective glasses with expectant eyes.

  “Looks like someone was bleeding in this room.”

  Alma held up the plastic strip; it had turned green.

  “Although I’d say it’s been diluted with water,” she added. “And must have been tracked out here sometime after housekeeping came in and cleaned the floor.”

  Possible scenarios of how the diluted blood had gotten on the floor flooded Nessa’s mind. Was it Portia’s blood? Or had someone else been in the room? Would there be enough blood to test for DNA?

  “I’ll collect the specimen to see what we can find out at the lab,” Alma said, as if reading Nessa’s mind. “And we can compare our results to what Iris finds at the autopsy.”

  Knowing the CSI team was just getting started, and that the investigation would take most of the day, Nessa looked at her watch.

  “I’m going to join Vanzinger and Jankowski for the autopsy,” she told Alma, already walking toward the elevator. “Iris said she’ll do it this afternoon. I bet she’s prepping as we speak.”

  Stepping onto the elevator, she thumbed the button for the ground floor. Her phone vibrated in her pocket just as the elevator started to descend, and she knew who was calling before she looked at the display. Jerry would be wondering where she was.

  “I know…I’m late for the viewing,” she said, trying not to sound defensive. “But the call this morning ended up being a bigger deal that I thought. I’m sorry but-”

  “Nessa, take a breath.” Jerry sounded more amused than angry. “I’ve been watching the news, so I figured you wouldn’t be back in time. I was just calling to tell you I’ve rescheduled the appointment until next weekend.”

  Relief washed through Nessa at his words. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved because he wasn’t mad, or because she wouldn’t have to go see the new house he wanted to buy.

  “Thanks, honey. I feel terrible to have to miss it.”

  She tried to sound disappointed for Jerry’s sake. He wanted a bigger house now that Cole and Cooper were getting older, and now, as chief of police, she was making enough money to afford it.

  But Nessa was in no hurry to move. They’d chosen the little house on Cranberry Court when they’d first moved to Willow Bay almost six years before. The boys had been so young back then, and they’d gone through so many good times since, that the modest house seemed like an integral part of their family. The only place in Willow Bay she felt truly safe.

  “I understand,” Jerry assured her. “The press are going wild with this one. Looks like you’re going to be tied up for a while.”

  Jerry knew better than to ask for details. That was one of the things that Nessa loved about him. He let her keep the unpleasant details of her job out of their house as much as possible. When she was at home with Jerry and the kids, she didn’t want to think about the ugliness she faced in her role on the police force.

  “Yes, I’m just heading downtown to meet with Vanzinger and Jankowski now. It’ll be a long day so don’t count me in for dinner.”

  “Okay, I’ll take the boys for pizza or something.”

  Hearing a whoop of joy in the background, Nessa realized Cole and Cooper had been listening in on the call. She rolled her eyes at the obvious excitement in their voices.

  “Well, don’t miss me too much, you little pizza monsters.”

  Nessa disconnected the call just as the elevator doors opened onto the lobby. She could see right away that the crowd outside the hotel had swollen into a mob. Pushing out through the security exit, Nessa avoided the press area and hurried toward her black Dodge Charger, which she’d parked in the loading zone.

  Slipping into the driver’s seat, she nosed away from the curb and headed down the drive toward the highway. She looked in her rearview mirror, glad to have escaped without being noticed by the growing swarm of reporters. They were all desperate to find out what had happened to Portia Hart.

  And they’re all looking to me and my team for the answer.

  A pang of doubt rippled through her at the thought. Was she ready to lead an investigation that was sure to garner national attention? Or had she gotten herself in over her head?

  Suddenly, she found herself missing her old partner, Pete Barker. He’d always been able to make her feel better, even in the most stressful situations, and he’d always had her back, no matter what.

  Barker’s heart attack a few years back, followed by his early retirement, had put an end to their partnership, but not to their friendship. Picking up her phone, she tapped on his name in her f
avorites list.

  ‘Hey, Nessa, I was just talking about you.”

  Just hearing Barker’s familiar voice made Nessa feel a little safer.

  “I wondered why my ears were burning,” Nessa replied. “Good thing I called to find out what you’ve been saying about me this time.”

  “I was just watching the news with Taylor, and I was saying that I’m glad I’m not you right now. This thing with Portia Hart looks like it’s going to be a major pain in the ass.”

  Smiling despite herself, she relaxed back against the seat.

  “Actually, that’s why I was calling you. For moral support. Between you, me, and the fence post, I’m not sure I’m up for this.”

  The slight tremor in her voice exposed the truth of her words; she heard Barker’s heavy sigh and scolded herself as she imagined the worry filling his sad puppy dog eyes.

  “Don’t be stupid,” he said, although his voice had softened. “You’re gonna be fine. This is the kind of stuff you’re good at. Just don’t take any crap from any of those reporters. They’re like vultures circling the kill. You just ignore them and focus on being the chief of police.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” she agreed, feeling better. “Besides, what other choice do I have?”

  “You could come work with me and Frankie. We’re always looking for good detectives at Barker and Dawson Investigations.”

  “Yeah, and if I was a PI, I’d be spending Saturday going out for pizza with the boys, instead of at the medical examiner’s office viewing an autopsy.”

  Nessa laughed along with Barker, but as she pulled into the WBPD parking garage, and saw a fleet of news vans waiting outside, she wasn’t sure the idea was so funny after all.

  Chapter Nine

  Frankie Dawson reached out a skinny hand to search for the phone, wanting to silence the shrill ringing that had woken him from a deep sleep. His fingers settled over the slim device just as the annoying noise stopped. Letting his body sink back into a comfortable position on the sofa, he was half-asleep when the phone erupted again.

  “What the fuck…”

  Swinging his feet to the floor, Frankie sat up and grabbed the phone. He glanced toward the clock as he swiped to answer. It was half past noon.

  “This is Barker and Dawson’s Investigations,” Frankie said with an audible yawn. “How can I help you?”

  “My name is Maxwell Clay.” The man’s voice was crisp. “I’m an investigator with Sterlington Trust Insurance Group, and I’m looking to retain a local agency in Willow Bay to help me with a case.”

  Wiping the sleep from his eyes, Frankie sat up straighter.

  “What kind of case are you talking about, Mr. Clay?”

  “It’s a death investigation…on a life insurance claim. I need to verify cause of death for an insured that was visiting your town.”

  Clay cleared his throat and lowered his voice, as if someone might be listening in.

  “As I’m sure you’ve heard in the news, Portia Hart was found dead this morning in her room at the Riverview Hotel.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Frankie agreed automatically, even though he’d slept through both the morning and lunchtime broadcasts, “I think I heard something about that.”

  “Portia Hart had a sizable life insurance policy with Sterling Trust, and I’m investigating the circumstances around her death.”

  Frankie stood, stretched out his back, then stepped over to his desk, which was cluttered with wrappers and napkins from the fast food dinner he’d eaten the night before.

  “I need to determine if we’ll want to contest the claim,” Clay continued, “and on a high-profile case like this, I find it’s usually wise to partner with a local investigator. Someone who knows the community and has the proper connections."

  Scratching at the stubble on his unshaven chin, Frankie frowned.

  “Why don’t you just ask the cops what happened? Or the ME?”

  “I wish it were that easy,” Clay replied. “But I need the information fast, and the police tend to take their time.”

  “You’re in a hurry to pay out a bunch of money?”

  “No, but her brother is the beneficiary, and he’ll likely be in a hurry to receive the money as soon as possible. And in a small town like Willow Bay, the local cops will likely shut me out.”

  Frankie nodded at the words.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. The cops get all bent out of shape if they think a private investigator is trying to do their job. Like I'd want to be a fucking cop."

  After a startled pause, Clay agreed.

  “Exactly, well, Mr. um…I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name. Am I speaking with Mr. Barker or Mr. Dawson?”

  “You’re speaking with Frankie…Frankie Dawson, PI.”

  "Well, Frankie, I saw on your website that your partner, Mr. Peter Barker, used to be a detective on the local police force. Does that mean he still has inside connections?"

  The mention of his partner’s name caused Frankie to look over his shoulder; he was suddenly sure that Barker had somehow come into the office without being seen.

  Confirming that the coast was still clear, Frankie readily agreed.

  “Yeah, sure he does. Barker’s best buddies with the new chief.”

  “Wonderful. I hope to arrive in Willow Bay later today. How about I come by your office first thing tomorrow and we’ll settle the arrangement?”

  Frankie once again thought about Barker. He doubted his partner would be too happy about working on a Sunday.

  He’ll probably want to spend the day prancing around the fucking park.

  Lately Barker had been spending every weekend playing happy families with his new girlfriend and his daughter. The satisfied grin that had become a regular fixture on Barker’s face was beginning to annoy Frankie, but he wasn’t about to let it ruin a lucrative new gig.

  “Uh, I guess that’ll work…where you comin’ from?”

  Clay was silent. For a minute Frankie thought he’d lost the connection. Then the insurance investigator cleared his throat.

  “I’m in Hart Cove, just north of Palm Beach. If I leave now I can get to Willow Bay before nightfall. I’ll be at your office tomorrow morning no later than ten.”

  Frankie’s interest waned at the thought of a Sunday meeting. Especially one that would require him to be up well before noon.

  “Um, Mr. Clay, I better talk to my partner and-”

  But Clay had already disconnected the call.

  “Talk to your partner about what?”

  Jumping at the deep voice that sounded behind him, Frankie spun around. Barker stood in the doorway wearing a suspicious frown.

  “And what the hell happened in here?” Barker looked around the little office with disgust. “You’ve been sleeping in the office again?”

  “What the hell are you doing sneaking up on me?” Frankie countered, trying to slow his racing pulse. “You trying to make me have a heart attack, too?”

  Barker rolled his eyes and crossed to his own desk. He dropped into his chair and surveyed the neatly organized surface.

  “This is what a desk is supposed to look like, Frankie,” Barker said. “Not like that pile of crap you got.”

  Swiping the greasy wrappers and wadded-up napkins into the overflowing trashcan under his desk, Frankie decided he’d better break the news about their new case before he lost his nerve.

  But as he opened his mouth, Barker flipped on the little television mounted on the wall and leaned back in his chair.

  “You hear about Portia Hart?” Barker asked. “It’s a real shame.”

  Shocked to hear the name of the woman Maxwell Clay was investigating coming from Barker, Frankie closed his mouth and looked toward the television.

  His eyes widened as he saw Veronica Lee standing in front of the Riverview Hotel and read the words that were scrolling across the bottom of the screen.

  Portia Hart, bestselling author and daughter of the late billionaire Remington Hart found dead at Riverview Hotel
this morning.

  The reporter’s long dark hair and green eyes were familiar to Frankie. The Willow Bay Stalker had taken Veronica Lee hostage when Frankie and Barker had been working a related case.

  Several months had passed since then, but Frankie still had a slight limp from injuries sustained during the chase that had ended with Boyd Faraday’s arrest.

  “The WBPD have opened an investigation into the death of the popular self-help author who was in Willow Bay as part of the nationwide book tour for her bestselling book, Simply Portia,” Veronica said, holding up a book with the picture of a cheerful blonde woman on the cover.

  “Reggie had that book.” Barker pointed a beefy finger at the screen. “She loaned it to Taylor just the other day.”

  Running a hand through his wilted brown hair, Frankie turned toward his partner with a hesitant smile.

  "I didn’t realize Portia Hart was like…well, a celebrity. I mean, if I’d known then I might have told Clay that I needed time to-”

  “What’re you talking about, Frankie?” Barker asked, his eyes still on the television screen. “Clay who?”

  “Maxwell Clay.” Frankie swallowed hard. “He’s the insurance investigator who just hired us to find out how Portia Hart died.”

  Barker raised both eyebrows and stared at Frankie as if he’d lost his mind. When Frankie just stared back, Barker dropped his head into his hands.

  “You gotta be kidding me,” he moaned. “You agreed to help some sleazebag insurance guy try to slime his way out of paying an insurance claim for one of the most popular celebs in the country?”

  An overwhelming desire to smoke a cigarette took hold of Frankie. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a loose stick of gum. Tearing off the wrapper, he stuck it in his mouth and began to chew.

  “Listen, Barker, this could be a good case for us. If we find out what happened to Portia we could end up as heroes.”

  When Barker didn’t look up, Frankie tried again.

  “And with national attention, we’re bound to get some publicity. We are not exactly rolling in new cases, you know.”

  Taking out his phone, Barker acted as if Frankie hadn’t spoken. He tapped out a number and waited.