The Death File: A gripping serial killer thriller with a shocking twist. J. Kerley A.

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СКАЧАТЬ until she discovered the neck cut from ear to ear. Novarro winced: she could see into the windpipe. Drawers had been pulled from cabinets and emptied on the floor, a jewelry box there as well. Flies buzzed throughout the room.

      “Dr Leslie Meridien,” Sanches said quietly. “Forty-four, psychologist. Unmarried. This is her home and office.”

      Novarro batted away a fly and continued to circle the body, leaning close while jotting in a notepad. She pulled the victim’s sleeve up two inches, frowned, and made another notation.

      “Blood’s dry, Augie. No rigor. Got a TOD estimate?”

      “I’m a tech, Tash, not my place to—”

      “C’mon … give.”

      “She’s been dead two days, give or take.”

      That made the death on Friday night or Saturday. “How’d she get discovered?”

      “It’s cleaning day and the Mexican housekeeper let herself in like always,” a different voice answered. “Felicia Juarez ain’t having a good Monday.”

      Novarro looked up to see Sergeant Merle Castle in the doorway, thirty-five, close-cropped brown hair and dark eyes with lashes so thick they could have been ads for Maybelline. Six feet and then some, with iron-pumper biceps crowding the short sleeves of the beige uniform shirt of the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office and ankle-high boots polished to a mirror gloss. Beside him was Burton Claypool, an officer with the Phoenix PD, and buddy of Castle.

      “Little out of your new jurisdiction, Sergeant Castle?” Novarro said. “If I remember correctly, you left the Phoenix PD two months back.”

      A smile. “I was on Baseline Road when the call came through, got here five minutes before PPD. It’s all Maricopa County, right?”

      “That means you’ll take the case and the paperwork?”

      “Funny as always, Tasha.” Castle clapped Claypool on his back. “Plus I wanted to say howdy to my old buddies.”

      “Gracias for the assist, Merle, but the City of Phoenix PD is here now.” Novarro shifted her eyes to Claypool. “Where’s Ms Juarez now, Officer?”

      Burton Claypool was twenty-seven, medium height, but with a chest and shoulders that seemed to expand an inch a month. He’d started out with a normal physique eighteen months ago, but like several younger male recruits in the South Mountain Precinct, Claypool consciously or subconsciously emulated Castle: his cockiness, his Western swagger, and his physique, not cartoonish, but impressive.

      “Juarez got freaked out by the body, Detective,” Claypool said, standing straighter. “I got the name of one of her niños and he came by and got her.”

      Niño meant child, a youngster, generally. “How old was the kid? Novarro asked.

      Claypool frowned. “I dunno. Thirty or so.”

      Another something Claypool had subconsciously or otherwise taken from Castle: an Anglocentric worldview. Novarro saw Sanches study the Claypool-Castle duo, roll his eyes, and return to cataloguing his findings.

      “You couldn’t have someone drive the poor woman home, Officer Claypool?”

      “She lives in Gilbert, a half hour there and back. We’re short on manpower, Detective.”

      She pulled out her notebook and began writing her initial thoughts.

      “Want my take?” said a voice at her shoulder: Castle.

      “Thanks for stopping by, Merle, but I’ve got it from here.”

      A grin. “So when everyone’s gone, we’re back to first names, Tash?”

      A waggle-finger wave. “So long, Sergeant Castle. Have a nice day.”

      “Some assholes broke in and got surprised by the owner,” Castle said anyway. “It’s a shithole neighborhood. Put a big expensive house on the hillside and every low-life that drives by starts salivating at what’s inside: TVs, computers, jewelry, cash.”

      “It’s a mixed neighborhood, Sergeant. Rich, poor, everything in between.”

      Castle nodded toward the body. “If that lady lived in Scottsdale she’d be alive right now.”

      “You were here first … what was the entry point?”

      “No break-in that anyone found yet. A door got left unlocked. People get careless.”

      Novarro crossed the room. She’d seen a sign out front advising of a security system, which meant a control panel. Novarro found it in the closet nearest the door. The green power supply light was on.

      “Was the system armed when you arrived, Sergeant?”

      “Turned off by Sanchez. She has a card key.”

      “What else appears missing?”

      “There’s an empty space on the vic’s desk where a computer was. Desk drawers open, emptied.”

      Novarro pointed across the room. “Yet right there sits a Sony Bravia … what? Fifty-inch flat-screen TV? About a grand, right?”

      Castle shrugged. “The perp or perps killed the vic and started bagging up shit, but got spooked by something. A cop siren maybe, heading to some other problem in your, uh …” a hint of grin, “mixed neighborhood.”

      “Must have been a real scare, Sergeant Castle,” Novarro said, leaning against the wall and giving Castle an indulgent look. “The doc’s wearing a Movado watch, five-six hundred bills or so. Would have taken two seconds to pop off and pocket.”

      Castle jammed his hands into his pant pockets and scanned the ceiling for several seconds. “OK, so fuck my idea. What’s yours, Three-Point?”

      The name froze Novarro, but only for a split second. She studied the body on the floor before walking to the sliding glass door and tugging with a gloved finger. “There’s an old Tohono O’odham Indian saying, Merle,” she said. “‘O’nota’y’tanga olemano.’”

      Castle rolled his eyes. “Meaning?”

      Novarro stared at a black vulture circling against a blue sky. Somehow the bastards always knew.

      “I’ll get there when I get there.”

       3

      The nameplate on my door said, Carson Ryder, Investigative Consultant, Senior Status. The title was an invention of my boss at the Florida Center for Law Enforcement. Being a “consultant” got me out of the stultifying barrage of administrative meetings and other make-work tasks associated with any bureaucracy, even one headed by the bureaucrat-averse Roy McDermott. “Senior status” pretty much allowed me to do whatever I wished, as long as the end result was a better, safer Florida.

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