Saltwater Graves: A totally gripping crime thriller (Detective Casey White Book 3) Read online

  “Maybe. Here, help me with this,” I said, carefully freeing the woman’s arms. Wet clumps of sand tumbled to reveal a binding around the wrists, a white rope with a pattern of green interspersed across the threads. I leaned back, clearing the body, saying, “That changes everything.” The three of us stared, frozen by the sight. “Tracy, photograph.”

  Tracy repositioned and focused on the binding. “It’s a type of polypropylene rope, used for boat anchors and mooring.”

  I’d recognized the rope, having seen it used in marinas, but didn’t know the details. “How do you know about it?” I asked, Swales tilting her head.

  Tracy lowered her camera when she saw us staring. “Uncle Daniel,” she answered. “He taught me about all the ropes and knots used on a sailboat.” To Tracy, Daniel Ashtole had been her favorite uncle, one of her closest family members. To the rest of us, he had been a well-respected and well-liked district attorney. He had also been a lifelong friend of Jericho’s, someone I’d come to admire and whose company I very much missed. His recent murder on a case we’d all been close to had been devastating, and hearing his name came with an aching sadness. I could only imagine how terribly Tracy missed him.

  “Do you recognize the knot?” I asked, my voice unsteady, feeling Tracy’s heartbreak.

  She refocused her lens as I carefully brushed wet sand from the woman’s bare feet, the skin on them deeply wrinkled, the toenails lifting from their nail beds. She photographed the rope binding the ankles, then nodded, saying, “I think I do.”

  “Research it, find out what kind it is,” I said. Beneath the rope, the victim’s skin was raw, peeling from a nylon burn, signs of her fighting the restraints, but there were no obvious signs of other injuries. “I believe this victim was put in the ocean while alive.”

  “Someone dumped her in the ocean with her hands and feet tied?” Tracy asked, a look of horror on her face. She was still young, and over time, this job, and seeing the worst in people, would erode her innocence like heat melting ice.

  Dr. Swales leaned closer to the victim’s face, shining a light in the eyes, assessing them. “Drowning is a possibility,” she said. “Of course, I’ll have to confirm it at autopsy.”

  “Given what we can see, that is our leading cause,” I said.

  “I know this woman,” she said, surprising me, hard concern on her face, a splash of seawater dotting her glasses. “She’s a local. I think her name is Ann. She has a daughter named Christina.”

  As I made a note of the names, Tracy’s camera flash caught something beneath the woman. “I think we have something here,” I said. “On the lapel of the victim’s jacket.”

  She knelt next to me, her camera close to her chest, an arm guarding it from the seawater. “It looks like something is pinned to it,” she said. “I think it’s a button.”

  “Help me roll her,” I said, motioning to show her where to place her hands on the victim.

  The woman’s body came loose from the dense sand, the suction gurgling. On her jogging top was a campaign button I knew intimately. I’d been surrounded by them for weeks. The words Vote Flynn to Win were picked out in colorful letters against a background showing Jericho’s hometown of Kitty Hawk.

  “It’s definitely Ann Choplin,” Dr. Swales said, her voice pitched high. “She owns a public relations firm on the mainland.”

  “Choplin,” I said, the name registering with a memory, a cold twinge in the pit of my gut. The victim was a friend of Jericho’s. The three of us even had a dinner date planned for the end of this week. I’d never met her in person, and now I never would. “She’s working with Jericho on his campaign.”

  “Like a campaign manager?” Tracy asked.

  “Exactly like that,” I answered, dread stealing my thoughts.

  Dr. Swales stood and searched the beach, looking north, then pivoting and searching south.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “I don’t like this,” she said, fingers picking at her lip as she scanned the sand, back and forth, a shake coming to her face, jowls jiggling.

  “What?” I asked, the look of her and the tone of her voice putting me on edge.

  “Jericho’s wife. She… this feels like that. She was found washed up on the shoreline not far from here.”

  Beach sounds erupted over our silence, gulls calling, surf crashing, the murmur of onlookers questioning and speculating. A hard lump set in my throat. The ghost of Jericho’s wife, her murder two years ago, struck a chill in me and raised bumps up and down my arms.

  “Could just be a coincidence. But of course we’ll look into any link,” I said, water rushing around my shoes as I tried to cover my emotion with steely professionalism. “I think we better hurry.”

  I spurred us on with the tasks of collecting evidence, taking pictures and securing the victim’s body for transport to the morgue. Ann Choplin had been somewhere out there in the ocean, her hands and ankles tied. Who would want her dead? And was there anything to what Dr. Swales had said about the similarity to Jessie Flynn’s murder?

  FOUR

  As a cop, I’d been trained for the gruesomeness of death, the vileness of murder. And at times, I’d seen as bad as Choplin’s murder, even worse a few times. The training could only do so much, though. I’d learned early in my career to put away what I saw and what I felt, reserving a place deep in my heart and my mind where I could plant the images and emotions like seeds to root and to grow and to branch, fostering ideas to help with the investigation. Securing what I saw this way was also how I was able to cope, and it let me recognize when to be grateful for what I had, which was a hard-learned lesson for me.

  This early afternoon came with one of those rarest of moments, the scene of the morning locked away in my mental vault and everything being right. After a frantic morning directing my team, now the sea air filled my lungs. The taste of the ocean on my tongue and the touch of salt on my skin; the moment was like breathing joy.

  “You okay?” Jericho asked, a breeze playfully teasing a tangle of his brown hair, a gleam shining in his blue-green eyes. I stopped walking, wanting to share whatever it was that had taken hold of me.

  “I’m good,” I said, tightening my grip on his hand, weaving my fingers with his. The moment welled inside like a warm gush ready to explode. “In fact, I’m very good.”

  “You better get used to it,” he said, leaning in for a kiss, his pepper-colored scruff scratchy on my cheek.

  “That’s just it, I’m not used to it,” I confessed. He cocked his head, questioning. In my life, I’d become used to seeing happiness being reserved for the lucky, the ones who knew what it was and how to hold onto it. That hadn’t been me. Not until now, anyway. I clutched Jericho’s hand, pulling him close and saying, “This. I love this.”

  “I love this too,” he whispered, his eyes tender, his palm gentle on my belly. “And I love you.”

  We continued forward, reaching the top of the boardwalk as the planks of wood sounded a foot parade. The restaurants and shops were filling with the bodies that spilled over from the bordering sands and the ocean play. Jericho drew me into his arms without a care in the world who was watching. We stood in the middle of the boardwalk, surrounded by a beautiful Outer Banks afternoon, hair windswept, and I let out a giddy laugh.

  “Casey, it’s called happiness, and you deserve all of it,” he said with emphasis. There was emotion in his voice as he continued, “What you’ve been through… what you and Hannah have been through, that’s not normal. This is—”

  “This is normal,” I said, finishing for him. Maybe he was right. As a cop, a detective, I’d only glimpsed what normal was, seeing the worst in people, living and breathing it. “You deserve it too.”

  Jericho broke our embrace, eyeing the boardwalk and the beaches. “If I win this election, I might see a whole other side of this place I never knew existed.”

  “And it might see a whole other you it never expected,” I exclaimed. He pondered my words as I scanned th
e beaches, the lifeguard stands, tanned bodies at attention. Beneath them, the sands were strewn with pitched umbrellas and laid towels. There were children in the surf, running, yelling, some kicking up water while others glided along on stout wakeboards. Their parents were near, lazing in beach chairs, feet buried to their ankles, skin slick with sunblock, magazines or books on their laps as they kept a cautious watch while aimlessly leafing through the pages.

  But just as I relished my happiness, I knew it was short-lived. I heard Dr. Swales’ voice in my head, telling me about the beach where Jericho’s wife had been discovered, the location of her body eerily close to Ann Choplin’s.

  “Can I ask you something?” I said with hesitation, afraid of how he’d react.

  He raised his brow, hearing the caution in my voice. With a slight frown, he answered, “I suppose.”

  “You haven’t said anything about Ann Choplin’s death.” We walked to the beach-facing side of the boardwalk, bench seats empty and inviting, and sat with our backs to the ocean, the wind blowing my hair around my face. “Will her firm continue with your campaign?”

  He shook his head. “Ann Choplin was the firm. If anything, I think the company will probably dissolve, or end up with her husband Joseph.”

  “You knew him too?”

  Jericho rolled his eyes. “Knew isn’t quite the word. It wasn’t by choice.”

  “I don’t follow?” I said.

  “Ann and Joseph were my high-school friends, along with Jessie and Daniel.”

  This was news. While I’d known Jericho had met his wife in high school, I didn’t know they’d been friends with Ann Choplin. “How close?”

  He crossed his fingers, “Tight. We did everything together, even dated a few times.”

  “You and Ann Choplin?” I asked, surprised. I’d always believed he and Jessie had been the classic couple who got together young and stayed together.

  Jericho smirked. “Everyone dated everyone. And it was almost always brief. Trust me. She had eyes for Joseph and I already had eyes for Jessie.”

  Dr. Swales’ words returned. “You know, you’ve never told me about that day.”

  “Which one?” Jericho asked, his attention stolen as a campaign supporter flashed a massive Vote Flynn to Win button and signaled a thumbs-up.

  “Jessie’s murder,” I answered.

  Jericho’s expression went blank, his gaze falling to the boardwalk. “What’s there to tell? You know what happened.”

  “Look at me,” I insisted, knowing how personal, how sensitive and intimate this was for him. He granted me a look, letting me see into his eyes. I cupped his hand in mine. “But you never told me what it was like for you. Jericho, I have shared everything with you, every moment, every heartache. I’m only asking you to do the same.”

  Jericho froze. He didn’t speak. He didn’t show emotion or even look at me. I began to feel uncomfortable, as though I’d crossed some invisible line and intruded on a guarded area. I realized then that he had his own place too, a place in his heart and mind where he locked away the hurt and the ugliness. The seconds ticked into a minute, maybe more, the unease growing and becoming unbearable. “It’s okay…” I told him.

  “It was awful,” he began, meeting my eyes briefly, his voice gruff. The pain of the memories must have been too much for him, his gaze returning to the boards. But even with the struggle, he continued to tell me of that day, that terrible day that changed his life forever. As he spoke, he took me back to the moment his wife’s body was discovered. The boardwalk and the parade of tourists slowly faded to some distant place, disappearing from around us as the bench we sat in became his squad car.

  Jericho had been dressed in full uniform. He was the sheriff back then. Slacks and shirt pressed, sunlight glinting on his gold badge. His face was years younger, skin smooth around his eyes, all evidence of mourning and worry yet to come. The squad car’s radio had squelched, a tinny voice on the speaker, dispatch calling about a body discovered on the beach. Jericho picked up the radio’s receiver. “Pamela, Jericho here. I’m closest to the location.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff,” Pamela answered.

  The patrol car’s motor revved, the front heaving as Jericho stomped the accelerator. He wove through Outer Banks traffic, humming along to the nineties tune “Everybody Hurts”, the song a peculiar memory he’d later marry forever with tragedy. The song hit its peak as Jericho parked along the beach in the early-morning sun.

  This feels like that, Swales had said, the beach the same as where Ann Choplin’s body was found.

  When Jericho arrived, the normally tranquil sands had been littered with patrol cars, blue lights blinking sharply, a small gathering behind crime-scene tape being questioned and peeking for a gruesome look.

  “Officer Wilson,” Jericho said, greeting Emanuel, a patrol officer at the time. Their heels dug into the sand, and Emanuel took Jericho’s arm when the depth stole his balance. “What have we got?”

  Emanuel swiped the sweat from his brow, his full uniform warm for the morning, and produced a small pad and pencil, flipping over the cover to read his notes. “White female, possibly mid thirties, discovered at daybreak by two joggers. The body appears to have washed up onto the shore, possibly deceased for more than a day. There were no immediate signs of trauma—”

  “Anyone touch the body?” Jericho asked, interrupting.

  “Nobody yet, but we have a call to Dr. Swales.”

  “That’s good,” he answered, his hands on his hips, the first sight of the body showing nothing more than a lump in the wet sand covered by seaweed. “You said there are no signs of foul play?”

  “None as yet. We’ll have to turn her over,” Emanuel answered. “She’s fully dressed, though.”

  Jericho paused. “Clothed? That changes things,” he commented. “The occasional body washing up in the surf happens from time to time. But not usually fully dressed.”

  He moved closer. The woman’s body was mottled with sea grass and other beach life, her skin pale and glistening. Her clothing had been torn, with some of it missing. And she’d been exposed to the elements in a way that made it difficult to recognize her as being human. But then Jericho saw her hair, and alarm mounted inside him. A shoulder next, a place he’d kissed a thousand times on his way to the side of her neck.

  “Stop!” yelled an officer standing over the body, his arms flailing in the air. But the warning only urged Jericho on, his shoes slapping against the rushing surf. “Hold him!”

  Emanuel jumped in front of him. Jericho’s expression filled with horror, a foamy wave having shoved the body enough to reveal the woman’s face, bringing instant recognition. He pawed at Emanuel’s chest, trying to take him on, but Emanuel’s size was no match for him.

  “Who is that?!” Jericho screamed, raw tears spilling down his face. His mind had driven him to ask the obvious, hoping for a miracle of miracles, hoping to wake up from a nightmare that had suddenly become his reality.

  “Emanuel? Tell me who she is!”

  But he already knew it was his Jessie.

  “Casey?” Jericho said now, his eyes returning to mine, his voice bringing me back to where we were. The sound of the ocean’s crashing waves and the boardwalk traffic rushed back to my ears. I could smell the popcorn and the sweets as families continued about their day while I struggled with what Jericho had described for me. “I don’t remember very much after that. There was an investigation. Paige Kotes murdered my wife, but the initial investigation ruled the cause of death as drowning, and possibly suicide.”

  “Suicide?” I asked, confused and a little shocked that Dr. Swales would have made that call. “Was it the clothes?”

  “The clothes,” he confirmed. “Later, we learned Kotes was working with Geoffrey Barnes. Both of them fellow police officers. Both of them my friends. Or so I thought.”

  I let him fall silent then. I’d already known the facts of the case. Now I’d caused him to revisit his pain.

  “Th
ey’d been behind a string of murders. Paige lured my wife to a remote location, telling her I was in trouble. It was a setup. She and Barnes drowned Jessie in a lake and then took her to the ocean, making it look like a suicide.”

  “I am so sorry you went through that,” I said, holding his hand, hurting for him. “Thank you for telling me.”

  “I think that’s enough about that,” Jericho said, shaking off the memories like a bad dream, standing and leading me away from the bench. “We need a drastic change of pace. Something fun and sinful. What do you say?”

  “I like the sound of that,” I said, feeling a touch of guilt for having asked about Jessie’s murder. I needed to follow up on any link with Ann Choplin’s case, but it could wait until I was on shift again tomorrow. “What do you have in mind?”

  The two of us merged with the tourists and headed south, nearing the ice-cream shop where Hannah worked. I checked the time: her shift had begun. “There’s something sweet.”

  “Yeah. And salty too,” Jericho answered with an agreeable nod. “Do you think Hannah would mind us dropping in on her?”

  “Nah,” I said. The boardwalk atmosphere outside the shop was like a gala, with children following a clown wearing wide purple pants. He circled around us in a comical dance, the children laughing hysterically and pointing to his blue velvet top hat, which spat bubbles like a fountain while he made funny faces at them. His broad yellow tie was riddled with green polka dots and his puffy pink sleeves disappeared behind a bright orange sign shaped like an arrow. He spun it in circles, the name of the shop, A Scoop for You, on the front. “I guess that’s a good clue.”

  We opened the ice-cream shop’s door, cold air spilling onto us, a bell above ringing our arrival. The counters with the long refrigeration bins were entirely blocked by rows of people, couples young and old and families, all wearing frowns and shifting impatiently. Behind the frosted glass and the massive tubs of ice cream, Hannah raced back and forth, her brown pants and bright yellow shirt a blur as she finished ringing up one customer and moved to the next. Her hair was pinned back, a green baseball cap sitting askew, her cheeks red with sweat speckling her upper lip.