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

  “Casey,” Jericho said into my ear. “I think she’s working alone.”

  “On a day like today?” I sized up the waiting crowd. Hannah saw us at the door and gave us a reserved wave before shifting her focus back to the crowd. An idea struck. I needed to be up early to work the Ann Choplin case, but we had no other evening plans. “Jericho, would you mind if I helped?”

  He put his hand on the small of my back, his lips near my ear. “You’re a really good mom.”

  My heart melted as I leaned into him. “I’ll bring some home with me.”

  “Promise?” he asked.

  “Promise,” I replied as he left the shop.

  Hannah gave me a curious look, confused, as I made my way through the crowd and behind the counter. I eyed the faces as I took an apron from a hook on the wall. Next to it, I found a hat with the shop’s logo and shoved it onto my head. Hannah joined me at my side as I told her, “I’ll follow your lead.”

  “Really?” she asked, looking relieved, her dimples appearing with an approving smile. “Timmy flaked. He never showed up for his shift.”

  “Can we get some help, please?” an older gentleman asked, tufts of gray sprouting from beneath a tattered golf hat, his arm looped with his wife’s, the two leaning against the counter.

  “Certainly,” I answered. “What would you like?”

  For the next three hours, I followed Hannah, learning with each new order, her tip jar filling while we mixed malted milkshakes and scooped ice cream on top of sugar cones, and even made banana splits complete with whipped topping and cherries on top. When the crowds thinned, and the sunlight raced over the boardwalk, settling on the bay side of the island, Hannah and I dropped into seats to get off our feet.

  “You saved my ass,” she said, exhaustion on her face. She leaned back, dropped her hands toward the floor and threw her head back, blowing out a long breath. “I am going to wring that boy’s neck.”

  “Don’t be too hard on him,” I said, mirroring her move, loosening every muscle, my feet throbbing with an ache I was sure would hurt terribly the next day. “He might have had a good reason.”

  “Well,” she began and sat up, “it doesn’t matter now. Thank you.”

  “Not at all,” I said. “Just hope I did okay.”

  She cocked her head and put on a funny face. “I wouldn’t quit your day job.”

  “I wouldn’t quit my day job either,” I joked, and shifted to search the tubs of ice cream. “Before I leave, I’ve got one more order to fill.”

  FIVE

  The next morning, the station was quiet. Too quiet. During the late summer season, I’d become accustomed to the benches at the entrance being full—teenagers nestled between parents, barflies sleeping off drunken binges, petty criminals caught picking the wrong pockets, and destitute sad souls having no other place to go. Following the discovery of a body only a day prior, I’d expected to see reporters waiting for me, hands in the air, requesting a statement, eager to get a question or five answered before I reached my desk. But there was none of that this morning, the benches empty, the floor clear from the station doors to the wooden gate separating our desks from the public. I was relieved to have the place empty. But it wouldn’t last. I wondered when news about Ann Choplin’s death would bring the reporters, sure that it would be soon.

  “Morning,” I said to Alice, our station desk officer.

  Alice glanced at her watch. “Morning to you, and thank goodness for it.”

  “Quiet night?” I asked, the desk’s phone lighting and sounding a bell.

  “You’ve no idea,” she answered with a roll of her eyes, ending our small talk to answer the phone.

  I swung the gate open, holding it for an officer leaving, my team coming into view behind him. It was good that some had arrived early. “Morning, guys,” I said, meeting Tracy and Nichelle Wilkinson at their desks. Our cubicles adjoined, occupying the corner section of the station’s office, the one closest to the conference room, which we’d adopted as our own.

  “Morning,” they grumbled, the early hour evident in their voices. Tracy’s bright smile and dimples were absent, her face bathed in blue light from her monitor as she sat inches away from her screen. The circles beneath her eyes and the stack of open books on her desk told me she was finishing a paper for school. “Another report due?”

  “I’m almost finished,” she answered without looking up. “It has to be uploaded by eight this morning.”

  “I could tweak the server’s time for you,” Nichelle joked, her eyes telling me she was half serious about doing it too.

  Tracy shook her head. “Not this morning, but I might take you up on the offer some other time.”

  “Anything good?” I asked Nichelle, motioning to her monitors. She was our resident IT genius, and with her light-brown skin and large brown eyes, Nichelle was about the prettiest nerd I’d ever met. Her desk was covered with computer screens, and stacked with monitors that towered above us. Each screen showed program activities, as though she’d stepped out of a science-fiction film.

  “Just running some diagnostics,” she answered, one of her favorite mugs in her hand: a pair of tortoiseshell cats sleeping on a red blanket, their bodies in the shape of a heart, the word LOVE printed along the bottom. The walls of her cubicle were entirely filled with cat posters and framed pictures, along with a calendar that showed cats in funny and awkward predicaments. She’d joined my team soon after I’d been given the lead position; like Tracy, she was also becoming an investigator, with a specialty in forensics technologies. If someone was attempting to hide their criminal activities in the cloud, Nichelle could find it.

  My eyes went to one of the monitors, a familiar name on the screen. Tommy Fitzgerald. He’d been one half of the couple who’d kidnapped my daughter. A cold stone set in my gut.

  Nichelle saw my glare and jabbed at a keyboard, changing the screen to a retro screen saver with flying toasters. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to leave that—”

  “Put it back,” I said. I heard the sound of Tracy’s chair in motion; she was up to speed on all the big cases and recognized the name. “What happened with Fitzgerald?”

  “He’s in the hospital,” Nichelle answered in a solemn voice, showing me the news story. “A prison altercation.”

  “Status?” I asked.

  “He’s in bad shape, but he’ll survive.”

  A silence fell, as though they were expecting me to cheer, but I didn’t.

  “Do you think about him?” Tracy asked, Nichelle flashing her a frown, the question out of bounds.

  “It’s okay,” I said, Tracy’s chair circling and coming into view.

  “Him and his wife?” she continued, her expression inquisitive, almost naïve with innocence.

  “Not so much about them,” I answered, my voice weak. “More about what they did, what they took from Hannah and me.”

  “Sorry,” Tracy said, her face pinched as she tried to find the right words. There were no right words. There never would be.

  “It’s in the past now,” I said, ignoring the looks of pity that came from both of them, the kind I’d come to loathe in the days and weeks and months after Hannah’s disappearance all those years ago. I put on a fake smile. “How about we get some real work done?”

  The wheels on Tracy’s chair let out a chirp as she returned to her desk, while Nichelle clicked on a mouse to rouse another of her screens. “I’ve been performing some searches on Ann Choplin too,” she said, “and should have something prepared for our meeting.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t be at the crime scene yesterday.” A familiar baritone voice sounded from behind me.

  “No worries. We had it covered.” Emanuel Wilson was another recruit I’d picked up in the last year. He’d been promoted, trading in his police uniform for street clothes and a detective’s shield. Standing head and shoulders above us all, a basketball star in a previous life, Emanuel was the team’s muscle. He was a fine investigator, but it was also helpful to have him sitting in on interviews and questioning witnesses. Intimidation, when used strategically, could go a long way in this job. With Emanuel, there also came a history. He’d worked with Jericho for years, and had been at his side when Jessie Flynn’s body was discovered. I’d never talked to him about Jericho’s wife or her murder, but as a detective, my curiosities were always running busy. “Dr. Swales joined me and Tracy to help with the scene.”

  “We were at the doctor’s again, and I had zero cell connection,” he answered, a giant jug of coffee in one hand and a workout bag in the other. “Can’t remember seeing the station so empty.”

  “Calm before the storm?” Nichelle asked. She shivered, adding, “It’s eerie. You can almost feel it.”

  “Maybe you’ve been drinking some of Emanuel’s coffee,” I joked, poking fun at the jug.

  “I’d have a stroke if I drank that much caffeine,” she laughed.

  Other stations I’d worked had had similar lulls, giving us time to catch up on paperwork and other office tedium we preferred not to do. And like other stations, the respite was temporary. I’d bet my badge on that. “Enjoy the quiet while it lasts.”

  “We will,” Emanuel said, the rest of the team agreeing, nodding silently and taking in the stillness of the office, urgencies and emergencies abated for the moment.

  “Is everything okay with Sherry?” I asked with concern. Emanuel had recently shared the news of his wife’s pregnancy, and of some complications. I couldn’t help but put myself in their place.

  He raised a brow with a nod. “Doc said everything looks good. Sherry has gestational diabetes, but it’s manageable.” A broad smile appeared then, his face glowing. “We got to hear the heartbeat again.”

  “Really?” I asked, grinning, thinking
how that’d be me and Jericho soon. The two of us in the exam room, the doctor using a fetal Doppler, our baby’s heart on the black-and-white monitor, fluttering like butterfly wings, the speaker filling the room with a woosh-clop-woosh-clop. “If you need anything, just say the word. And don’t hesitate.”

  “I won’t,” he answered.

  “Promise?” I asked in a demanding tone.

  “I promise,” he replied. I couldn’t help but want to break my own news to the team. But I didn’t. It was still early, and I felt it would be bad luck. I wasn’t one to be superstitious, but luck hadn’t exactly been in my corner with children, and I didn’t want to leave anything to chance.

  Cheryl Smithson was the last of the team to arrive. The wooden gate slammed shut as she entered, Alice cringing at the sharp clap; she had repeatedly reprimanded us for letting the gate close unattended. Cheryl spun around, swiping her red hair from her face, and waved an apology. A seasoned detective, she was as tough as nails, often with a gruff and sharp attitude that went well with her freckles, which seemed to darken when team discussions got heated. It was common to butt heads with Cheryl, but her tendency to take an opposing position made her a positive addition to the team. It kept us honest and accountable, decisions made with thorough vetting.

  “Just in time for the meeting,” I said to her as she plunked her bag on her desk and yanked a phone from her back pocket. She held up a freckled finger while she checked her messages, Tracy side-eyeing her rudeness. Sometimes I wondered if it was intentional, a way of putting herself above us. Most times I thought she just hadn’t a clue she was being rude at all.

  When she’d finished with her phone, she looked up. “Meeting. Got you.”

  “As soon you’re ready to get started,” I said archly. We were all eager to dive into Ann Choplin’s murder investigation.

  “Let’s do it,” Emanuel said, his voice like a trombone, as he led the way to the conference room.

  “Can I be ten minutes late?” Tracy asked softly, eyeing her watch, her paper’s deadline fast approaching. “I’m having an issue with the formatting.”

  “Ten,” I answered. “But no more. It’ll give us time to set up.”

  “I’ll get your photographs up on the monitor,” Nichelle offered, following Emanuel.

  Once they were gone, Cheryl asked, “Any chance I could take the lead on this one?” Her green eyes glimmered in the station’s overhead lights. She put on a bashful expression, biting her upper lip. “I could use the experience… you know, for my career path.”

  I stared without an answer, unprepared for the question, somewhat gobsmacked. I had never had a detective on my team ask to lead an investigation. I wasn’t even sure what the policies and procedures allowed and didn’t allow. Unlike the city of brotherly love, Philadelphia, where I’d been a detective before, seemingly a lifetime ago, some other stations had many lead detectives and the caseload to support a much larger staff. The Outer Banks wasn’t Philadelphia, and I could count on one finger the number of lead detectives at our station. There had been some recent rumors that Chief Peter Pryce and the sheriff, along with the district attorney, were putting requisitions together for two more lead detective positions. I could see Cheryl in one of those, but not just yet. She needed more experience. Maybe having her take the lead occasionally would get her there.

  “Let me talk to Chief Pryce and get his take,” I answered, feeling uncomfortable with any human resource dealings.

  “So that’s a no?” she said, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

  “For now,” I answered. “We’ll get started on this case, and—”

  “You know, I’m just as qualified,” she said, cutting me off.

  I raised my hands as Tracy looked over her shoulder, catching the aggressive tone of the conversation. “Cheryl, I’m certain you are, but I’m not in a position to offer the lead. Let me talk to the chief first, see if I can siphon off some of the role for you to manage.”

  “Fine,” she answered, her expression relaxing. “I’ll wait.”

  I hated her feeling disappointed or undervalued. “Listen. We’ll work closely on this one so I can help sell the idea of another lead detective to the chief.”

  Her face brightened. “You’d do that?”

  I dared a touch, my hand on her arm, reassuring her. “Of course I would. We need one or two more leads.”

  “Thanks,” she replied. “That means a lot.”

  “Now, can we go solve a murder?” I didn’t wait for an answer, coaxing Cheryl to follow me into the conference room, where a picture of Ann Choplin’s body waited on the screen.

  SIX

  “Detectives,” Dr. Swales said from behind me and Cheryl, the smell of lavender and peach following her. “How about that, it looks like I made it on time.”

  “Yes, you did,” I told her, shuffling my coffee and laptop to shake her hand. “You came from the morgue?”

  She lifted a file. “Completed the victim’s report this morning.” Her Crocs were purple today, and her oversized white lab coat was draped from her shoulders down to her knees. She appeared to have rushed to get here, her hair pinned back tightly enough to pull on her eyebrows, a bun standing off center and leaning to the left. “Early bird gets the worm,” she commented as we walked.

  “You’re definitely the early bird,” I said, having received emails from her at four and five in the morning on more than one occasion. “We were going to start with the scene, but since you’re here, can you present?”

  She gave a nod. “Certainly. We were able to finish up late yesterday, and even have the victim’s tox report already.” She moved to the end of the table, a rat’s nest of cables in her hand as she fumbled with her laptop. “Please continue, don’t mind me. I’ll be ready in a few minutes.

  “Right then,” I said, taking her words as my cue to move on. “While Dr. Swales is getting set up, what do we know about Ann Choplin? Nichelle, how about you start?”

  “Sure thing,” Nichelle answered. “Ann Choplin was born and raised in the Outer Banks.” A montage of pictures appeared on the conference room’s monitor. “Age forty-five. Owned a home in the Southern Shores and also one on the mainland in Norfolk, Virginia, where she also ran a public relations firm.”

  “Married?” I asked, seeing a wedding ring in one of the photos. Nichelle paused the playback long enough for me to point to the screen, the victim’s left hand. “Dr. Swales, was the victim wearing an engagement ring? Wedding band?”

  Computer dongles in hand, Dr. Swales dropped a video cable, a look of defeat on her face, and paged through the autopsy report. “The only jewelry on the body was a necklace and a pair of earrings.”

  “Nothing else?” I wondered why the victim would have removed her wedding and engagement rings.

  Swales stalled, wetting her lips, a pinched look of uncertainty on her face. I motioned for her to continue. “Well, there was also the ‘Vote Flynn to Win’ campaign button.”

  A dark notion flitted across my mind, Jessie Flynn’s murder lurking like a shadow. This feels like that, Swales had warned, inadvertently connecting the Choplin case to a murder by Paige Kotes, Jericho’s old partner. I stuffed the idea away, unsure of what to make of it, a knot in my stomach. “The victim’s PR firm was handling Jericho’s campaign, so it wouldn’t be unusual for her to have it,” I said. Understanding registered on the team’s faces.

  “I might know why she wasn’t wearing her rings.” Cheryl spoke up, the team’s focus shifting to her. She spun her laptop around. “Ann Choplin had filed for divorce. I knew her name was familiar.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  “When I was in uniform, before I was a detective,” Cheryl began, “I was called to their residence a few times for disturbances. On one occasion I arrested the husband for domestic violence.”

  The beginnings of a lead scratched the detective part of my mind. “What else?”

  Her eyes darted from team member to team member. “Well, on another call, I had to arrest the victim too. She’d hit him with a meat tenderizer, but claimed it was self-defense.”