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

  “Was it?” Dr. Swales asked, eyes widening, a Southern twang in her voice.

  Cheryl considered the question, her mouth crooked. Then she nodded. “I think it was.”

  “Were there multiple calls?” I asked.

  “Too many,” she answered. “They were the kind of couple that should never have been together. Always clashing, kitchen littered with broken dishes and glassware, holes punched in the walls. The kind of house you don’t forget.”

  “That sounds like a horrible way to live,” Tracy commented as she joined us and went to help with the doctor’s laptop.

  “Sometimes it’s impossible to see that there’s a better way,” Swales said quietly, with a knowing look that struck me as sad. Tracy stopped fiddling with the cables, the moment silencing the room. My mouth went dry with understanding. I hated thinking of someone I cared for being in that kind of situation. Sometimes we didn’t know very much about the people we worked with.

  “What else do we know about the husband?” I asked, clearing my throat.

  Nichelle plugged in the name of the husband, Joseph Choplin, scouring through search results. “It says here that he was a real-estate investor; filed for bankruptcy when he lost a beachfront community investment.”

  “Beachfront in the Outer Banks,” Cheryl chided. “How do you mess that up?”

  “Oh, that’s easy,” Dr. Swales answered. She made an up-in-smoke motion with her hands. “When the beaches disappear, the property does too.”

  A memory came to me. We’d teamed with the FBI in a sting operation, a group of us on a yacht passing the southern edges of the Outer Banks. Miles of beach property had been consumed by the sea, the million-dollar homes abandoned, derelict, tidal surf rushing through the structures. “I think I’ve seen the homes. There was an entire development community ruined by rising seawater.”

  “The previous administration had a beach erosion and restoration project,” Dr. Swales said, the details being of personal interest as she lived by that beach. “But every inch they reclaimed was eventually lost again.”

  “Bankruptcy and domestic violence,” I said, scratching the itch of a strong motive forming. “What else.”

  “Any life insurance policies?” Emanuel asked, holding his hand in the air.

  “I can dig into that,” Nichelle offered, a peculiar glee on her face and a twinkle in her eye. She loved tech, and I loved that we had her on our side. “I haven’t had to search for policyholders and beneficiaries before; this should be a fun challenge.”

  “While you’re working that,” I said, “also find out what state the victim’s PR firm is registered in. It could be North Carolina, but I want to be sure. I need to know who stands to gain the most from Ann Choplin’s death. And let’s get a conversation with the husband. Estranged or not, they are still legally married.”

  “I’ll work with Emanuel,” Cheryl said. “Should we bring him in for questioning?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet. Meet with him casually, outside of the station, somewhere he’ll be comfortable—home or wherever he’s working now.”

  “You want to join us?” Cheryl asked, tilting her head, a silent reference to our earlier conservation.

  “Just the two of you first,” I answered, giving her the lead and liking the idea of making it seem impromptu. “I don’t want to make him suspicious and bind things up with a lawyer.”

  “After the meeting?” Cheryl asked Emanuel; he nodded agreement.

  “Tracy, what do you have on the ropes used to tie the victim’s wrists?”

  Tracy jolted, her attention caught, her gaze blank. She tapped her keyboard and then picked up an evidence bag. “It’s a nylon grade known as a three-strand rope, which is specifically used as a mooring rope and for dock lines.”

  “Availability?” I asked.

  She mulled the question over and shrugged. “I suppose you could get it at any store selling marina supplies.”

  “Then find out which ones,” I instructed, wanting to get her out from behind her desk.

  “Which ones?” She seemed confused. “Should I narrow the search to specialty stores, or maybe just the general stores?”

  “You make that decision,” I answered, encouraging her. She was ready to take a lead on some of the investigation. I knew she could handle it.

  “Road trip?” Emanuel asked excitedly, his hand in the air, offering. “I can help after we interview the husband.”

  “Perfect,” I said, liking the idea of his presence. I motioned to the bag containing the rope. “The evidence stays with us, but take some pictures, multiple angles, including the ends, every detail, and walk them around every store. If that rope was purchased in the area, we want to know from where and when.”

  “I’m ready now,” Dr. Swales said as she pushed her glasses into place. “A warning, though: these pictures are not for the faint of heart.”

  I cleared the floor at the front of the conference room, my head light and my stomach grumbling. My mouth tasted sour and I felt sweaty. I’d developed a bad habit of coffee in the mornings, black, no sugar, no cream. I’d been living on the stuff for years but had started cutting back with news of my baby. I was sure that its sudden absence had left me feeling woozy. When I reached the door frame, I clutched the metal, its touch cool as I carefully faced the screen. I’d never been queasy when it came to autopsy pictures, but I couldn’t be sure that record would stand today. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  “The rope bindings,” Dr. Swales said, flashing the pictures of Ann Choplin’s ankles and wrists, red-raw abrasions against gray skin showing a pattern. I held the evidence bag in the light, Dr. Swales catching onto the question coming. She added another picture, the nylon rope and its three-strand make-up matching the abrasions. “There are signs the victim struggled, which caused friction burns on areas of the skin in contact with the rope.”

  “I would have thought there’d be more,” Tracy said as she took notes.

  “Meaning?” I asked, encouraging her.

  She tapped the end of her pencil on her chin. “Sailing, I’ve worked with this rope, or ropes very similar. If she’d struggled, there should have been a lot more damage to the skin.”

  “Good,” I told her, wincing with a stomach flip. “We have a lack of struggle. But why?”

  “Unconscious?” Nichelle answered, uncertain.

  “Or it could be she was already dead? She’d already drowned?” I suggested.

  “This will clear up the questions,” Dr. Swales said, moving to a new image showing colorful plot lines and medical jargon with numbers I didn’t understand. But one word stood out: ketamine. Our victim was drugged.

  I went to the conference room’s whiteboard, a fresh marker in hand, and jotted a newly assigned case number across the top in bold red. Beneath it I wrote Ann’s name, followed by a description of the three-strand rope along with its colorful markings. Lastly I wrote the drug name. “Victim was rendered unconscious, tied up, then presumably taken out to sea and thrown overboard. Or did she die on land and was then taken out to sea, the perpetrator hoping to hide the body?”

  “Your first theory is the more likely,” Dr. Swales answered.

  “She was alive when she went into the ocean,” I said, a second question forming. “What about other marks on the body? Signs of assault or defensive wounds? Shins, forearms, the victim’s back? Any post-mortem bruising?”

  “Nothing,” Swales answered. “Other than the friction burns. Aside from that, notably there was seawater in the victim’s lungs.”

  “What if she went willingly?” I asked the team, my forehead damp and the sour taste relentless, as though I’d swallowed a penny. Their expressions were bemused. “No bruising. No signs of assault or struggle. Only minimal friction burns, indicating that the bindings were placed on her wrists and ankles while she was unconscious—”

  “Or paralyzed,” Tracy added. “Ketamine, when used in a low enough dosage, can cause dizziness, dissociation, disorientation, and impaired motor skills, but leave the person conscious.”

  “It’s also known as a date rape drug,” I said, feeling out our earlier theory about the husband. “But you found no signs of sexual assault?”

  Dr. Swales switched her presentation, the autopsy findings now on the screen, reflecting much of what we already knew. “Correct.”

  “A working theory then—estranged husband in financial ruin, possible beneficiary, convinces his wife to meet him. Maybe he tells her he wants to reconcile.”

  “They meet on a boat, late afternoon, nearing sunset,” Cheryl added.

  “Stomach contents?” I asked, seeking another clue.

  “The victim died before digestion took place; her stomach contained a small amount of food, possibly the remains of a protein bar, and nearly twelve ounces of water,” Swales answered. “I believe the drug was introduced to her system through the ingestion of water.”

  “Roofied,” Tracy said, her pencil spinning. “Someone dosed her water?”

  “Her clothes,” I said. “It looks like she’d been exercising.”

  “And might have had a water bottle,” Emanuel added.

  “The amount of water could suggest exercise,” Swales agreed.

  “The husband drugs his wife’s water bottle, she falls unconscious—maybe whilst jogging or exercising—and he ties her wrists and ankles and drops her in the ocean, drowning her.” Beneath the victim’s name, I added Joseph Choplin, underlining it with red marker. Then I stepped back from the whiteboard, wiping my face, knowing I’d have to end the meeting sooner than I wanted.

  “You don’t sound convinced,” Dr. Swales said.

  “What if the husband had nothing to do with it,” I said, wavering on the initial idea, finding it too easy. I wou
ldn’t dismiss it entirely, though, having seen my share of insurance fraud and murder-for-money cases. I turned to Nichelle. “Can you look up jogging trails from her home?”

  Nichelle pressed her back against her chair, the mesh stretching. She typed in the query, reading the results, “There are a lot. Some inland on nature reserves. And then there’s the beach. Good news is, they may have security cameras we could review.”

  “What about the victim’s phone?” Cheryl asked.

  “No cell phone found with the body,” Tracy answered. “We’re presuming it was lost at sea.”

  “How about the carrier?” I asked. “If we know the cell phone carrier, could we identify the apps installed on her phone? Are there fitness apps for jogging, or even location services that show where the victim had been?”

  “I’ll visit the victim’s PR firm, work with them to find out,” Nichelle answered.

  “The moment you have a carrier name, send them a preservation letter, noting that their customer is the subject of a murder investigation. We need all her records preserved.” My voice was fading, a breeze from the open door turning cool on the back of my damp neck.

  “We can follow up with a subpoena and court order, if required,” Emanuel said.

  “I’d like to participate in that,” Tracy said. “I could use the experience.”

  I gave Tracy and Emanuel the okay, a short nod as I swayed and made my way to the table. Dr. Swales came to my side and gripped my arm as she guided me into a chair, her touch gentle yet firm. “Dare I say it, but you look a bit green around the gills.” She laughed through her nose and then put on a serious face, the back of her hand pressed to my forehead. She checked my pulse too, pinching my wrist, lips moving silently, her gaze fixed on the face of an old watch, the second hand sweeping around. “Heart rate is a touch rapid, and you’re sweating. If it’s all the same to you, I think now would be a good point to break.”

  “It is,” I answered, mind racing, words muddied. I fixed a look on the screen, on Ann Choplin’s wrists and ankles, and tried to arrest a sickening spin that came from out of nowhere. I shut my eyes and took a deep breath, the air unusually hot, as though I’d opened an oven door. A shadow reared in my mind, a ghostly voice coming with it. It was Jessie Flynn, her decaying body and face much like Ann Choplin’s, a Vote Flynn to Win button pinned to her skin, her words warning there’d be more.

  Dr. Swales said I’d passed out. That I’d dropped like a stone, my forehead smacking the conference room table, the sound giving everyone a start. She also said I’d only been out for a minute, that I’d come to with eyes swimming wildly and mumbling about a baby. Of course, I couldn’t recall anything after studying Ann Choplin’s body.

  The first thing I remembered seeing was concerned faces, wide eyes, pressed lips, and shared frowns. There was low chatter amongst them, asking each other if they should call an ambulance, and Jericho. A swig of cold water and some much-needed personal space was what I needed. A moment later I was back on my feet, my head clearing.

  “I’m fine, guys,” I said, trying to quell their concern and speculation about what virus or infection I might have. “I just need to take some time.”

  “Let us call someone for you,” I heard Emanuel say from behind me as they helped me into my seat, Tracy adding, “I can drive you.” Their words had me shaking my head, embarrassment spreading over me like a rash. I knew it was vain to think it, but I didn’t like to show weakness.

  “I’ll be fine,” I told them again, twisting briefly, a sting of sweat beneath my arms, the station lights needling. “Everyone has their action items. I’ve got some paperwork and mail to get through here.”

  The team let me be, Dr. Swales the last to leave my side after making me promise I’d take it easy. I knew for certain that I didn’t have an illness. I’d always been one of those types who rarely fell ill—one of the lucky few who were oddly immune to rampant station stomach bugs and flu, the illnesses passing over me as though I was invisible. The only other time I’d ever felt like this was when I’d been pregnant. The first, a child Ronald and I had lost. And the second time with Hannah.

  I sat still, afraid to move, scared of what was going on inside me. From my desk drawer, I pulled out a mirror, which showed that my skin was like ash and I had bags beneath my eyes. I dropped it on my desk next to a stack of mail, the envelopes a mix of junk and official county files I’d fallen behind filing. Flicking through, I noticed an unusual occurrence: an envelope with a handwritten address. While the world had transcended to the cloud and to digital forums with bits and bytes riding on Wi-Fi airwaves, receiving a handwritten letter held a charm I revered. I couldn’t resist the distraction.

  The paper-thin stationery showed that the return address was the North Carolina Correctional Institution for Women, the postmark stamped with yesterday’s date, along with a collection time in the early morning. My name appeared on the front, the penmanship large and loopy and easy to read. The person who’d sent this letter had taken their time to make it neat and legible. But of course, in prison, they had plenty of time. The sight of my name gave me pause: I knew nobody in North Carolina outside of Jericho, our newly formed family, and my family at the station. Without giving it another moment, I tore into the envelope, finding two pages, the same handwriting as the front of the envelope. I went to the second page, flipping it over, my eyes searching to discover who’d contacted me. My skin went cold, a chill racing up and down my spine. At the bottom, I read, Yours truly, Paige Kotes.

  SEVEN

  Paige Kotes had been a cop—a very good cop, from what I’d read in her files and her past cases. She would later become a detective, working from the same station I worked today, perhaps from the same desk. I had walked the same steps, used the same computers, touched the same door handles and drunk from the same water cooler. She’d been here. She’d also worked closely with Jericho, formed an unhealthy obsession with him, and ultimately nearly destroyed him.

  Somewhere in her journey, Paige Kotes had become a notorious murderer. A serial killer popular in the news, and with a level of notoriety like Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy and Jeffrey Dahmer. Notoriety aside, she was also the woman who had murdered Jericho’s wife. Given the location of his wife’s murder, and that of Ann Choplin, I couldn’t ignore the timing of Paige’s letter.

  Her ballooning handwriting sat in a lean that indicated she was left-handed, a detail I could pick up later from her file. I studied it a moment, realizing that the hand that had written these words had also murdered Jericho’s wife, and so many others. I was tortured by a mix of disgust and curiosity.

  In her letter, Paige introduced herself, keeping the formalities to the opening paragraph, and assuming that I already knew everything there was to know about her. How did she know about me, though? Did she know I was with Jericho? She went on to comment about her day-to-day life in the women’s prison, how it wasn’t all that bad, how her hours were filled with making license plates. She split her time between isolation, and trial runs in the general population of the prison.

  Once a cop, always a cop, and I suspected the other inmates knew who she was, who she’d been. No amount of prison credibility would change that, and I was sure they took shots at her every chance they could. If you’d asked the families of Paige’s victims, if you’d asked Jericho and Ryan, they’d probably have said, throw her to the dogs, let them have at her. That wasn’t how it worked, though. Paige Kotes was remanded to the state, and it was the state that had custody of her welfare.

  Believing she might be joshing about the license plates, I looked that one up. It turned out the prison where she was serving her time happened to also be one of the largest license plate factories in the state.

  She went on to say that she’d followed the story of Hannah’s kidnapping, which answered the question of how she knew who I was. She also mentioned following some of my previous cases, and the letter ended with a request to meet with me. She didn’t say why, and my mind tried to connect the timing of her letter to Ann Choplin’s murder, and to the news reports broadcast yesterday morning. The letter had been sent yesterday, the island’s mail moving fast. Was Paige Kotes hinting about an involvement? It seemed impossible.