the sergeant was saying. Bobbie concentrated on driving, tension working its way into her muscles. The city of Montgomery had been pretty quiet the past two months. The serial killer known as the Storyteller had wreaked havoc for a few days back in August but he was in hell now where he belonged.
Bauer ended the call and tucked his phone away. “We got two bodies over on the corner of Westminster and Woodmere. Devine is already on the scene. You can drop me off at CID and head that way.”
“Any details on what happened?”
“She didn’t tell me a whole lot. She was bringing me up to speed on a case in her neighborhood that blew up again last night.”
“The domestic abuse case?” Bobbie had a bad feeling about that one. The couple lived only two doors down from Holt. Every time there was a flare-up between them it was worse than the last. Holt had, unfortunately, let the escalating situation get personal for her. Like you have any room to talk, Bobbie.
Some things were personal.
Bauer nodded. “That’s the one.” He moved his head from side to side. “I don’t get why women stay in that shit.”
Bobbie didn’t, either. Not really. Although she had to admit that her own experience with being abducted, raped and tortured had changed her in ways she hadn’t expected, so she tried not to judge anyone else. Talk was cheap until it happened to you.
“How about you drop me off at the scene?” she suggested. “When I’m done there, I’ll hitch a ride with Devine.”
Bauer didn’t answer as she slowed for a U-turn.
“Any witnesses? Who found the bodies?” she asked, not wanting to give him time to come up with an excuse for why he couldn’t drive her car to the Criminal Investigation Division offices.
He shrugged. “Don’t know about any witnesses. Holt said the housekeeper found the bodies.” Bauer reached for the coffee he’d abandoned in the cup holder and knocked back a slug. “She did say it’s some creepy shit though.”
“I guess I’ll find out.”
Creepy was relative. After what she’d gone through with the Storyteller, very little surprised Bobbie. Still, adrenaline pumped hot and fast through her veins. There was a lot missing in her life. No matter that she’d stopped the monster responsible for that loss, the emptiness remained. Being a cop was all she had left. She worked hard to stay on her toes and to maintain focus. Being a cop was her life.
The case was all that mattered.
Westminster Drive
8:30 a.m.
Detective Steven Devine waited on the sidewalk outside the tri-level brick home now surrounded by yellow crime scene tape. The lawn was neatly kept with lush green shrubbery and large trees. The house was situated in a typical middle-class suburb in an older, quiet neighborhood. Any vehicles the owners drove were either gone or hidden away in the garage.
Bobbie waved to Devine, then greeted the officer maintaining the perimeter as she ducked under the tape. The presence of two Montgomery Police Department cruisers as well as that of the coroner’s van had drawn neighbors outside. So far Bobbie didn’t see any sign of reporters, which suited her just fine. She’d had her fill of the media over the past ten months. Be that as it may, as soon as word about the homicides hit the grapevine the newshounds would appear. Generally they weren’t far behind the coroner’s van.
“Morning, Bobbie,” Devine said, his good old Southern boy smile in place.
He was a couple of years younger than Bobbie’s thirty-two. Tall, lean and reasonably attractive with the kind of calming blue eyes that stirred trust, particularly in female witnesses. He kept his dark hair cut regulation short and his tailored designer suits professionally pressed. More important than all the outer trappings, his history as a homicide detective in Birmingham was impeccable. So far Bobbie couldn’t complain.
“Morning. What do we have inside?” Bobbie headed for the front door.
Devine’s long legs easily kept up with her hurried stride. “Husband and wife are deceased. The bodies appear to have been staged. Sixteen-year-old daughter and ten-year-old son weren’t home. The housekeeper says they frequently stay with friends.”
“We need to confirm the location of the children ASAP.” Worry tied a knot in her gut. If the kids were home at the time of the murders there could be more bodies showing up soon.
“Got someone working on that,” Devine said.
Bobbie frowned. “Is this a murder-suicide?”
“No, ma’am.” Devine paused at the door, his hand on the knob. “If you watch the news or read the papers you’re familiar with the vics, Nigel and Heather Parker.”
Bobbie doubted there was anyone in the state who hadn’t heard about the two. The identity of the victims added a whole new dimension to the investigation. Nigel Parker had apparently spent the past several years attempting to emulate the notorious Bernie Madoff. The wife, Heather, had started her own Ashley Madison–style service to accommodate her husband’s high-powered clients as well as the who’s who in the state of Alabama. The feds believed Heather had been using pillow talk to help her husband swindle his clients. Both empires had recently begun to crumble. Nigel’s diverting and skimming had been uncovered and Heather’s “little black book” had somehow landed in the hands of a national tell-all rag of a newspaper. Even the governor’s name had appeared within those torrid pages.
“So what are they doing here?” Bobbie surveyed the neighborhood a second time. The Parkers owned one of those luxury estates over on Bell Road. Most likely the feds had seized their property. Or maybe the family was simply attempting to live incognito.
“According to Mrs. Snodgrass, their longtime housekeeper, the reporters, the threatening calls and letters got to be too much. This is one of the rental properties Parker owned under a shell company so they moved here.”
Bobbie had caught a couple of clips from the FBI’s recent press releases on the local couple who’d made national headlines. In addition to Nigel Parker having received numerous death threats, shots had been fired at his home on at least one occasion. A homicide investigation involving high-profile victims was a nightmare case for any police department. Literally hundreds of potential persons of interest would have to be combed through. Not only would a lot of time be unavoidably wasted, the feds would be poking their noses and two cents’ worth into every step.
“We’ll have no shortage of persons of interest to interview and all sorts of help from the FBI.” The reality sounded worse when she said it out loud.
Devine chuckled drily. “No doubt. There’re plenty of folks who wanted to see this guy get his.” He jerked his head toward the street. “Uniforms are canvassing the neighbors. Coroner arrived about fifteen minutes ago. Evidence techs are processing the house one room at a time. I put in a call to Special Agent Hadden. Had to leave a voice mail.”
“Good.” Devine was meticulous, played by the rules and needed no prompting to get the job done—all of which made his initial action this morning completely out of character. “Why didn’t you call me when you first arrived on the scene?” Fair question. He’d clearly been here an hour or so.
“You had to pick up Bauer,” he offered. “Holt said she’d let you know.”
Frustration inched its way up her spine. Bobbie suspected the sergeant had her own reasons for not taking this one herself. Between the baby, new nightmare neighbors, and her need to keep Bauer on the straight and narrow, Holt was spread a little thin. Still, Bobbie would rather not see a crime scene after six or so other people had already walked through it.
“In the future,” she said as she pulled gloves from her jacket pocket and dragged them on, “you call me first regardless. No exceptions. Got it?”
Devine nodded. “Got it.”
“Let’s have a look