Best Kept Secrets Read online

  BEST

  KEPT

  SECRETS

  A Novel

  TRACEY S. PHILLIPS

  For Mom

  And for Michael, who stood beside me during

  my many fractured moments

  Your perspective on life comes from the cage you were held captive in.

  —Shannon L. Alder

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book would not be in your hands were it not for the insights and dreams of my editor, Jenny Chen, who found me at #pitdark, a Twitter pitch event. Her helpfulness and extraordinary attention to detail are what made Best Kept Secrets rise to excellence. Warmest heartfelt gratitude to you, Jenny, for making my dreams come true.

  My husband Michael put up with my emotional roller-coaster through tears of failure and the elation of success. You have been my rock. Thank you for your strange devotion to researching dark matter and legal matter. And thank you for not killing me with a hammer.

  Dear children, Dylan and Erika, thanks for your insights. And for sitting through discussions too dark to fathom. And for all the time you put into my online presence and your many read-throughs, ideas, and unfailing belief in me. You both connect me to the younger set. I so admire and appreciate your talents and enthusiasm. Thank you both for standing by me.

  Many thanks go to my critique partners, Gisele Lewis, Anne Feldman, and Kirsche Romo, for making BKS glimmer and shine. Your insights were key to my publication. Marianne Flynn, your last-minute advice was crucial. Amber Boudreau, you put up with my dark writing, even though it’s not your thing. And to my dear friend Diane Boles, without you, I never would have dreamt this possible.

  To my first readers, I’m sorry. You never should have had to suffer through that, Diana Schramer, Joan Donovan, Ginny Hansen, and Dave Klingan. I thank you for your many encouraging words.

  And Katherine Ramsland, even though you don’t know me, your teachings and books have been instrumental in the creation of Caryn. I thoroughly enjoyed your classes in the WPA, Appleton.

  Much like raising a child, writing and publishing a book takes a village. I am only one woman in the village. The biggest thank you goes to you readers. You make up the rest of my village.

  CHAPTER 1

  MORGAN

  Detective Morgan Jewell outpaced her partner by several car lengths.

  “Hold up, Mo. I didn’t get enough sleep, thanks to you. You could at least wait for me!” A seasoned detective, Donnie James had been Morgan’s partner for ten years. Now he was fifty and would rather ease into retirement than take any risks.

  Morgan snapped over her shoulder, “I can’t wait. This is the one, Donnie. I know it.” Pulling the front of her jacket closed against the cooler than normal temperatures, she took in every detail of the rural street. On one side of the road, oaks towered over Victorian-style houses. Across from them, fields of tall, end-of-season corn browned in the sun. Fresh country air filled her lungs with the bright smell of autumn.

  “Is that what you think?” Donnie strolled along at a slower pace.

  He and Morgan had been partners for almost ten years but his time as a detective was drawing to a close. He had been offered the position of their lieutenant, who was retiring at the end of the year. Donnie hadn’t accepted yet but was seriously considering it. Morgan had called him before five this morning. She had had to dial his number three times before he answered, groggy and resistant to taking a case outside of their jurisdiction. Furthermore, it was Saturday. He would rather have stayed at home with his wife and two teenaged daughters. Behind him, farm tractors kicked up dust clouds that dissipated in the breeze.

  Half a dozen police cars in the road indicated that most of the law enforcement in this little farming burg had come out for the show. In the driveway, EMTs were trying to console a hysterical woman sitting on the bumper of an ambulance with the back doors open. Morgan heard her cries and winced.

  The night before in Hendricks County, dispatch had reported a 911 call. Upon returning from an out-of-state work trip, Rebecca Harrington, the weeping woman, discovered her partner’s broken, blood-covered body in their bedroom. Because of this crime’s similarities to an ongoing Indianapolis investigation, Detective Morgan Jewell of the Indianapolis Metro Police Department, Homicide Division, had been granted special access to this crime scene in Danville.

  Fueled by coffee and self-confidence, she bounded past a group of officers gathered around the steps of the light-blue, Victorian house. This little town had never seen a murder so gruesome, and Morgan didn’t like the attention it was getting. She snarled at them, “What is this, some kind of party? Have some respect for the dead, will you?” A pair of them took the hint and peeled away.

  Inside the house, the officer on duty greeted her. “Morning, Detective Jewell.” Behind him, several Hendricks County cops milled around the living room. Too many crime-scene investigators were dusting, tagging, and labeling every surface.

  Donnie ambled in a few minutes later, his voice booming, “Who’s in charge?”

  The officer nearest the door updated them. “Nothing in the lower level was disturbed according to Ms. Harrington,” he said. “We’ve sealed off the crime scene. Forensics is on its way.”

  Morgan wandered past the officer, who had seated himself in a chair near the front door. Behind him, an oriental rug covered the living-room floor beneath an IKEA-style smooth-as-swede couch and matching chair. The ottoman was topped with a flat blue tray holding a candle and a stack of coasters. A vase of flowers sat in the corner. Little china cups and saucers filled the gaps in an ornate bookshelf. On a side table, a photograph of two women posing cheek-to-cheek and smiling widely took prominence. Morgan looked closer without touching. They looked so happy. She remembered feeling that way once.

  “What’s upstairs?” she asked.

  “Upstairs … Lieutenant Werner is upstairs. That’s where …” Color left the young officer’s face.

  Donnie had come in and was standing in the doorway texting someone on his phone. Morgan asked, “Your daughter?”

  Donnie nodded and followed Morgan up a narrow staircase. At the top of the stairs, the lieutenant greeted them. “We’ve been here since midnight. What took you so long?”

  “Got caught in that construction traffic on I-465.” Donnie was bending the truth. In fact he had dragged his feet and taken his time, his way of showing Morgan that he didn’t want to be there.

  “They’re always working on something, aren’t they? Even on Saturday.” The lieutenant looked past Morgan at Donnie.

  “Especially on Saturday,” Donnie concurred.

  Morgan felt like a ghost as the lieutenant chatted casually with his same-sex peer.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you, Detective James, but no one mentioned your stature. Did you ever play ball?”

  “Too clumsy. Call me Donnie.”

  “Lieutenant Werner.” He reached past Morgan to shake Donnie’s hand—indeed as if she wasn’t there. “Call me Tim.”

  “I’m the detective in charge.” Morgan intercepted the handshake. “And I’d like to see the body.”

  Limp and cool, the lieutenant’s hand slid from hers as he looked her up and down. She was wearing a black fitted suit with a red blouse. Her long brown hair was pulled into a tight ponytail. Thick black lashes framed dark-brown eyes emphasized by her porcelain complexion.

  “Hope you haven’t had breakfast yet, Detective,” he said to her.

  “Burger and fries on the way here, lots of ketchup.” She privately hoped to see the lieutenant pale at the thought. When he didn’t, she continued. “What have we got?”

  Werner led the way down a tight hallway wallpapered with pink flowers. The trim, painted periwinkle-blue, bordered hardwoo
d floors that groaned under Donnie’s weight. Werner stopped before entering and held up a hand.

  “Her name’s Hallie Marks. She’s the owner of Hit the Mark Design. I heard she was one of the best interior decorators in the state.”

  “Yes.” Impatient, Morgan wanted to go into the room. “It was her partner who found her like this, isn’t that right?”

  “Rebecca Harrington,” Werner said, “is the owner of the house. She said she’s been out of town for a few weeks.”

  “How long ago was Hallie Marks killed?”

  “Probably in the past day or so.”

  Donnie lifted the back of his hand to his nose. In the airless hallway, he looked a little pale.

  The lieutenant gave a final disclaimer. “This is ugly. Just warning you.”

  Morgan pushed past him. “I’m ready for it.”

  Light colors and country lace decorated the small master bedroom. It looked like no one had slept in the antique four-poster bed the night before. Eyelet curtains framed the bay window where dark, dried spots of blood splattered the light-blue cushion on the window seat. Outside, the sun shone on ripe cornfields across the street.

  Beside the window, the body of Hallie Marks sat strapped to a Queen Anne chair. Her bloody face hung down forward between her shoulders. A drying red stream ran from her destroyed face down her chest and between her breasts. Hallie’s broken, bloody hands were tied to the arms of the chair. Her bare feet rested in a sticky pool of blood.

  Morgan’s hand grazed a soft spiral notebook in the pocket of her pants. Donnie stood beside her looking down at the body. As he shook his head, she knew he was thinking about retirement. In the car he had let her know how upset he was to be riding along with her. It wasn’t even their jurisdiction, he’d said. But Morgan wanted Donnie’s opinion. She had enormous respect for him and his ability to solve crimes. And crazy as it sounded, Morgan hoped this case could be the connection to her past.

  “What do you think?” She asked him.

  “Me?” On his wide forehead, his eyebrows were raised up to his trim hairline. “This is all you, Morgan. I’m following your lead.”

  Morgan stepped as close as she could to the woman in the chair. “She wasn’t just beaten. She was tortured.” I think I’ve caught up to you, you fucker, Morgan thought. I’ve finally caught up to you.

  “The killer is an animal,” Werner said.

  Riveted to her spot, Morgan answered, “Not an animal, Lieutenant. A sick-minded, fucked-up human being. Animals don’t behave this way.” She squatted down for a closer look. She had seen these kinds of injuries before. The memory made the hair on the back of her neck stand at attention.

  At least the victim was wearing underwear, a lacy red pair of panties and fancy bra. Her clothes, a pair of jeans and a plain white shirt, were laid on the bed as if she had been getting ready to go out. Or perhaps she’d just taken them off?

  Gazing at the female victim’s smashed, bloody face, Morgan shivered. Blood covered most of the injuries, but it was clear that anger had driven the killer to destroy this woman’s face. Years ago, Morgan’s best friend, Fay Ramsey, had been murdered similarly. Every day since her death, Morgan had scanned the news for possible reports of the killer’s capture. And she still looked for the killer herself, needing closure. But for now she pushed the horrid memory aside to focus on the task at hand.

  The victim was wearing a braided silver ring with a malachite stone on the pinky finger of her left hand. But her crushed metacarpals had caused the long, slender fingers to lie askew. Swollen, black-and-blue flesh indicated that those injuries had been inflicted hours before her death. That, Morgan thought, seemed to be the killer’s mark.

  On her face, numerous impact sites were about two inches in diameter. One blow had crushed Hallie’s nose. Another took several teeth. Fay’s killer had done the same things to her.

  Under her breath, Morgan muttered, “So much hate and passion.”

  “Passion isn’t the word I’d use.” In the doorway, the lieutenant watched her work.

  “Me neither.” Donnie went out into the hallway.

  Morgan took a pair of gloves from her pocket and slid them onto her hands. She lifted Hallie’s cold, stiff fingers to examine her fingernails. They were long but not painted. All were trim, filed, and clean, except for the index and middle finger, which had something dark underneath them.

  Had Hallie clawed at her attacker? Is that his blood? A chill went down Morgan’s spine.

  “Have forensics swab her nails and send me the results.”

  “Sure thing, Detective.”

  “Do you study serial crime, Lieutenant Werner?” she asked, standing.

  Werner picked at his own fingernails. “Nope. Not my thing.”

  “The killer has done this before. There is precision in each knot, each loop of rope, and in every blow.” Morgan removed her gloves.

  “Can we get the body out of here?” Donnie called from the hallway.

  “We were waiting for you detectives. Hey, Richardson!” Werner hollered out to the officer stationed at the bottom of the stairs. “Go tell Lemay that we’re ready for the coroner.”

  Donnie started for the stairs and Morgan followed. “I want to talk to Rebecca,” she said.

  “Wait.” Lieutenant Werner touched the back of Morgan’s arm. “We found a possible murder weapon.”

  Morgan turned on her toes. She wondered what hard object had been used. Something sturdy and heavy would do it. The butt or barrel of a gun. A mallet. A hammer.

  “There’s a meat tenderizer in the dish rack by the kitchen sink. It’s been washed. We’re spraying the sink for traces of the woman’s blood.”

  CHAPTER 2

  MORGAN

  Morgan stood beside Donnie’s messy desk holding a new cell phone. “I’m calling her again.” With a nice-sized screen and a black jelly casing, the latest android was large for her small hands. She raised a finger to dial.

  Donnie’s brows knitted together. “How many times have you tried? Since yesterday? Since Danville?”

  “Seven,” Morgan admitted reluctantly.

  “Seven times?” Donnie looked at his watch. “And it’s only ten. You know she has every right to refuse to talk to us until she’s proven mentally sound.”

  “She was in shock.” Morgan conceded.

  “Right. So give her some space. The paramedics said it could take her a few days.” Sometimes Donnie had to be Morgan’s voice of reason.

  But this case was different. Call it intuition, maybe. It’s been so many years … and now … I’m so close, she thought. “We don’t have a few days. That killer is still out there.”

  Donnie lowered his chin, talking to Morgan like she was one of his teenage daughters. Like this was the twelfth time he’d given the facts-of-life talk and she was pregnant.

  “Rebecca Harrington may have never met the killer. Did you think of that? She might not have known him.” It was, at least, the twelfth time he’d talked her down from this ledge.

  Donnie’s use of the masculine pronoun caused Morgan to stop and think. “Him?”

  “The murderer,” Donnie said.

  “I know who you meant.” The revelation hit her hard. “I’ve been assuming all along that Fay’s killer was a man too.” Fay Ramsey. She tried to put the past behind her, but it always had a way of sneaking back. And rather than fading away over the years, Fay’s brutal murder continued to plague her. It had become more than a mild obsession.

  “Not Fay. Hallie Marks. Don’t do this, Morgan. Don’t go down that road again. I’m too old to be caught up in your ancient vendetta.”

  She turned toward the window and ignored Donnie. Fay Ramsey had been killed—her life interrupted—and the event had changed Morgan’s path. Originally signed up for literary fine arts, she switched to criminal psychology and law to try to make sense of what had happened to her friend. Since Fay’s death, Morgan had been searching for a man named Larry Milhouse. Fay had gone to meet him and
never returned.

  Hallie, like Fay, seemed ready for some kind of encounter. It seemed she was dressed and preened for intimacy, unless Hallie wore fancy undergarments on a daily basis. Rebecca Harrington, her partner didn’t arrive home until the following day. Morgan asked Donnie, “Was she dressed as if she was expecting a sexual encounter?”

  “I see what you’re getting at, but I can’t imagine a woman killing like that.” Donnie leaned back in his chair, making it creak. “No. This killer is a man.”

  She respected Donnie and listened to his advice, but lately she had to argue her point to get through to him. She wondered if he was losing his detective’s edge. He didn’t seem that interested in chasing down killers anymore. Morgan had requested access to Hallie’s crime scene because she’d been waiting for something like this. She thought Donnie resented her for dragging him into it.

  “Regardless, we need to move on this now, Donnie. Rebecca might have key info on this investigation. You know, we need to act quickly.” Morgan paced back and forth in the small area between their desks.

  “When is the funeral?” he asked, spreading the file folder from Hallie Marks’s crime scene across his desk.

  “Forensics won’t release the body for another week or two. I can’t wait that long.” Morgan put her phone back in her jacket pocket and placed her hand on Donnie’s desk. On her left little finger was the thin silver band her brother gave her when she graduated from Indiana University with a degree in criminology.

  She shook her head, causing her dark-brown ponytail to swing over her shoulder. “Look. None of the information in the forensics report surprises me. She died from blunt force trauma to the face and head. The blows were deliberate and deadly. And I believe that the killer’s signature is in how he treats the hands. He smashes the victim’s hands hours before killing her. Why do you suppose that is?”

  “Hands can represent a lot of things.”

  “Tenderness? Hand-holding?”

  “Without them we are less able. Impaired.” Donnie fiddled with the pen on his desk. “But the imprints on the body didn’t match the checkered pattern on the meat tenderizer. They dismissed that mallet as a possible murder weapon.”