One Detective Olivia Newhouse #2
Of course, that was before the pregnancy tests I took this morning, all four of which I tucked inside a trash bag in the bin next to the garage while I waited for Walt.
It’s not that I don’t like kids and don’t want any of my own.
It’s not even that I don’t want to get married.
I’m just not certain now is the right time.
This year has been insane. My father died not even three months ago, the month before I turned thirty.
On top of those life-altering events, I agreed to marry the man I love and move into his house—into his life.
I feel as if my life is spinning out of control.
All I want is to slow things down a bit.
Except now the timeline is completely beyond my ability to manage.
The distant ache in my skull that I woke up with deepens as I climb into the passenger seat and reach for the seat belt. I push away the madness of my personal life and study my partner as he guides his SUV away from the house.
“You look like I feel,” I warn.
He glances at me, his eyes bloodshot, his face haggard. “I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”
I breathe a laugh. “Me, either.”
I continue my scrutiny of him as he drives through the damp streets. Apparently, it rained after I went to bed at about two this morning. Walt left the office a little while before me. I finalized our reports on the now-closed homicide case that had kept us beating the bushes for almost two weeks.
Based on those bloodshot eyes of his, I think maybe Walt’s old buddy Jack Daniel’s kept him up awhile.
That’s happened a lot lately—the overindulging in his preferred whiskey.
I don’t ask. If he wanted me to know whatever’s going on, he would tell me.
This is a concept my fiancé doesn’t grasp and certainly cannot appreciate.
Walt and I—though separated in age by three decades—completely understand each other.
We respect each other unconditionally. It doesn’t matter to Walt that I’m female or that I’m half his age.
We’re equal. Of course, I’m well aware he’s the experienced detective of thirty-odd years and I’m the newbie with only two under my belt, but he never flaunts that detail. He treats me as a peer in every way.
“Jack can be a real ass kicker the morning after.” I turn forward and sink into the seat.
Walt’s a grown man, turned sixty on his last birthday.
If he decides to drink more than usual—far more frequently than is normal for him—it’s none of my business.
I don’t doubt his ability to have my back for a second.
He’s the best. I just worry about him, that’s all.
Since his wife died, he’s had a hard time dealing with life outside of work.
“What’s your excuse?” He flashes me a quick grin.
“Trust me.” I fold my arms over my middle as if I fear he might be able to see the answer without me saying a word. “You do not want to go there.”
“More trouble in paradise?” He chuckles. “I’m not sure your fiancé knows what he’s getting himself into, marrying a dedicated cop like you.”
I grunt. I have no desire to discuss my personal life this morning. Way too complicated. “So, what’ve we got?”
“Uniforms were dispatched for a welfare check. They arrived and found the back door open, nobody home, and a substantial amount of blood in the kitchen, so here we go.” He shrugs. “No big surprise, considering the neighborhood. We’ve worked the area before. Last October, if memory serves.”
I remember. Last time it took a week to determine that the wife was the murderer.
The diminutive woman hadn’t looked like a killer.
The vic was a big guy—six four, two hundred plus pounds—a drug dealer.
The wife had waited until he was passed out on the couch one night and then put a bullet in the back of his skull with his own backup piece, a .
22. Discovering that fact might have been a fairly easy step had she not worn elbow-length rubber gloves to prevent any risk of gunpowder residue on her skin.
To be completely certain she covered her tracks, she even went so far as to burn the clothes she’d been wearing at the time.
Then she claimed she had spent the entire night at her sister’s.
The whole family backed up her alibi. But by day seven, she came forward and confessed.
Said it was her Catholic guilt. She ended up getting a plea deal for providing information on her husband’s drug connections.
I consider Walt’s comments about the scene where we’re headed.
No body at the scene, but lots of blood.
“Could be the vic is in the ER after cutting him- or herself with a knife or something.” Seems a reasonable possibility.
“If the blood’s in the kitchen, might be nothing but an accident during meal prep. ”
“I guess we’ll see.”
“We will indeed.” Nothing takes your mind off your personal problems like a potential homicide.
By the time we reach Twenty-Second, the distant ache in my skull has become a throb on the left side of my brain, and black spots float in front of my eyes. Not a good sign. The shitstorm is coming. My hope is that I can delay the inevitable until we get through this scene.
Migraines can be a raging bitch.
The yard in front of the small gray house is cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape that turns ninety degrees at the far end and continues on around to the back door, I imagine.
A police cruiser sits in the driveway behind a rusty Impala that presumably belongs to the vic.
The tires on the Impala are flat. The windshield has been shattered.
Apparently, someone has been showing the tenant in this rental some love.
A white van sporting the blue Metro Crime Scene Unit logo is parked on the grass at the edge of the street.
Along both sides of the block, curious neighbors have ventured out into their yards to watch the evolving show.
Probably the Movie of the Week around here—a rerun of last year’s classic Death of a Drug Dealer.
“Nice place,” Walt comments.
I glance around at the trash in the yard, the old, tattered sofa on the porch of the potential vic’s place of residence. “Yeah.”
A car sits on blocks in a neighboring yard, various parts stripped from the metal carcass.
Trash is scattered about and banked against trees and foundations.
The power lines sag and the pole nearest the crime scene looks ready to fall over.
An empty doghouse sits to the right of the driveway, the bald ground around it suggesting an animal was recently chained there.
I hate when people chain up dogs.
We park on the opposite side of the street.
As Walt said, we’ve been here before. Two houses down is where the drug dealer was murdered the last time we were called to this block.
Evidently, someone new lives there now. A little girl with curly brown hair hides behind her mother’s legs.
I wonder whether the mother realizes that a man was murdered in the house where she now resides.
Definitely not the kind of place where you want to raise a kid, if you have a choice.
Not that I know one damned thing about raising kids.
I exile the thought.
Officer Sean Little meets us at the yellow perimeter.
The starched creases in his inspection-ready uniform make me feel like a dirtbag.
My navy trousers and shirt are clean, but they haven’t seen a crease since the last time I bothered with a dry cleaner.
Like me, Walt wears his favorite jacket; his is navy and matches his trousers.
Unlike me, my partner always wears cowboy boots.
Not just any boots, either. Lucchese, handmade boots.
Over the years, he’s become known as the “cowboy detective.” Nashville loves Detective Walter Duncan.
Me, I’ll stick with my flat-heeled, rubber-soled ankle boots.
You won’t catch me in heels like the detectives on TV or in the movies. Being a cop is rarely glamorous work.
Officer Little nods a greeting and says, “Crime scene investigators just got here.”
I don’t have to ask if Walt called the CSI guys. He prefers to get them rolling rather than waiting until he’s on the scene to make the call. Typically we show up about the same time, which works out for everyone. We have a look and they do their thing, with no delay in the process.
“Any of the neighbors see anything?” Walt asks.
“Just one. It may or may not be relevant. She lives in the next house down. She claims a couple of women who don’t live in the neighborhood have been driving by a lot recently. She gave me the color and possible make of the vehicle.”
“We’ll talk to her when we’re done here,” Walt says with a glance at me.
I lag behind as we cross the yard and climb the two steps to the front door.
I make a face at the ghastly odor there.
A quick glance shows a variety of carcasses on the porch.
One looks like a possum. Another might be an armadillo.
Shit, a raccoon. Just stacked in a stinky pile, waiting for whatever.
Little notices me staring. “No clue,” he says. “There are more near the back door. I guess someone was leaving him gifts.”
How screwed up is that?
Once inside the small living room, we drag on gloves.
I force my sluggish brain to inventory the space.
A battered sofa is the only seating in the room.
An ancient box-style television is tuned to some morning show, the poor cable or antenna connection making the screen all fuzzy.
The television sits on a scarred wooden table.
A fake-wood floor is dark enough in color to hide how dirty it likely is.
The popcorn ceiling is a dingy yellow, an unpleasant match to the discolored blinds closed tight on the one window in the room.