Deadly Connections Read online

  Deadly Connections

  Sarah Spillman Mysteries Book 1

  Renée Pawlish

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Sneak Peek

  Free Book

  Renée’s Bookshelf

  About the Author

  Deadly Connections

  Published by Creative Cat Press

  copyright 2020 by Renée Pawlish

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your personal use only, then you should return this copy to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Acknowledgments

  The author gratefully acknowledges all those who helped in the writing of this book, especially: Beth Treat, Beth Higgins, and Thomas Lynch.

  A special shout-out to Colonel Randy Powers, retired, Chief Deputy. Any mistakes in police procedure are mine.

  If I’ve forgotten anyone, please accept my apologies.

  To all my beta readers: I am in your debt!

  Sheree Benson, Renee Boomershine, Betty Jo English, Tracy Gestewitz, Patti Gross, Barbara Hackel, Eileen Hill, Maxine Lauer, Debbie McNally, Becky Neilsen, Louise Ohman, Becky Serna, Dick Sidbury, Bev Smith, Albert Stevens, Joyce Stumpff, Jennifer Thompson, Patricia Thursby, Marlene Van Matre, Lu Wilmot

  Author’s Note

  I have exercised some creative license in bending settings and law-enforcement agencies to the whims of the story. This is, after all, a work of fiction. Any similarities between characters in this novel and real persons is strictly coincidental.

  Prologue

  The footsteps stopped in the hall, and the boy heard the muffled voice from the other side of the door.

  “Turn out the light.”

  The boy slid off the futon, legs trembling. He crossed the small basement room and hit the light switch. His eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness as he darted back across the room. He didn’t have to worry about running into anything. The only furniture was the futon; the only other thing in the room was a portable camping toilet in the corner.

  He heard a rattling sound, and the door swung open. A rectangle of light fell on the concrete floor and a hooded figure stood in the doorway. The boy could only see dark clothes, a ghostly shadow of a face.

  Death.

  At least, that’s how the nine-year-old’s brain thought of it. “Death,” the skeletal, hooded figure that he’d seen in comics his dad collected. Although the boy thought some of the comics were stupid, he liked Batman, Spiderman, and Superman. However, the comic-book character Death always scared him. So did the figure standing across the room.

  He scooted farther back on the futon until his back hit the concrete wall. He bent his legs and wrapped his arms around his knees, trying to pull away.

  “Are you hungry?”

  He nodded. His stomach growled. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been in this room, a few days, maybe. He was sure he was in a basement room because of the concrete walls and the lone little window high up on one wall, with black paint covering the panes. The room was dank and the foul odor from the portable toilet in the corner was gross.

  The figure took a couple of steps into the room, then stopped and just watched him. It was the same every time. The boy sucked in a breath and shivered. It was pointless to scream or yell. He’d done that when he’d first awoken in the dark room and felt his way to the door. All the yelling, all the yanking on the door handle, and nothing had happened. No one came.

  Where was Mom? Where was Dad? His lip quivered and he wanted to cry. But he’d been told not to cry. He’d been told a lot of things: to stay on the bed, not to yell, and to be a good boy. He was afraid, terrified to do anything. He didn’t understand, but maybe if he obeyed, he’d get to go home.

  Again, a whispered “Are you hungry?”

  He nodded.

  Same question each time. Then he’d get food, then he’d be told that everything would be okay, he just needed to stay quiet. After that, he’d be left alone again. And the door would be locked.

  This had gone on for a few days, or so he thought. Food was just a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and water. He was hungry. He was told that if he was good, he’d get more. Each time, he had to turn out the lights and sit on the futon.

  Now the figure approached and put a tray with a sandwich and a cup of water on the edge of the futon.

  “You’re being good?”

  The boy nodded slowly.

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to go home,” he said with a whimper.

  “No. You want to stay here. If you do, I’ll get you all the toys you want. Would you like that?”

  He’d been asked this a few times. The first time, he’d said no, he didn’t want to stay here, and after he’d said that, no food came. The second time the question was asked, he’d said yes, he wanted to stay. But now he was tired, and he wanted his mom and dad.

  “You want to stay here, don’t you?”

  He stared at the floor. He didn’t know what to say. His stomach growled. He wanted desperately to reach out for the sandwich and the cup of water, but he didn’t know what would happen if he did.

  “Tell me you want to stay here.”

  He suddenly stood up and stomped his foot, then kicked the futon. “No! I want to go home!” he shouted. “Who are you? Leave me alone!”

  He ran for the door. Strong hands reached out and grabbed him.

  “You will stay here.”

  He struggled, but the powerful hands suddenly propelled him backwards. His body slammed against the wall, his head banging against the concrete. He dropped to the floor. He hurt so bad, but he was too scared to move or cry. He could feel the rage seething from the figure standing over him.

  Finally, a stepping back. “You’ll learn to like it here.” Then the figure turned and left the room. The door locked with a loud click.

  The boy got up and rubbed his head with a shaking hand. He stared at the door, thinking I don’t want to stay here. He didn’t know what was going to happen here, had no understanding about any of it. He he knew it would be bad, though. Panic set in, and he ran across the room and flipped on the light, then dashed back to the futon. He snatched up the tray. The sandwich and cup fell to the floor. He ignored that and climbed onto the arm of the futon. He slammed the corner of the tray against the window, once, then again. The noise was loud, yet in his panic, he didn’t notice.
The glass broke, and he reached up to pull some of it away. Then he heard the doorknob rattle, and the voice called out for him to turn off the light. He ignored it and hit the glass with the tray again. Then the door flew open.

  The boy glanced over his shoulder. “No!” he screamed.

  He grabbed the sill, oblivious to the glass that cut into his hands. He jumped and was able to get his arms partway through the window.

  “Come back!”

  Arms grabbed him and pulled him from the window. A shard of glass slashed his arm, and he cried out in pain. Blood poured from his sliced wrist. He fought, but the arms were too strong and he was only a boy. The cut was like fire on his arm, and he felt woozy. Then he felt hands pressing hard around his wrist, trying to stop the bleeding. But the boy fell to the floor, his eyes toward the door. His breath slowed, and darkness enveloped him.

  Chapter One

  The mood was somber as I approached the crime-scene tape. I nodded at the uniformed officer standing guard, and he barely gave me a glance. Death always has a way of sobering people, but this was different.

  “You the one who called this in?” I asked. His nameplate read “Rivera.”

  He nodded and drew in a stilted breath. “Yeah, we got a call, said a guy was taking out his trash, and he saw an arm in the dumpster. He grabbed his cell and called us. When we–my partner, Flatt–and I got here, we looked in the dumpster and saw the arm, just like he said. I went into the dumpster, but …” He shook his head. “There wasn’t any chance he was alive.” Rivera was being careful not to look toward the dumpster. He ran a hand over his closely cropped hair. He looked to be just out of college, green around the gills in every way, including death encounters. “We called it in, got the guy who found him out of the way, and secured the area. The coroner’s here.”

  I pointed past him. “So the scene has been disturbed?”

  He shrugged. “I can’t say what the guy who found the body did, but no one’s been near the dumpster since Flatt and I got here.”

  My gaze darted behind him. A gray-haired man in shorts, a yellow short-sleeved shirt, and sandals stood near the corner of a house, outside the crime-scene tape. He glanced at Rivera and me nervously.

  “Is that the guy?” I asked.

  Rivera was still avoiding the dumpster. “Yeah. His name is Clark Leblanc. He knows you’ll want to talk to him, so he’s been waiting around.”

  I nodded. “Have you seen anything suspicious?”

  Rivera shook his head. “Gawkers have been coming and going, but nothing unusual to note. Flatt’s been talking to them.”

  I didn’t say anything else to him, but ducked under the tape as Rivera noted in his log that I was entering the crime-scene area. I walked toward the dumpster. It was a behemoth of a thing, dark blue, beat-up, positioned between two red-brick houses. A full white trash bag leaned against the front of the dumpster. Canvassing the ground in the crime-scene area were two men and a woman. Standing next to the dumpster in dark pants and a white shirt was Jack Jamison, the Denver Police Department’s coroner. A slight breeze fluffed his steel-gray hair. He was peering into the dumpster, and he turned when he heard me approach.

  “Spillman, how you doing?” His lips were pressed into a grim line.

  “Bad?” I asked.

  He nodded slowly, his blue eyes impassive. “Take a look.” He gestured toward the top of the dumpster.

  I stepped up and looked inside. A few flies buzzed around, and the pungent odor of rubbish was strong in the air, but underneath it, I smelled death. More than ten years as a homicide detective did that to you. A small figure lay sideways amongst trash and black plastic bags. His brown hair was tussled, and he wore a dark T-shirt. I resisted rubbing a hand over my face, but I wanted to. Seeing death is always hard, but when it’s one so young, it’s even harder. I breathed out of my mouth as I shifted, trying to get a better view of the body.

  “Looks like his wrist was cut,” I said.

  Jack nodded. “He’s got a severe slash on his left wrist. Likely that it cut the radial artery, and he probably bled out in minutes.”

  I glanced at the CSI crew working the crime scene. “They’ve taken pictures, right?”

  “Yes.”

  I shifted again. “Look at all the dried blood on his arm.” The morning sun beat down on us. I squinted at the sky. It was going to be a hot May day. “Any idea how long the body’s been in there?”

  He shook his head. “With the sun, and the heat in the dumpster, who knows?” I gave him a look that prompted him to give me more. “He was probably put here sometime overnight.”

  I moved to the corner of the dumpster so I could look at the body from a different angle. “I don’t see any other blood around. Think he bled out somewhere else and was moved here?”

  “That would be my guess.”

  I gazed around the side of the dumpster and in back, but there wasn’t any sign of blood anywhere. I figured as much, but I had to check. “There’s no way he crawled in here and died.”

  Jack shook his head again. “I don’t see how.”

  “Let me get a better look at the body.”

  “Be careful.”

  I hefted myself up on the edge of the dumpster and gingerly shifted the body so I could see the boy’s face. His mouth was partially open, his brown eyes wide, as if his last moments were filled with terror. Smudges of dirt dotted his face, and dried blood streaked down his cheek and caked his clothes. He was so cute he could’ve been on TV. Then it hit me. I swore.

  “What?” Jack asked.

  I dropped to the ground. I had smudges on my blue blouse that I swiped at, then wiped my hands together, trying to get rid of not only the grime, but the traces of death. “That’s Logan Pickett.”

  “The kid who’s been missing for a few days?” Jack scratched his jaw. “I thought he looked familiar.”

  “He should. He’s been in the news the last couple of nights.”

  “I’m too damn busy to watch the news.” He pointed at the dumpster again. “You need anything more here?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Okay, we’ll be taking the body out soon.”

  “When will you get to the autopsy?”

  He angled his head, daring me to push him. “Geez, Spillman, I haven’t even moved the kid yet. How should I know?” I dared with a glare, and he backed down. “I don’t know, this afternoon? Tomorrow morning? I know you want it fast. I’ll do what I can.”

  “Thanks.” I stepped back from the dumpster and turned to the CSI team. “Hey, Dale,” I said to a short, stocky man. “You have anything for me?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing so far. We’re getting pictures and video.” He shrugged. He’s about thirty, but looks ten years younger. He’s good at his job, though, and he’d alert me if he found anything significant.

  He turned away, and I noticed a dark-haired man with broad shoulders enter the crime scene. He walked over and fixed coal-black eyes on me. Chief Inspector Calvin Rizzo.

  “Do you have an update for me?” he asked, his voice smooth and commanding. Rizzo doesn’t waste time or words, but is all business, all the time. He’s hard-nosed and detailed. At times he rubs me the wrong way, probably because we’re alike in many respects, and I’ve learned to work with him, hold my tongue at times, and speak up when I feel the need.

  “The boy is Logan Pickett.” Rizzo is three inches taller than my five-foot-eight, and I always feel the need to stand tall so I can come close to looking him in the eye.

  He didn’t say anything for a moment. “Okay, you’ll have to talk to the parents.”

  “From what I remember from the news, they’re divorced. I’ll see who I can reach first.” He waited, and I went on. “One of the responding officers has been interviewing the neighbors to see if anyone heard or saw anything.”

  “Good. Spats and Moore can talk to anyone with information.” Roland “Spats” Youngfield and Ernie Moore are my partners. I was expecting them to show any
time.

  Rizzo gestured at the CSI team. “Have they found anything that will help us?”

  “Not yet.”

  “All right. Keep me posted.” With that, he turned and walked toward the crime-scene tape. As he went under it, two men approached. He spoke to them briefly, then held the tape up for them. They ducked under it and walked toward me.

  “Rizzo says it’s a missing boy?” Ernie Moore asked in a deep voice.

  “Yeah, it’s Logan Pickett,” I said.

  “Ah, hell,” he said. He hefted his pants up over his gut. He’s generally one to crack jokes, but not now. Not with the death of a child.

  “What do you have so far?” Spats asked. He wore a tailored suit and black shoes so shiny the sun glinted off them. I’d heard he’d gotten his nickname from an old partner who said Youngfield reminded him of a gangster from the old days, the men who wore spats on their shoes. I’d never seen Spats wear them, but the nickname had stuck.

  I filled them in. Both nodded as they listened and looked around.

  “So not much,” Spats answered his own question when I finished.

  “Right,” I said. “We need to talk to the officers who’ve been canvassing the neighborhood.”