Death Offerings (The Northland Crime Chronicles, Book 2)

By Alicia Dean

Detective Lane Brody and Monroe Donovan, The Northland Chronicles' newest female crime reporter, are face-to-face with a chance for happiness. Then Brody's wife--incarcerated in a mental institution after murdering the man she took as a lover--begins to recover.

Now Monroe wants to put distance between herself and Brody, but Brody is under orders to keep Monroe close in order to nab the Penny Killer who leaves macabre gifts on his victims in Monroe's name.

As the body count rises and the Penny Killer grows more enamored with Monroe, Brody decides if he can't spend the rest of his life with the woman he loves, he'll gladly die to protect her.

REVIEWS:
"...quite interesting and well done." ~In D'tale Magazine

THE NORTHLAND CRIME CHRONICLES, in series order
Death Notice
Death Offerings

THE ISLE OF FANGS SERIES, in order
Liberty Awakened
Liberty Divided

• Language: English
• Publisher: ePublishing Works
• Release date: Jun 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781614176213

Alicia Dean

Alicia Dean writes in a variety of genres, among them, paranormal and romantic suspense. She lives in Edmond, Oklahoma and is the mother of three grown children. Alicia loves creating spine-chilling stories that keep readers on the edge of their seats. She's a huge Elvis Presley fan, and loves MLB and the NFL. If you look closely, you'll see a reference to one or all three in pretty much everything she writes. If she could, she would divide all her time between writing, watching her favorite television shows--such as Dexter (before it was canceled, she's still hoping he comes back), Vampire Diaries, Justified, and True Blood--and reading her favorite authors...Stephen King, Dennis Lehane, Michael Connelly, Lee Child, and Lisa Gardner to name a few. Find her here: Website: http://aliciadean.com/ Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Alicia-Dean/131939826889437?ref=br_tf Twitter: https://twitter.com/Alicia_Dean_

Book preview

Death Offerings

The Northland Crime Chronicles

Book Two

by

Alicia Dean

Award-winning Author

Published by ePublishing Works!

www.epublishingworks.com

ISBN: 978-1-61417-621-3

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Copyright © 2014 by Alicia Dean. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

Cover and eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

Dedication

To LaDonna and Debbie, my amazing friends of many, many years.

Thank you for your support and encouragement.

Chapter 1

I think about dead people a lot.

It makes sense in my line of work—I'm a crime writer for the Northland Chronicle, and my former job was writing obituaries—but that's not the reason.

I don't think about dead people because of my career, and I didn't choose my career because I think about dead people. They both just sort of happened, independent of one another.

Maybe it's partly because my entire life has been shrouded in death. Not only is my father a mortician, but my mother named me Monroe, after Marilyn, the dead sex goddess. Growing up, I hung out at the funeral home a lot with my father. I went to my first funeral when I was five—my aunt Karen—and touched the body when my mother encouraged me to do so. When I was in school, the kids called me Elvira, the Queen of Death. I presently live next to a cemetery.

But mostly, my connection with the dead is about what happened to Katie. Katie, who was one of my childhood friends. Katie, who was only twelve when she was snatched from my backyard and murdered. Katie, whose murderer was never caught.

I don't just think about the dead, I see them. Not in the same way as the boy in the movie. I see their pictures on the web. Each and every detail etched into my memory, ready for retrieval and study.

Specifically, I think of dead girls—young, murdered girls.

It's not as creepy as it sounds. I think about them because they deserve to be remembered and to be mourned. But also so I can learn all about the hows and whys of their murders. I hope by doing so, it will help me learn the who of Katie's.

For the past six months, I'd been writing feature articles on unsolved murders. Mostly, the stories were about young girls in and around the Kansas City area. The series was finished. I'd covered all the unsolved murders of young girls in Missouri and Kansas. It didn't stop me from researching the details of others. I couldn't seem to help myself.

Although I should have been working on material for tomorrow's article on the rise of street gangs in south Kansas City, I was reading about the six-year-old murder of Jessica Browning. Her case had been solved.

Shutting out the sounds of the newspaper office that floated around me, I read the details on my computer screen. Jessica was fifteen when she was murdered, but in the photo displayed with the article, she looked to be about twelve or thirteen. She wore a white, puffy-sleeved, baby-doll blouse. Her brown hair was shoulder-length and badly cut, with bangs that were longer on the right side than the left. Still, she smiled, all white teeth and freckles.

Jessica lived in a small town in Pennsylvania, but was kidnapped from a school field trip in New York City. The class had gone to the Empire State building and somehow, somewhere among the many floors, the confusion, and large number of high school kids, a maniac had gotten his hands on her. Her raped and mutilated body was found a week later, among a pile of rubbish in an alley.

The man they'd finally arrested was an ex-convict out on parole for rape. He'd been found guilty of second degree murder and was now serving a twenty year sentence. He hadn't 'planned' the murder, so no life sentence or execution for him. In our justice system, murderers were rewarded for spontaneous acts of evil.

Monroe?

The voice came from my left, and I shook out of my trance. My boss, Adam, stood next to my desk. Strands of blonde hair fell over his tanned forehead, and his full, sensual lips were drawn into a frown.

You okay?

I tucked my hair behind my ear and squinted up at him, trying to blink the computer blindness from my eyes. Yeah, sure. What's up?

Adam didn't respond right away. He stared at me like a Leprechaun stares at a pot of gold. Not only was Adam my boss, he was also my ex-boyfriend. He'd cheated on, then dumped me, but his affections were rekindled last year. I'd inadvertently saved him and his fiancée—the woman he'd cheated with—from a psychotic killer.

Shortly after, Adam broke up with the fiancée, gave me the promotion he'd been promising me, and declared his undying love. Much to his surprise and disappointment, I was officially over him by that time. His baby greens no longer had the power to weaken my knees. Not since I'd fallen for Detective Lane Brody.

A body was found at Riverside Park, Adam said. Possible murder victim.

You're giving it to me? I asked, even as I came to my feet and grabbed my purse. Phillip Conan was the other crime writer, and it was technically his turn.

Adam grimaced. I thought you might want this one. Young girl. Phil will get the next two.

A young girl. My insides froze as Katie came to mind. Had the killer resurfaced?

No reason to think so. Not yet, anyway. This case could be totally unrelated. The last victim with a similar MO had been over three years ago. Maya Pittman. Seventeen years old. One of her teachers—with whom she'd been having an affair—was questioned and released. No one had been charged with the crime.

Whoever had committed the murders was still unknown. Maybe he'd died, maybe moved on to another area, maybe had a change of heart. Regardless, he'd never been caught, so...

Anticipation and dread warred inside me. I'd find out soon enough.

Thanks. I flashed Adam a smile before brushing past him and heading toward the door.

Hey, he called out.

I paused and looked back.

Sadness was etched on his too-pretty-for-a-man face. His lips quirked in a humorless smile. Say hi to Lane for me.

* * *

Detective Lane Brody squatted next to the girl's body, squinting at the afternoon sunlight that glinted off the diamond piercing in the side of her nose. Her jeans were undone, resting low on her slender hips, showing a strip of pink thong underwear. Ligature marks around her neck indicated strangling, although whatever had been used to squeeze the life from her was nowhere to be found.

She lay half on-half off the slide. Her head and upper torso rested on the hard ground—reddish brown hair splayed around her—while the lower part of her body remained on the slide, as if she'd been sliding on her back, head first. It was unlikely she'd actually been playing on the playground. For one, she was too old—probably sixteen or seventeen. For another, from what he could see of her exposed torso, postmortem lividity had colored her lower body a dark reddish purple. Had she died in this position, lividity would have been fixed in her face and neck.

She'd apparently been murdered elsewhere and brought to the park for some kind of twisted display. The killer had posed her body with her arms crossed over her breasts, vacant eyes staring up into the blue sky.

Lane's partner, Detective Tony Webber stood on the other side of the victim. Matches the others, he muttered.

Looks like it.

What the hell, Huck? It's been nearly three years. Why all of a sudden?

Since Lane was from the south—Montgomery, Alabama—the guys at the station called him Huck, as in Huck Finn, even though The Adventures of Tom Sawyer was actually set in Missouri. Lane had given up on correcting them.

Lane shrugged and rose to his feet. Beats me. If it is the same guy, he sometimes went years between killings. Who knows what the sick bastard is thinking.

The girl had likely been killed last night. Two brothers, six-year-old Tyler and eight-year-old Brendan, had found her when their mother brought them to the playground this morning. Tony and Lane had questioned the woman and sent her home. Neither she nor her boys had any information that would help. They hadn't seen anyone around. No one, that is, except for the still unidentified young murder victim.

Frustration settled in Lane's gut, followed by rage and helplessness. The victim had been discarded... like she didn't matter. That was almost as bad as the murder itself.

She looks to be... what... sixteen or so? Tony's voice sounded strained. She's just about Paxton's age. His face had gone pale, his features tight and drawn. Paxton was Tony's fifteen-year old daughter. He was divorced and his kids, Paxton and her younger brother, Cadence, were spending the summer with Tony while their mother went on her honeymoon.

Lane didn't have kids, so he couldn't imagine what it would be like to lose one... especially losing one like this. Judging from the look on Tony's face, he could imagine it all too well.

The park had gone eerily quiet. Normally, on a nice spring day like this—sun shining, birds singing, flowers blooming—the place would be overrun with people and the sounds of laughter and children shouting. That's the way it had been when he and Tony arrived, but not anymore. His team had cordoned off a large section surrounding the playground, and the people who remained hovered on the other side of the crime scene tape, gawking curiously.

Lane made another circle around the slide. He'd already been over the entire area, but would keep going over it until he found something important—or until he was damned sure there was nothing to find.

The others were left in wooded areas, Lane mused aloud. It appears our guy wanted this girl found quickly.

Tony glanced around the park, peeling rubber gloves off his hands. He had to know the odds were good that little kids would find her. Is he trying to send a message or just being a full on douche bag?

Lane started to answer, but a figure in the crowd beyond the police tape caught his attention. Her dark hair lifted in the breeze, and she brought a hand up to push it out of her face.

Monroe.

Just the sight of her made it difficult to breathe. He grinned, knowing he must look like a besotted fool, but unable to help himself. She gave him a finger wave, and her full lips pulled into a brief smile.

A popping sound caught his attention, and he turned to find Tony snapping his fingers in his face. Focus, dude. Dead girl, remember?

Lane scowled. I remember.

Tony snorted a laugh. A touch of his typical carefree cockiness came back into his expression. Go say hi to your woman. We're still waiting on Keaton anyway.

She's not my woman. Not really.

Lane had started divorce proceedings, but Monroe wouldn't take their relationship to the next level until he was actually divorced. Nor would he press the matter. She'd been hurt badly by cheaters and refused to become one. Lane knew exactly how she felt.

For God's sake. Go talk to her. Then maybe you can pull your head out of her ass long enough to work the scene.

Lane hesitated, but because he couldn't stay away from her, even if he'd wanted to, he acquiesced, heading to where Monroe stood. The closer he drew, the more airy and light his chest felt. He could smell her scent just before he reached her—that special fragrance that was hers alone, the scent of summer rain and fresh cut grass—fresh and intoxicating.

Hi there, she said.

Her brown eyes glowed almost golden in the sunlight, but they held a hint of worry. He wanted to reach out and touch her... run his hand along her soft cheek, reassure her that everything would be okay. But too many people were around for him to give in to the temptation. Besides, everything would not be okay. A young girl had lost her life to some sick son of a bitch, and no matter how happy just looking at Monroe made him, right now he had a crime scene to work.

Hi, he replied softly, trying to keep from drawing the attention of the others in the crowd. But it was useless. Half a dozen reporters migrated to the area where he stood, microphones thrust out like fencing swords.

Detective, can we get a statement?

Who's the victim? You have an ID yet?

Is this a homicide?

Who found the body? Can we speak with them?

Lane pushed out a heavy breath and winked at Monroe. We'll talk later.

She nodded, her smile gone, her expression solemn. Her change of mood matched his. It was difficult to remain cheerful at the scene of a murder.

Holding his hands up in a halting gesture, he addressed the ravenous media. We don't have anything for you yet. If you'll hang tight, we'll have a statement shortly.

With one more quick look at Monroe, he walked back to where Tony and the crime scene techs waited. The CST's had already scoured the area and taken pictures of the body, but none of them could touch her, or anything on her person, until the Medical Examiner was done.

No sooner had the thought materialized, than the man himself—Byron Keaton, the ME—arrived, ducking under the crime scene tape. He strode toward them, his thick, curly hair flopping around his head like a red mop.

Lane and Tony had been here for hours, waiting. Now, not only would they get some answers, they could finally finish processing the scene.

Byron squatted down, slipped gloves over his hands, and lifted Jane Doe's bruised chin to study her neck. Without raising his head, he said, Cut off her air by squeezing her larynx. Didn't crush it, though. Looks like he squeezed and let go, over and over, making her death a long time coming.

Lane's jaw tightened. Sadistic bastard.

Keaton searched through the girl's pockets. No ID, he said. You guys know who she is?

Not yet.

One of the patrol officers had gone back to the station to run a check on reports of missing teens. So far, no hits.

Huh, Keaton said, his voice tinged with speculation. The victim's right hand was clenched, while her left lay open. He pulled back the fingers on her right hand and retrieved two objects, holding them up for inspection. A tooth and a penny. Odd. He used his gloved fingers to part the girl's lips and nodded. It's her tooth. Front incisor. Removed postmortem. No blood on the gums.

A chill moved through Lane's veins as he stared at the coin. A penny? That's a new twist.

Tony squinted at him. Dude, you look like you're about to hurl. What's the big deal about a penny?

You don't read Monroe's articles, do you?

Nah. Tony grinned. But then, I don't want in her pants.

Lane forced a corner of his mouth into a half-smile, but the chill had turned into an icy wind that swept through his soul. She wrote about some theory... a pennies from heaven thing. Supposedly, some people believe that loved ones who've passed on send messages from beyond for those they leave behind. Pennies.

Pennies?

Yeah. Pennies with significant dates. Supposed to be some kind of sign that the dead are reaching out to the living. Monroe's friend who was murdered... Katie? Her mom found a penny dated the year Katie was born in her bedroom right after her body was found. Then, just a few months ago, she found one on her grave dated 1969.

Is 1969 supposed to mean something? Tony asked. You don't believe in that hocus pocus crap, do you?

Lane shrugged. I don't believe the pennies mean anything, but it's possible the killer left it because he read Monroe's articles.

Keaton peered at the penny through the plastic bag. This one is dated 2003.

Lane forced calm into his voice. Once we get an ID, we can question her family. See if that year has any significance.

Tony frowned. So, you really think this has something to do with Monroe?

Could be.

Maybe. Tony stroked his goatee, his frown still in place. Then again, maybe not.

Yeah, right. The girl was murdered while gripping a penny. All teen girls carried a single penny around in their hand. And maybe the killer yanked her tooth out and stuck it in the same hand, totally by coincidence.

Lane's mind clicked over all the scenarios, all the possibilities, but with each one, he came up with the same conclusion. He believed the penny had nothing to do with Monroe as much as he believed the tooth fairy would swing by to replace the extracted incisor with a few more coins.

* * *

I pulled into Linus's driveway to drop him off after taking him on his errands. Although he only lived across the street from me, I didn't want my elderly neighbor to lug his grocery bags even that short distance. He was independent and feisty—but the pain of age had begun to tighten his expression more often as the days wore on. I'd known him for five of his nearly ninety years, and his approach toward the century mark was starting to take a toll.

Before getting out of the car, he lifted a hip and tugged his wallet from the back pocket of his overalls. Fingers that slightly trembled fished out two one dollar bills.

Here you go, Marilyn. He found it amusing to call me Marilyn, found it amusing that I was given the name of a promiscuous bombshell who died ten years before I was born. For your gas and your trouble. Thanks for taking me around.

I suppressed a grin. I'd driven him on errands for half the day. With gas at nearly four dollars a gallon, the two bucks would barely get me out of his driveway.

Really, Linus. You don't have to. I held up a hand in protest. The Jesse James stuff you've given me is worth more to me than all the gas in the world.

He pursed his lips as if considering, then slowly replaced the bills. If you insist. You're a good girl, you know. When I'm gone, the whole collection is yours.

I raised my brows. Linus was a descendant of Jesse James, and he had an amazing collection of memorabilia. From time to time, he'd given me a piece as a thank you for helping him out. It had never occurred to me that he'd bequeath me his entire collection.

The thought made me simultaneously sad and thrilled. But mostly overwhelmed that he thought that much of me. I'd always been fascinated with Jesse James—all the more so because he was from Kearney, a town less than twenty miles from where I lived in Parkville, Missouri. I'd been drawn to his mystique and legend since childhood. Even though I wanted the collection more than I'd ever wanted anything—well, almost anything—I said, Shouldn't you leave it to your family?

None of my kids care a whit about it. They'll get money, and that's all that really matters far as they're concerned. 'Sides, you spend more time with me than they do.

He fumbled with the door handle and climbed slowly from the car, reaching into the back to retrieve two loaded-down grocery sacks.

You need some help with those? I asked as I stretched across the console.

Heck no. Day I can't carry a few sacks of groceries ten feet is the day they can cart me off to an old folks home.

He winked, but the merriment in his expression faded as he stared over the hood of my car at something across the street. I followed his gaze. My pulse rate kicked up a notch when I saw Lane's Crown Vic in my driveway.

Linus closed the door, but leaned into the open window. Strands of his white hair blew around his head like dandelion seeds. Ain't none of my business, but I'm gonna say it anyhow. You're a good girl, like I said. And Detective Brody seems like a nice fella. But he's married. Don't care if he's happy in it or not, married is married.

Heat warmed my cheeks, and I felt like a chastised child. The fissure of guilt I'd been toting around reared its head. Still, I attempted a defense. I realize that. We're just friends. Besides, he's getting a divorce.

Linus harrumphed as he straightened. Getting ain't got, remember that.

Before I could respond, he turned and slowly made his way to his door.

I frowned, trying to push back the unease—the awareness that Linus was right—and watched until he was safely inside. I then backed out of his drive and pulled into mine, parking next to Lane.

A smile lifted the corners of my mouth as he climbed out of the car and moved toward me. An answering smile touched his lips.

The navy blue suit hung carelessly on his body, and his shiny light blue tie was off-center. Dark hair, lightly streaked with gray, was messy, as if from the breeze. But, I knew it always had that mussed, just ran his fingers through it, just climbed out of bed look. I drew a deep breath, reining my thoughts back in—and out of bed with Lane Brody.

Hi again. Good to see you. His whisky tones, tinged with a hint of a southern drawl, washed over me as he moved closer. His voice lowered, and he reached a hand out. Good to finally get to touch you.

I stepped back before he made contact, casting a quick look across the street. Linus's opinion shouldn't matter so much, but it did. I adored the old man and wanted him to keep thinking I was a 'good girl.'

Let's go inside, I suggested.

Lane frowned, then followed me into my small, but comfy home. My friend, Josie, had been staying with me for the past few months while she worked on her sobriety. But last week, she'd moved into her own place, and mine was now delightfully quiet.

As soon as Lane shut the door, I went into his embrace. His touch warmed me, filled me with a sense of peace. I relaxed and released a long, contented sigh. Pulling back, he pressed a kiss to my forehead, his lips gently gliding down, over my temple, then my cheek. He tilted my chin and lowered his mouth to mine. Heat rushed through my veins as he coaxed my mouth open, and his tongue explored, sending tingles along my flesh. His hand skimmed my back, resting on my bottom, pulling me tighter against him. I whimpered, lifting my arms to entwine around his neck.

Something in my brain admonished me to stop before we went any further... before we went too far. I ignored the irritating intrusion. Being with Lane felt so damn good... so right...

But, in reality, it wasn't right. Linus's words came back to me, hitting me like a bucket of icy water. Married is married...

I pulled back, stepping out of Lane's