The Silk Strangler: A Candice Shane Investigation, #2

By Debra Erfert

A police detective who wants a lifetime of love, a private investigator who values her independence, and their struggle to trust each other.

Married women aren't supposed to cheat!

Married women are being murdered. Identical paisley silk scarves tied around their ashen necks, missing wedding rings, and blood alcohol content beyond absurdity leave no room for doubt: the killer is the same sick man. 

Private Investigator Candice Shane joins forces with her boyfriend, Phoenix Police Detective Alexander Delaney, when her new client fears she will be the next victim. She may have seen the killer.

Each clue takes Candice dangerously closer to an apparent organized serial killer. 

It's a race to capture the madman before he takes another woman and before Candice becomes a victim of the Silk Strangler. 

The Silk Strangler: A Shane Investigations is a gripping crime thriller filled with heart-melting romance and mystery.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stone Horse Press, LLC
• Release date: Jul 10, 2019
• ISBN: 9780999046074

Book preview

Chapter 1

BRIGHT YELLOW CRIME scene tape fluttered in the wind like crepe paper streamers announcing a deadly party. The reporters’ cameras caught only fragments of the murder site, but even that quick glimpse of evidence reflecting a demented psycho ruthless enough to leave a woman strangled saddened Candice Shane beyond words.

She closed the lid of her laptop, killing the video footage of the woman’s murder scene, and got up from her soft, warm couch in the guesthouse she’d been living in for the past five weeks. Candice’s clients from her last case were still living in her grandfather’s home, which was really her home since she’d inherited the estate after he died over ten years ago. The Leavitts lost their home to arson, and so had Candice. She solved the Leavitts’ case and her own. Until the Leavitts’ house was rebuilt, Candice had given them the main house to live in while she took the guesthouse.

The thought of being late for a meeting with her new client, Gil Roscoe, rubbed against her sensibilities. It wasn’t like he was a real client. Gil mentored her that first important year after she graduated from the university and helped her earn her private investigator’s license. Now he had asked for Candice’s help in a case he was working on, or rather, for a new client of his. How could she tell him no? Well, maybe she could’ve used the recent concussion she suffered from solving her last case as an excuse. But she didn’t—she couldn’t. Gil meant too much to her. He was more than a friend. She loved him like he was her own dad.

Candice had a little heads-up that his case was about two strangled women, which prompted her Internet search on any reports that she’d missed since her hospital stay. How Gil was involved with them, she wouldn’t be sure until they could talk in person. Then, after their interview, she would call her boyfriend, Alex Delaney, a totally hot Phoenix cop who was recently promoted to detective, for a police report, which would help her to get a good sense of what Gil wanted from her that he didn’t feel comfortable in doing himself. Gil had been a private detective for almost twenty years, and his experience out-classed Candice’s in every way. Her curiosity about his client grew, but for some reason, so did her dread.

She’s dead! Lisa Ann Shyer said, her soft voice warbling with those two short words.

Candice sat on the edge of Gil Roscoe’s metal office desk, staring at a pretty blonde woman, while Liz Guerrero, Candice’s young apprentice, stood ready to take notes. Lisa Ann and Gil sat next to each other on the soft leather sofa tucked into the corner of the large room, holding hands. Candice wasn’t stupid or naïve. The woman didn’t appear to be just a client. Gil’s graying brows had pinched together tight enough to form grooves between his eyes. His emotions were bared for her to see.

For a girlfriend, she wasn’t what Candice would’ve expected for Gil. For some reason she thought she’d be younger, not someone who could be as old as her dead mother. Fifty-something Lisa Ann Shyer’s shoulder-length blonde hair was curled up away from her lightly made-up face, and she had an hourglass figure.

Lisa Ann’s teary-eyed statement sounded sincere. So why did Candice doubt her emotions? Something just felt off.

Now I’m afraid I’ll be next, Lisa Ann said, grasping Gil’s hand tighter. It’s been over a week since she was taken.

Candice slid back farther on the desk’s cool surface, staring at their embrace.

You’re being stalked? Liz asked, sweeping her long, dark hair over her shoulder. She poised a pen over the stenographer’s notebook.

Liz took college classes during the day and worked for Candice in the evenings—when she wasn’t on a date with Daryl Vanderguard, a young man who was hired with the Scottsdale police department only last week. If Candice had her way, her intern would have her private investigator’s license by the time she graduated, and Candice would have a full partner to help share the responsibilities.

No, she doesn’t mean she’s being stalked, Gil said, sliding his arm around her shoulder. Lisa Ann’s afraid. Her friend was killed much like another woman two weeks ago, and now she’s afraid of going out without being in danger.

Something didn’t sit right with, well, with everything about Lisa Ann and Gil. He was more than just a colleague to Candice. Her dad died nineteen years ago—killed in the line of duty as a San Diego police officer—by the same gunmen who killed her mother three minutes earlier. Raised by only her grandfather in Phoenix until he died when she was seventeen, Gil had been the one steady shoulder Candice had leaned against. Seeing a stranger taking up that space on his shoulder bothered her more than it probably should. He deserved to be happy, as happy as she was with Alex, but an untenable anxiousness brewed in the bottom of her stomach while watching them.

Candice let her eyes land on Lisa Ann, who had tears wetting her lashes. So, what do you want from me? It was a simple question, one that Gil should’ve answered when he called her early this morning.

I want you to find out who killed my friend, she said, glancing at Gil, and stop him from coming after me.

Why not just get Mr. Roscoe to find him? Liz asked, scribbling in her notepad.

Good question—one that Candice would’ve asked if she hadn’t. Liz was smart enough to know Gil’s reputation. Candice had bragged on him enough over the past few months since she had hired the college student.

I need someone to stay with me while you look for him.

Candice leaned forward and scrutinized Lisa Ann’s dark green eyes. "You keep saying him. Do you know who he is?"

Lisa Ann shook her head. I don’t know who did . . . that to her, she whispered in a teary voice.

Candice looked at Gil again as his girlfriend wept quietly in his arms. How did she die?

With his cheek resting against the top of Lisa Ann’s head, he said, According to Channel 3 News, Ashley Mayfield was found Saturday morning in Lakeview Village, strangled.

Ashley Mayfield? Liz wrote in the notebook.

Candice took in a deep breath, remembering the video. It must’ve been Ashley’s body they were reporting on. She gave Lisa Ann her attention. So this belongs to the Mesa Police Department. Candice sighed none too softly. She knew she’d be stepping on toes, but she had a connection with the top brass of the Phoenix Police Department. Captain Gleason had found Candice when she had run away from Grandfather that first, terrible year after her parents had been killed. The captain had watched her grow up. She was pretty sure she could get a copy of the police report through them. At least she hoped. Maybe Candice should pull in her favor from Detective Adams he still owed her.

Do you have anything else you can give me—any other information that might help us find a starting place? Candice asked.

Lisa Ann lifted her head, sniffing, with tears rolling down her cheeks. Her words were broken with little gasps when she said, The last time I saw Ash—Ashley, we went to Tony’s bar for a drink Friday night. I heard about her— she sniffed again— her death Monday on the morning news.

Gil shook his head. I wanted to wait to call you, Candy. I know you’re still recovering, but Lisa was really worried, and I—I need your help.

It’s okay. Candice stood up. I would’ve come over sooner, but I had to do some research before we talked. This works out better. It’s Monday and Alex is working. He’s meeting us at the Phoenix Police Department. The case belongs to the Mesa police, but I should be able to get a copy of the report faxed over to our department. I’ll see what I can find out.

I’ll meet you in the detective’s office, Alex said.

Candice looked over her shoulder before merging her red Beemer convertible into the next lane and said loud enough for her car’s microphone to pick up her voice, And you’ll have those reports I need?

Yes, sweetheart, I had permission to get them for you from Captain Gleason, but . . .

She waited for Alex to finish his sentence. He didn’t. She took the next corner and came to a slow stop at the red light. She had to drop Liz off at her house so she could drive home. She had classes on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays. She wouldn’t see Liz for the rest of the day.

What aren’t you saying? Candice’s heart flipped, and it wasn’t just because in a few minutes she’d be wrapping her arms around the best-looking cop in all of Phoenix, Tempe, Scottsdale, or Mesa combined, but she could tell he was holding something back from her. A secret?

We’ve got to talk when you get here.

Candice shook her head as she took the corner off Van Buren and headed down Seventh Avenue. Tell me what’s wrong.

After a noticeable pause, he finally said, I’ve been assigned to homicide.

Oh, Alex! The police department’s back parking lot came up too fast. Candice hit the brakes and her tires squealed as she took the corner. I thought you were investigating burglaries?

I was—for a whole week, until this morning, and . . . well, I’ll tell you when you get here.

I just got here. I’ll see you in a few minutes, okay?

Okay. I’ll see you soon.

Candice touched the little red phone icon on her car’s digital touch screen, disconnecting their line, and pulled into a parking spot. She noticed a sudden headache. The doctor had told her to expect them off and on for quite a while due to the serious concussion she received from her ordeal with a despicable detective weeks ago. The pain seemed to pound in rhythm with her pulse. Candice needed some ibuprofen. After a sip of orange soda to wash them down, she leaned her head against the headrest, relaxing and giving the ibuprofen a chance to take hold. It wasn’t so easy now that she knew Alex would be involved in her meddling. She didn’t want to make him mad when she interviewed witnesses—behind his back. Unless . . . Candice might be able to get Captain Gleason’s help—somehow. She’d go talk with him after she had a chance to read the two reports Alex had printed out for her.

Candice took a deep breath. I need to get this over with, she said to the smartest person in the car. And since she was alone—her!

Inside the lobby of the police department, there were more people than she’d expected. Candice knew the procedure, and she headed for the Plexiglas windows with the uniformed clerks behind them.

Hi! The older woman lifted her gaze from the computer screen to Candice. Her hands stilled but stayed hovering over the keyboard as if Candice’s appearance wouldn’t take more than a moment of her time. It wouldn’t. I’m Candice Shane. I’m here to meet Detective Alex Delaney.

The woman nodded. Yes, Miss Shane. Detective Delaney said to buzz you in. She pointed to her right. Go in that door, take a left and follow the signs to investigations. It’s on this floor.

Candice knew exactly where it was. She’d had a very unpleasant interaction with an escaped prisoner last time she came. Thank you. She rushed across the room as an annoying high-pitched buzzing sounded and shouldered through a heavy metal door before the woman could get tired of pushing the button. A few of the detectives had private offices, but there was one main room where several desks were set up along the walls, giving each detective some amount of privacy while they worked. As soon as Candice entered, she could see Alex wasn’t there. The room, in fact, was empty—most convenient, as it turned out.

Gil had taught her well. When Candice had an investigation going, she would use one wall in her office or dining room and pin up pictures of victims and suspects and, as in her last case, a huge map of Phoenix that she used to plot out related arson fires. Candice thought that technique was unique. Evidently it wasn’t. Someone in this office was using the same practice, except instead of marking location of arson fires, they had pictures of three obviously dead women. One must be Ashley—but which one?

Candice stepped closer since there wasn’t anyone to tell her she couldn’t.

Why didn’t Gil say two other women had been killed instead of just one? A sudden chill sprinted down her spine as she studied the pictures closer. He must not have known about them.

The photographs were labeled and dated. The grouping of photos on the left had the same woman in them shot from different angles—from before she was moved out of dirty-looking, greenish water, and then after for a better shot of her, from her soaking wet dress shoes, all the way up to her pasty white face.

Candice touched the edge of the picture. Hmm. According to the notes in the margins, her name was Brenda Thompson. Her date of birth was April 12, 1970. She was found in Fountain Park pond, Town of Fountain Hills.

Candice studied the other pictures. How did they identity her? She didn’t see a purse. Candice was sure they’d have photographed one if they found any evidence like that. If it were her case, she would take a picture just to keep everything neat and orderly.

Stepping to the right, Candice studied the next grouping. The woman seemed about forty, but she had blonde hair, and she was attractive—before she was murdered. The photographer took just as many pictures of this victim as he had Brenda. Again, she was soaking wet. Candice found her name on the edge of the last picture, the one that was the close-up of her pretty face. Ashley Mayfield was found in Lakeview Village, near the boat ramp. That was in Mesa. She looked at the other pictures. No sign of a handbag. Lisa Ann had said she didn’t know about her being killed until after she’d heard about it on the news.

The third group of pictures was of a woman found in Papago Park’s stream Saturday morning—three days ago—and she wasn’t identified. There was just a first name written on the edge of the close-up of her face. No date of birth. Nothing else. How did they know her first name?

Candice gasped loudly when she saw the common item in all of the pictures, well, besides the fact that they all had been found in a body of water. They all had a scarf tied around their necks. Could they be the murder weapons? It would be too big of a coincidence they all wore the same type of paisley scarf the night they were killed.

What are you doing in here? a man’s voice shouted from behind her.

In surprise, Candice jumped and turned toward that obviously angry voice advancing on her. He had a gold badge clipped to his belt. A detective. Yeah, not much could get by her.

I’m meeting— Candice wasn’t able to say another word before he grabbed her wrist and started hauling her toward the hallway door. She did not like that—at all. Considering Candice was one step away from her black belt in Taekwondo, she didn’t have to try very hard to break free from his grip. She swung her arm back far enough so his grip loosened, and she pulled away with a yank. Her other hand, balled in a fist, might’ve made slight contact with his ribs during the process. Either way, she slid far enough away from the angry detective, he couldn’t touch her again.

What’s going on in here? Alex asked as he rushed into the office. Daniel, what happened?

Ah, his name was Daniel.

Captain Gleason came into the office behind Alex. Now probably wouldn’t be the best time to ask for a favor since she just assaulted one of his detectives.

Candice— Gleason asked, are you okay?

He asked her if she was okay when his detective was pressing one hand to his ribs while his face grew redder by the second?

Alex hurried over to her.

Candice?

I’m fine— she told him. He lifted her chin up with his hand and stared into her eyes. Okay, so I have a headache. He continued to stare with his dark brows pushed together. And my hand hurts. She’d had a residual ache since she’d burned two of her fingers.

Daniel snorted a deep laugh. It should hurt, he said, leaning his hip down on the edge of the nearest desk. She’s dangerous.

Alex glanced between Daniel and her with his brows lifted up higher on his forehead. He asked a question without ever uttering a word. But Candice knew her Miranda Rights. She stayed quiet.

Gleason walked over to his injured detective and relaxed against the same desk, folding his arms across his chest. I guess I should’ve warned you about Candice, Daniel, but I didn’t think she’d get here first. He looked pointedly at her. I didn’t expect her to be coming in here and beating up on my detectives.

Candice took in a breath to try to defend herself, but Daniel huffed. Seemed he might’ve been a little offended by his captain’s inference.

She didn’t— Daniel started to say before Candice cut him off.

I didn’t mean to hurt Detective Daniel— she said, since she didn’t know his last name, and it didn’t seem like he was willing to tell her— but I was invited here, and he was throwing me out!

Throwing you out? Alex asked. How?

She shrugged her right shoulder, and Alex’s gaze dropped down to her forearm. Daniel’s fingers had produced red marks on her bare skin. Alex slowly shook his head when he gave his attention to the other detective. Grabbing my girlfriend is never a good idea.

So I found out, Daniel muttered softly, stretching his shoulders back. I’m sorry, Miss, um, Miss Candice— She smiled without an ounce of warmth in it. But you didn’t say you had permission to be here, memorizing our victim’s profile board.

You didn’t give me the chance to say anything, Detective Daniel. And I— Candice looked up at Alex, and then at Captain Gleason before staring at him again. I didn’t technically have permission to look at the board. I hope you know you have an organized serial killer on your hands.

Chapter 2

O RGANIZED? DANIEL STOOD up, paced to the door and slammed it shut. How would you know? He strode across the room, heading for the photos on the wall. I was gone for five minutes, and in that short time, you came in here and solved our murders for us? Ridiculous.

Candice felt Alex stand up straighter. Before he could come to her defense, she thought she’d do it instead. It doesn’t take a seasoned FBI profiler to see the evidence in these pictures, detective.

Detective Daniel turned and trained his steel-gray eyes at her. He looked like he was closing in on fifty years old, maybe. His short, sandy brown hair had a patch of light gray streaked above the left temple as if deliberately painted into place by a crazed hairdresser. He had a thicker waist than Alex, possibly due to being thoroughly entrenched in the more sedate detective’s routine. Not that Detective Daniel wasn’t good-looking—he was, for someone of his age, but just because he sat behind a desk most of the time didn’t mean he shouldn’t exercise and eat right. Would Alex look like that after a while?

Candice motioned to the group of pictures on the left. You have Anglo women, all close to the same age, dressed like they went out to a party, and they apparently had been strangled before being dumped in a body of water in different jurisdictions, making it difficult to investigate. She looked over at the quiet detective. How long between each murder?

The muscles in Daniel’s jaw flexed instead of answering her.

Captain Gleason answered, A week.

Candice nodded. He had a short cooling down period. He is organized, has above average intelligence, and has strong social and personal skills or he wouldn’t be able to get these women to go with him. He probably works for a small company. She blew out a breath and let her thoughts go back to her profiling class. Your killer is a white male between twenty-five and forty-five years old.

She motioned to the photograph of Lakeview Village boat ramp. "Ashley Mayfield was placed in enough water to cover her body. He was trying to make sure any surface forensic evidence would be washed away. And to make him more clinical, he’s using the same paisley