Dirty Dozen: A JJ Graves Mystery, #12

By Liliana Hart

In the twelfth installment of the J.J. Graves mystery series from New York Times Bestselling Author Liliana Hart, winter has moved into Bloody Mary with a vengeance. But so has a killer who's bringing a modern flair in his imitation of Jack the Ripper. It's up to J.J. and her husband, Sheriff Jack Lawson, to hunt the hunter and bring justice to the victims.

• Language: English
• Publisher: 7th Press
• Release date: Dec 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9781951129712

Liliana Hart

Liliana Hart is a New York Times, USA TODAY, and Publishers Weekly bestselling author of more than forty titles. Since self-publishing in June of 2011, Liliana has sold more than four million ebooks. She’s appeared at #1 on lists all over the world and all three of her series have appeared on the New York Times list. Liliana is a sought after speaker and she’s given keynote speeches and self-publishing workshops from California to New York to London. When Liliana and her husband aren’t spending time with their children, they’re living the life of nomads, traveling wherever interests them most.

Book preview

Prologue

The killer watched intently from the balcony as the curtain fell and the crowd erupted into applause. It had been a mediocre performance at best, but for local theater he supposed it could have been much worse.

The Curtain Call was doing a five-day production of the great Oscar Wilde play Lady Windemere’s Fan. He could only assume that Mr. Wilde would have taken his leave at intermission to go enjoy a nice port and cigar instead of suffering through the occasional botched line and flat attempts at humor.

But Juliet had been perfect. Juliet—even her name was perfect. Like a tragic heroine in a long-ago play, she played the role of Lady Windemere brilliantly.

The velvet curtains opened again and the cast came to the stage to take their final bows. He stood with the rest of the crowd, his white gloved hand grasped tightly around the gold lion’s head on the end of his walking stick. He put on his top hat and adjusted the burgundy satin scarf around his neck, and then he pulled the watch from the small pocket in his vest to check the time. Timing was everything.

He was dressed like the others in the room, though there had been a few who’d ruined the scene by not dressing in appropriate attire. The Victorian festival in Newcastle was always a community favorite. People came from all over Virginia to attend, and they dressed in period pieces of the times. Restaurants changed their menus and there were concerts and events each night.

He’d been waiting for this week for months. This was the beginning of it all. Tonight the first domino would fall, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop them. His planning and execution would be flawless. Perfection was everything.

The excitement rose up in him so swiftly he had to catch his balance so he didn’t fall back into his seat. He locked his knees and stared at Juliet, willing her to look in his direction. He wondered if she saw his face, if she’d know he would be her end.

He was enraptured by her beauty—the translucent quality to her skin, the lush blond curls, and the wide eyes that shone emotion all the way to the back row of the theater. There was an innocence there, even though he knew it was all an illusion. She was anything but innocent.

Just like Lady Windemere, Juliet had become dissatisfied with her husband and searched for a lover elsewhere. She was a whore. And those who sold their bodies had to be punished.

He excused himself past the patrons sitting to his left and exited the row, making his way swiftly down the stairs and out the side door before things became too crowded and he couldn’t get into position. He’d watched and searched and planned for months, until the scene played out in his head like a movie.

He checked the watch in his pocket again. The delivery would be arriving soon. He hastened his steps, using his cane to move quickly past the people headed in the opposite direction. They were moving like a school of fish toward the park to watch the fireworks. No one would know what was happening behind the theater. No one would hear her screams. And if everything went as scheduled, no one would find her body until morning. By that time, he’d be preparing for the next one.

The night air slapped cold against his face, but he hardly felt it as he took his position behind the dumpsters in the alley. He removed the knife from inside his jacket, mesmerized as the steel glinted beneath the single streetlight at the corner of the building.

The first firework exploded and the sky lit with red and blue. The people in the park cheered. But he only had eyes for the back door of the theater. He was all alone.

He’d pushed one of the dumpsters closer to the door the night before so he could be within striking distance, and he was glad he’d made the adjustment. Nervous excitement coursed through his veins, and he cursed himself for not doing a run-through in another place—to have the experience of feeling flesh give beneath the knife and the hot rush of blood over his hands. What he’d done to Mother hadn’t counted. He’d debated with himself over and over again. Practice made perfect. Mother always told him that.

But in the end he’d decided he didn’t need a dress rehearsal. There was something special about Juliet being his first. It was intimate. He’d always remember her because of that. His breath came in shallow pants and he couldn’t tell if the moisture on his face was from sweat or tears.

The theater door opened with a slam against the brick and Juliet came into view. There hadn’t been time to remove the lacy white confection she wore—the corset and bustle and petticoats—and her stage makeup was harsh under the yellow glow of the streetlight.

She cradled the pink roses he’d sent in her arms, and the note he’d written was clutched in her hand.

Peter! she called out. Where are you? I’m so glad you came! I thought you wouldn’t be able to make it.

The joy in her voice at the anticipation of seeing her lover sent a shiver down his spine. That joy was all the reminder he needed to move into action.

The blade slashed quickly across her throat, the blood hot and wet as it hit his cheek. He was disappointed that she hadn’t had time to scream. He would’ve liked to have heard it. But by then it was too late. The anger inside of him boiled and the knife became an instrument of rage.

Chapter One

Even in my half-conscious state, I felt the mattress dip beside me and I cracked my eyes open.

I noticed two things—it was still dark outside and Jack was holding a cup of coffee under my nose. That could only mean one thing.

My name is J.J. Graves and I’m the coroner for King George County, Virginia. I’m also the owner of the local funeral home, but that job rarely requires me to get out of bed before dawn. The hours before dawn were reserved for dock workers, nursing mothers, and killers. Since I didn’t know any dock workers or nursing mothers, I had to assume it was the third option that was about to ruin my day off.

What time is it? I asked, scooting to a sitting position against the headboard and taking the mug. Jack had given me the mug for my birthday, and it said, Coffee, Because Murder is Against the Law.

Just after four, Jack said.

He was already dressed in his uniform of jeans and a long-sleeve button-down khaki shirt that had King George County Sheriff’s Office embroidered over the left breast pocket. He smelled of soap, and I liked that he hadn’t shaved, so there was a bit of dark stubble on his face. His eyes were dark—almost black—and alert, which was one of the many things we didn’t have in common. Jack was a fantastic morning person, if there was such a thing.

It took me a little longer to acclimate to a new day. My five senses woke slowly—the scent of coffee and Jack’s soap—the feel of the sheets soft and warm pulled up to my chest—the sight of the rain that fell like mist through the trees outside our picture window—and the sound of the shower running on full blast in the bathroom. All that was left was the taste of heaven in the cup Jack had put in my hands. He always took good care of me.

I sometimes wondered if I’d ever get tired of the everyday details of marriage, but in my heart I couldn’t imagine waking up next to this man every day for the rest of my life and not appreciating the gift that he was.

Earth to Jaye, he said, his mouth quirked in a half smile.

Sorry, I said, blinking and taking another sip. The heat burned my tongue, but it was more important that the cobwebs cleared from my mind rather than be concerned about being able to taste anything the rest of the day.

I brought my hand up and touched his cheek, and then I rubbed my thumb across the scar that slashed his eyebrow—a scar I had put there when we were kids.

You’re so handsome, I said, and then I grinned at the uncomfortable look he gave me. So what happened? Who died?

His mouth quirked again, and I had a feeling I’d already missed the explanation, but he didn’t hold it over my head.

A call came into dispatch about half an hour ago, Jack said. A body found in Newcastle.

Ahh, Victorian week, I said. Bar fight? Active shooter?

Nope, Jack said. Single victim found in an alley behind the theater by a drunk guy who picked a bad place to use the bathroom.

Risky for the killer, I said. And the public urinater Newcastle is crowded this time of year. The theater is a heavily trafficked area.

Maybe not so risky, he said. The bars close late, but the drinking is heavy. People stumbling around with metal tankards of ale all dressed up in stupid costumes and making poor life decisions. They usually eventually end up in the park or back at their hotels. He gave a lopsided smile and said, Or other creative places.

Ahh, I said. Those were the good old days. But that still doesn’t explain why I’m drinking coffee strong enough to bring back the dead or why you’re stalling so my brain actually starts to function.

Oh, good, Jack said, slapping me lightly on the leg. You’re awake enough if you’re thinking that logically. Get out of bed. Shower is already running. Plank and Chen were first on scene and Plank said it was pretty grisly. They’ve secured the crime scene, but it’s an alley, and apparently our costumed witness lost a good bit of his alcohol after seeing the body.

Lovely, I said, taking Jack’s hand so he could help me to my feet, and then I shuffled into the bathroom. God, I love this job. The glamour and glitz is sometimes overwhelming. Not everyone gets to start their week with death and vomit.

Ooh, sarcasm. Jack looked into my almost-empty cup and said, Was there something in there besides coffee?

I’m just extra sassy today, I said. It’s like a bonus. And then I stripped and stepped into the shower. Give me five minutes.

See you downstairs, Jack said. I’ll put cream in your next cup. I’m not sure I’m up for a day of you being extra sassy.

I was out of the shower in five minutes, and it took me another five to pull on jeans and an old King George University sweatshirt that had a small mustard stain on the band from a wayward hot dog. I pulled a dark green watch cap over my head and laced up my heavy winter boots.

My favorite thing about watching crime shows on television was how put together everyone looked at a crime scene. The women wore heels and nice suits, nails were manicured, and no hair was out of place. I’d caught sight of myself a couple of times on the news, and I’d had an internal conversation about being a public figure and looking more presentable for public perception. Jack always looked camera ready, but that was genetics more than the time he actually spent on his appearance.

But for my part, it was a short-lived war. Crime scenes were never camera ready or picture perfect. They could be messy. And sometimes the weather added to the mess—rain, snow, cold, extreme heat—it all played a part. When you’d had the experience of walking onto a crime scene with an umbrella to keep brain matter from dripping on your head from a murder/suicide, then you stopped caring about outward appearances and moved toward the practical. And I was very practical.

It was February, and Virginia in February tended to be wet most days—either from rain or snow or a combination thereof—and it was cold. As soon as Jack mentioned that a body had been found in an alley my mind went to all the probabilities of what kind of shape the victim would be in. Not to mention all the generally disgusting things that could be found in an alley that might contaminate my scene. Rats wreaked havoc on dead bodies.

I bounded down the stairs and Jack was waiting for me by the front door with my heavy waterproof jacket and a to-go cup of coffee. I grabbed my medical bag off the entry table, made sure my camera was inside, and then Jack took it from me and hefted it over his shoulder.

Wait a second, I said. What about Doug?

I left him a note on the refrigerator, Jack said. That way I know he’ll get it.

It had been five days since Doug Carver had moved in with us. To say that it had been an adjustment was an understatement, but we still felt like it was the right decision to make. Doug was the nephew of Jack’s best friend, Ben, and Doug wasn’t a typical teenager. He was off-the-charts smart, to the point that he’d been under house arrest for a good part of his teenage years for hacking into high-security government institutions.

Carver had been the one to turn Doug in, and oddly enough, Doug didn’t hold it against him. They were peas in a pod, and Carver had told Doug in no uncertain terms that their gifts were to be used for good and not for evil.

Doug had agreed, but he’d still had to wear an ankle bracelet and do his schoolwork online. He was sixteen and finishing up a couple of college degrees, and his mom had done everything she could for him. He needed something to keep him busy and out of trouble, and Jack and I could provide that for him by letting him help with the occasional case.

So he’d packed his bags and we’d redecorated a suite on the second floor that he could call his own. Jack came from money, and he’d never been shy about spending it, but if we ever went broke I was pretty sure it would be because Doug ate us out of our budget.

Good thinking, I said. You don’t think we should wake him up for class or anything?

Class is his responsibility, Jack said. He’ll be fine.

Jack locked the front door behind us, and then we walked under the covered porch to the portico where his Tahoe and my Suburban were parked.

How long has it been raining? I asked.

A drizzle fell in the darkness, but it was the kind of rain that soaked everything and everyone through to the skin and seeped into the bones along with the cold. I’d take the fat drops from a thunderstorm any day of the week over this crap.

I checked the weather reports and it looks like the rain started just after two. And it’s not supposed to let up anytime soon.

I went to open the door of the Suburban and realized it was already running and the heat was on full blast. Jack had come out and started things up while I’d been getting ready. I grabbed the lapels of his jacket and pulled him in for a kiss. Jack was great about the little things, and I hoped I never took them for granted.

Thank you, I said, taking my bag from him and tossing it onto the passenger seat. You’re the best.

You can pay me back later, he said, giving me a grin that had my blood heating beneath my skin. I’ll follow you to the scene.

Newcastle was a half-hour drive from our house, and it was still dark by the time we pulled up to the scene.

Newcastle was one of the four towns that made up King George County—along with Bloody Mary, King George Proper, and Nottingham—and just like all the towns in King George, it had its own vibe and quirks. Newcastle had an artistic, bohemian feel that the rest of the county didn’t have. There were as many yoga studios as coffee shops, and the demographics leaned toward up-and-coming late-twenty to early thirty-somethings who still hadn’t figured out if they wanted a career or to lose themselves in their creativity and starve for a living.

The buildings downtown were historic, and even the new apartments they’d recently built around the park had an old-world feel to them. The streets were cobbled and gas streetlamps and iron benches were placed strategically along the sidewalks.

But during the Victorian festival, they took things to another level. The city council did their best to make sure everything was authentic as it could be, even going so far as to not allow vehicles in the cordoned-off streets. Only foot traffic or horse and buggy were allowed. Jack and I drove around the barricades and made our way down the cobbled streets until the Curtain Call came into view.

It was the corner building facing the park, and it looked like a white birthday cake with all the ornamental carvings and arches and columns a baroque architect could possibly add. There was a second-floor balcony that looked out over the park and the streets, and the theater would host a cocktail hour for donors before each show. Anyone who was anyone wanted to be seen on that balcony. When I was a kid there’d been a fistfight between two of the wealthier men in town, and one of them had fallen over the rail and cracked his head on the sidewalk. People still talked about it as if it had happened recently.

There were a couple of black-and-whites with lights flashing parked near the entrance of the alley, and there were two ambulances several yards away near the park entrance. I pulled in beside Jack and turned off the car, and then grabbed my bag and hopped out. The stocking cap I wore would be soaked through before long, so I pulled the hood of my jacket up for the time being. The cold was bitter, and I felt the warmth from Jack’s good deeds of the morning start to fade away.

Jack left his lights flashing and then met me at the back of the Suburban to help pull out the gurney. There had been many days after I’d inherited the funeral home where I’d