The Bridegroom Murder: The Woodhead & Becker Mysteries, #2

By Paul Austin Ardoin

This book was originally published under the title EVERYTHING'S GONE GREEN in March 2022.

 

A con man's death two weeks before his wedding holds only one clue—a peculiar green discoloration in his mouth.

 

Federal investigators Bernadette Becker and Dr. Kep Woodhead must join forces again to untangle the baffling evidence.

 

Only they find their search for justice muddied by an old crime and complicated by a local cop with his own agenda.

 

When the victim's fiancée is arrested for the murder, Becker and Woodhead are positive she's innocent, just another complication in an already twisted game of cat and mouse with a murderer.

 

Tracking down the strange green substance leads them to a slaughterhouse with a dark secret, a stalker fresh out of prison, and a locked room in the Oregon high desert.

 

All hold dangerous secrets…

But does one hold the truth Becker and Woodhead seek, or will the killer strike again?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pax Ardsen
• Release date: Mar 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781949082364

Paul Austin Ardoin

Paul Austin Ardoin is the USA TODAY bestselling author of The Fenway Stevenson Mysteries and the Murders of Substance series. He has published fiction and essays in the anthologies The Paths We Tread, 12 Shots, Bottomfish, and Sweet Fancy Moses, and articles about computer security in California Computer News and European Communications. A California native, Paul holds a B.A. in creative writing from the University of California, Santa Barbara. When he's not writing novels or saving the world through better network security, Paul plays keyboards in a dance rock band. He lives in the Sacramento area with his wife, two teenagers, and a menagerie of animals.

Book preview

Chapter One

Bernadette zeroed in on the pulled pork barbecue plate on the Ready n’ Rarin’ menu. Coleslaw and fries—the baked beans would be too messy. She took another sip of her margarita and glanced past the host stand at the door again. Maura was late.

The server appeared, wearing a blue gingham shirt and a wide smile. Still waitin’? Even in the northern Virginia suburbs, the restaurant had managed to snag someone with a heavy southern accent. Refill on your margarita?

Bernadette considered for a moment. She’d taken an Uber here anyway, and Sophie was spending her last day as a seventh grader at her dad’s house.

Besides, Bernadette and Maura hadn’t had a real girls’ night since Maura had been promoted, and Bernadette missed it. Maura could catch up—it served her right for being late.

Definitely another margarita, Bernadette said, and maybe an order of the fried pickles, too. She’d be feeling the effects of all that grease tomorrow morning, but the food—especially the pulled pork—would be worth it.

You got it.

A Black woman in an elegant short-sleeved tan wrap dress came through the door and shook her long tresses as if she were on a movie set. Bernadette felt a twinge of jealousy—her own dark gray pantsuit wasn’t her idea of stylish, and her hair was in a ponytail—but she pushed herself up in the booth and raised her arm. Maura glanced at her, smiled, and walked over, her high heels clicking on the concrete floor.

Sorry I’m late.

Bernadette waved her hand dismissively as Maura sat. You’ll have to catch up. I’m already a margarita ahead of you. Bernadette briefly imagined the barbecue sauce that would coat her entire outfit at the end of the meal if she wore a dress like that. Somehow, Maura would finish her meal and look radiant without a drop of sauce on her ensemble. I ordered fried pickles.

You remembered they’re my favorite. Maura smiled.

Bernadette tilted her head back and forth noncommittally, turning the empty margarita glass by the base.

How’s Sophie?

Fine, Bernadette replied. It was rough there for a bit when Barlow left, but I think we’re past the worst of it.

Maura nodded, her smile faltering.

Bernadette reached for her drink. Everything okay?

Maura paused.

Bernadette’s heart sank. What had she done now?

I didn’t want to bring this up tonight. Maura folded her hands and placed them on the table. We haven’t had a real night out in—I don’t know how long.

Since your promotion.

Maura blinked. Yes, I guess it’s been a while.

Bernadette pressed her lips together. Of course it would never be as easy as it had been when they were agents together. Maura was the boss now, and that meant she was responsible for her team. Let’s get it out of the way, Bernadette said, like ripping off a Band-Aid. Then we can enjoy the rest of the night.

Maura repositioned herself in her chair, then looked directly into Bernadette’s eyes. You went back to Milwaukee six weeks ago.

Bernadette hesitated—just for a moment, but she was positive Maura caught it. Still, she casually draped her elbow over the back of her chair. Sure. I’ve told you about Officer Chesapeake.

Right.

We’re not working on the same case anymore. I checked the CSAB employee handbook. There’s no conflict of interest if I date him. You don’t frown on long-distance relationships, do you?

That’s not the problem.

Bernadette closed her eyes, and her head sank. Maura knew.

I wasn’t sure how to bring this up—

This is about my visit to Taycheedah Correctional to see Annika Nakrivo. Bernadette opened her eyes and looked at the menu in front of her.

It is. Maura tilted her head. You know that case is closed.

Officially, yes. Bernadette bit her lip. But we still don’t know who hired Annika. If it was someone at Parr Medical, don’t you want to know?

Maura leaned forward slightly, the checkered tablecloth ruffling underneath her arm. She killed three people, Bernadette. Not to mention my—one of our colleagues. For a moment, Maura’s façade slipped, and her voice hitched. We aren’t negotiating with her.

Bernadette furrowed her brow. Is that what you think I’m doing? Negotiating with a murderer?

If you’re not negotiating—

I want more information about her sister. Her name. The last address Annika had for her. We need something else to go on. Bernadette steepled her hands together. She implied that her sister was in danger. That she was being held against her will. I thought if we could find her sister’s kidnappers, that would lead us to the people who hired Annika.

"We won’t find her sister. Maura placed her hands flat on the table. You know I already talked with the FBI after your first meeting with her in jail. No one knows if she even has a sister, but the profiler says it’s unlikely. Criminals who are facing murder charges lie all the time. You’ve got enough experience with that."

But—

I know you want answers. I want answers too. But we lost our chance. Maura pushed herself back just an inch or two. You were in the room with her after her arrest. You could have gotten her sister’s name, her last known location, all of it.

If you’ll remember, I was on heavy painkillers, Bernadette said. My shoulder was throbbing, I wasn’t thinking clearly, and you and Dr. Woodhead were the ones insisting that I go meet with her before—

Maura held up her hand. You’re right. You’re absolutely right. It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have implied it was. It’s just—Annika didn’t want to talk to anyone back then, and we thought you’d be able to get her to open up a little. I might be frustrated, but we cannot spend any more time or resources on this.

Bernadette took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "That’s not exactly what the FBI said, Maura. They said they couldn’t—wouldn’t—do anything without more information. Evidence, names, something for them to go on."

And that’s why we closed the case.

Bernadette leaned forward, her elbows on the table. I know you care about catching the people who paid Annika. Maybe more than I do. She looked Maura in the eyes, gently, with as much empathy as she could muster.

Maura blinked.

"You want them to face justice, don’t you?"

What I want is irrelevant, Maura said, struggling to keep her voice even. I’m managing our unit now, and I’m responsible for resource allocation.

I’m not saying you have to put millions of dollars—

"The trail is cold, Bernadette. I can’t justify any resources for finding Nakrivo’s sister—if she even has one. And I can’t have you going rogue. We caught the murderer, so let’s count it as a win and move on."

Annika’s just a hired gun—a smart hired gun with her own agenda, maybe, but she’s not the big fish here.

Maura placed her hand on the paper napkin and started to tear the corner distractedly. "I know we were best friends before my promotion—we are best friends. But I don’t think you’re hearing me. This is against CSAB protocol. You could get written up—or worse."

We know she was paid, Bernadette insisted. Technically, I’m doing nothing more than following up on the case. We’ve done that with closed cases before—we’ve found missing witnesses, or lab work has come back after a confession. This is no different.

I think management might disagree—

And I bought my own plane ticket and everything. No CSAB resources were used.

Except your time.

I wasn’t on the clock.

Maura said nothing for a moment, staring at her fork and spinning it on the table. Then she raised her eyes. Did you get anything? The name of the people who hired her? The name of her sister, at least?

Bernadette shook her head. Annika stonewalled me. I could tell as soon as she walked in the room she wouldn’t talk—eyes darting around like she was looking for hidden microphones in the walls. Someone got to her. She won’t give us any information.

Have you told Dr. Woodhead?

Bernadette furrowed her brow. Kep? No—why would I tell him?

Because— Maura leaned forward and lowered her voice. Because you and Dr. Woodhead make a good team, and you both get insights the other doesn’t. I thought maybe he had found something.

Found something? Like what?

Like—I don’t know—maybe his superpowered nose had picked up the missing sister’s perfume in Annika’s dorm room, and that’s what set you off in this direction.

Bernadette laced her fingers together. No. This is all me. Neither Dr. Woodhead nor his superschnozz are aware of anything I’m doing.

Maura tilted her head. And what does Lamar think about you continuing this investigation? Driving an hour and a half to the middle of nowhere?

Bernadette hesitated. Well—I haven’t exactly told him.

Maura raised her eyebrows. You’ve only been dating for two months, and you’re already keeping secrets? A smile touched the corners of her mouth. Admit it, Bernadette. You know you’re way out on a limb. You didn’t tell Lamar—or Kep, or me, for that matter—because you didn’t want to get us in trouble if this bit you on the ass.

I guess. Bernadette wasn’t sure she’d thought it through that much, but Maura’s reasoning sounded good. Almost noble. I didn’t want to say anything to anyone until I had something concrete, anyway.

I can understand that. I don’t want word of this getting around, either. Maura stared at Bernadette’s drink.

Do you want me to tell the team?

Not yet. Maura smiled sweetly. You and Lamar are headed to Miami for your vacation next week.

Well, yeah. I figured we’d get some extra time in the sun if we flew back on Memorial Day.

Maura leaned forward. First full week off in a couple of years for you. I was surprised you were taking time off. Then I remembered that Miami was the last place that Annika Nakrivo lived before she turned up in Milwaukee.

Uh—yeah.

Maura folded her hands on top of the menu. In a city where you know she worked for an escort service.

Bernadette felt the color rise to her cheeks. Okay, yes, I admit it. I have a lead on a woman who Annika worked with at the escort service. I heard they were friends. I figure she might have information on Annika’s family.

The server arrived with a margarita and a basket of fried pickles, set them in front of Bernadette, and turned to Maura. Can I get you anything?

Tequila, Maura said. Whatever reposado you have that won’t break the bank.

Comin’ right up, darlin’.

You should know, Bernadette said, her eyes cast down, I have a friend who works in Missing Persons at the FBI. I’ve asked for a favor.

Maura closed her eyes, then chuckled. So much for discretion.

Joanna will be discreet. We used to work cases together when I was in the money laundering unit.

Maura leaned forward. Okay, Bernadette, I’ll make you a deal. You’re right: I want to catch the bastards who killed Curtis just as much as you do. But if you want to continue your secret investigation, you have to let me know what’s going on.

Bernadette felt a weight lift off her shoulders. Understood.

"And your FBI contact better not get us into trouble. As soon as you get concrete evidence—and by that, I mean anything that will make the FBI reopen this case—you hand it over to me."

Bernadette picked up her drink and nodded solemnly. I promise.

Maura speared a fried pickle with her fork and watched the steam come off it, her eyes sparkling. I swear, they always make these things so hot you burn your mouth. She took a bite.

The studio apartment smelled of whisky and sour sweat. A pile of clothes, many of them cheap-looking satin and lace in garish colors, teetered on a chair next to the dresser. Two highball glasses atop the nightstand held balled-up paper napkins and fast-food wrappers.

The woman sitting on the bed in front of Bernadette wore a tattered pink robe clenched tight around her skinny frame. The robe was too heavy for the stifling Miami morning. Bernadette shut the door.

I thought you were someone else, the woman said. Her long black hair was tangled, full of split ends. Round features and a small nose matched the photo of Monica Jiménez that Bernadette had gotten from the Florida HSMV. She hadn’t removed all her makeup from the night before; it was obvious Monica’s evening had been a busy one.

Bernadette showed Monica her badge. I’m an investigator with the Controlled Substance Analysis Bureau, she said.

The woman’s eyes flickered to the top drawer of her dresser.

Bernadette ignored the tell. I’m looking for a missing person, she continued, crouching so she was at eye level with the woman. You’re Monica Jiménez?

The woman’s eyes focused on Bernadette’s face, studying it. You don’t have a warrant.

I’m only here for information, Monica. Bernadette took a photo of Annika Nakrivo from her purse. The woman in the picture looked young: long, blonde, layered hair, smoky eye shadow, a square jaw and thin lips, slightly parted. A dark beauty mark, perfectly circular, perched above her upper lip.

Her? I haven’t seen her for months. Monica squinted at the photo. And she didn’t have that thing above her mouth when I knew her.

The website says her name is Verity Vivacious, Bernadette said. I want her real name. A drop of sweat formed at the back of Bernadette’s neck and dripped down between her shoulder blades. It felt disgusting, but she kept a calm look on her face as she stared at Monica from her crouch.

What’s in it for me? Monica asked.

Bernadette sighed. There’s a Pancake Palace next door, isn’t there? You want some breakfast? She took two twenty-dollar bills out of her purse.

Monica stared at the money. I knew her as Annie. But I saw a name on her credit card once. She rubbed her temples. You have any Advil?

Bernadette dug in her purse and found a small bottle of migraine caplets. This’ll help. She got up from her crouch, shook two pills into her hand, and walked over to the kitchenette. She found a plastic cup in a cupboard.

So—a name? Bernadette filled the cup from the faucet, then walked to the bed, handing Monica the water and the pills.

Monica took the pills and swallowed, glaring at Bernadette. For a moment, Bernadette thought Monica wouldn’t say any more. Then Monica pursed her lips. Anja Kerovic. Monica said the first name with a hard j sound, not a y, and the last name with a k sound at the end, but Bernadette’s ears perked up.

Did you say Kerovic? Bernadette said, ending the name with a ch sound.

Vick, Monica said. Kero-vick. V-I-C. No H at the end.

Bernadette nodded grimly, not bothering to correct her. The name was familiar—where had she heard it before? An old case, she was sure of it.

She held out one of the twenty-dollar bills.

Monica snatched it. I thought I was supposed to get both of them.

You will, Bernadette said. She pulled another photograph from her purse: two girls, one in her mid- to late teens, the other about nine or ten years old.

Monica shrugged. I might’ve seen that photo before. Once in Annie’s apartment. I just figured that was her kid sister. She folded the twenty-dollar bill carefully into fourths.

What’s her sister’s name? Bernadette held the other twenty in front of herself, close to her clavicle.

Monica squinted. Um—I think she mentioned it. I don’t know if I remember. Seemed like they were maybe seven years apart.

That would make the baby sister about twenty-one.

It was kind of a long name, Monica said, squeezing her eyes shut. Three or four syllables. And it began with an M. I remember that because my name begins with M too.

Bernadette took the cup and walked to the kitchenette’s crowded counter. Some of the plates had sauce and noodles dried onto them. Monica hadn’t consumed all her calories via alcohol; that was a good sign. She turned back to Monica, trying to appear calm, unpressured. She’d gotten Annika’s real name—or at least something that sounded real. It was the biggest lead she’d had in over two months since Annika had met with Bernadette in the prison.

"They’ve got my sister."

Bernadette shook off the memory and stood next to the dresser, glancing around the room. The smells in the small apartment, along with the humidity and the heat, would have driven Dr. Woodhead crazy.

It sounded fancy, Monica mused. "Kind of like Anja sounds fancy. Not like Mary or Michelle, you know? She shook her head. Sorry, it’s not coming to me right now."

Bernadette sighed. Was Annika—Annie—from around here?

Up north, Monica said. Like Jacksonville or Tallahassee. Still in Florida.

Bernadette pulled her phone out of her purse and launched a web browser. A search for Kerovic resulted in a server timeout. Monica scratched her scalp nervously.

So—that other twenty?

Bernadette tried reloading, but to no avail. Anything else you can tell me about her?

Monica looked down at the bedspread. Bernadette found the teal palm trees in the fabric’s pattern soothing but surreal.

What is it?

I just— Monica rubbed her temples.

Still have the headache?

I think I screwed up, Monica said. Annie came to me about a week before she left.

When was this?

In October. She had this weird banjo-looking thing with a bow. It had this cool carved horse head at the top of the—you know, where you tighten the strings. Or string, I guess, because this just had one string. Monica wrapped her arms around herself. She gave me a hundred bucks to keep it safe for her.

Bernadette nodded. She’d seen instruments like that before, once in a money laundering case with a Serbian organized crime syndicate. Maybe that was where she’d come across the name Kerovic. But the name of the item escaped her. Where is it now?

Monica hesitated. I—I got really sick right around Christmas, she said. I couldn’t work for a couple of weeks. I—I sold it.

You sold it?

There’s a world music store by the airport. Monica swallowed hard. One of the guys who runs the place is—is a customer. He—he felt bad, I guess. Gave me two hundred for it. She cast her eyes down. He said I could buy it back, but I don’t really have the money. Plus, I haven’t heard from Annie since she left.

Bernadette peppered her with a few other questions, but it was clear that Monica had nothing else to add.

At nine in the morning, the already-sweltering heat made her back sticky with sweat by the time she made it down the stairs and through the rundown apartment complex to the street. She got in the rented convertible, top up, parked at the curb; in this neighborhood, she considered herself lucky the car was still here. She turned on the engine and blasted the air conditioner on high, took her phone out of her purse, and opened the notes app.

Nakrivo’s real name: Anja Kerovic – sister’s name starts with M

She put her phone in the center console and drove to meet Lamar for breakfast.

Chapter Two

She opened the hotel room door carefully, and the morning sunlight streamed through the curtains. Lamar was in the shower. The king bed occupied most of the small room. The bedspread covered in bright pink flamingos loudly declared Miami in all its glory.

Bernadette kicked off her shoes, sat on the bed, and flicked on the television, mindlessly changing the channels. The shower turned off, and a few moments later, the bathroom door swung open, and Lamar poked his head out.

Hey, he said, a towel around his waist. I thought that was you. So how was the farmer’s market?

It took me a while to find it. Bernadette shrugged, looking Lamar in the eyes even though she felt like staring at the floor. By the time I got there, everything had been picked through. Besides, we don’t have a refrigerator in the room. I don’t know what I was thinking even suggesting it. Be glad you didn’t come.

As long as we get to Calle Ocho tonight, I’ll be happy. Lamar stepped into the room, and Bernadette couldn’t help but admire his upper body. When she had first met him in the reception area in the Fifth District Police Station in Milwaukee, she’d been struck by his kind eyes. His uniform and cold-weather gear had concealed his sculpted abs and biceps. Bernadette enjoyed working out with Lamar, and they’d spent most mornings of their Miami vacation pushing each other to run farther, lift more, do another set of reps. It was the most fun she’d had in years; Barlow had never wanted to work out with her.

A ping in Bernadette’s head: it was Sunday, and she needed to call Sophie. She looked at the clock on the bedside table.

We’ve got another half hour before our brunch reservations, Lamar said, taking out a pair of loose-fitting linen trousers from the closet. Bernadette glanced over; his lower body wasn’t bad either. And it’s only a block away.

It’s not that, Bernadette said, bringing her thumbnail up to her mouth before pulling it away. I’m supposed to call Sophie today.

Are you worried about something?

The last time I called Sophie’s cell phone, Lisa picked up. I just don’t want to deal with her today.

Lamar nodded, pulling on a short-sleeved cream-colored Oxford shirt. Yeah, but having to talk with your ex’s new girlfriend is still worth talking to your daughter, right?

"New live-in girlfriend. And she used to be my trainer."

Lamar nodded calmly, buttoning up his shirt.

Bernadette nodded. Yeah, you’re right. She leaned back against the headboard, a smirk on her face. So you’re finally ready for brunch?

They walked out of the restaurant, blinking in the bright sunshine. Bernadette suppressed a burp; the Cuban bread had hit her stomach like a rock—a delicious rock, but a rock nonetheless.

You liked the food? Lamar asked.

It was everything I imagined it would be. Bernadette laced her hand with Lamar’s. And the company was excellent.

They began the short walk back to the hotel. We haven’t hit the open-air market at South Beach or the art deco district, Lamar said. What about that?

Bernadette elbowed him playfully. You just want to go to the record stores and see if they’ve got that obscure Angelina Zaragoza album you’ve been searching for.

Lamar grinned. She started her career at the clubs in South Beach, so if anyone has it, it’s the record store down here.

Bernadette chuckled as they entered the concrete walkway to the hotel. I’ll tell you what. I wanted to hit the Cortez Museum and Gardens this trip. You want to go scavenging for vinyl. How about we each do that and meet back at the hotel at four?

Lamar’s eyes lit up. Sure. I can walk from here—you can take the car. Then he tilted his head, a grin on his face. You’re not getting sick of me already, are you?

She turned to him and wrapped her arms around him, kissing him lightly on the lips. Not a chance.

The parking lot of the world music store was half-empty as Bernadette parked the convertible. She turned the car off, hesitated, then picked up the phone and dialed.

Hello?

Hey, Sophie.

Oh—hi, Mom.

Having a good week with your dad?

It’s okay. Sophie lapsed into silence.

You having fun?

I guess. Dad’s having some friends over for a barbecue later. They’re going to watch baseball.

Oh. And you’re not watching with him?

A pause. Hey, I have to help out with lunch—can I talk to you later?

Uh, sure.

Okay.

Bernadette looked at her phone; the call had ended. She puffed her cheeks out and exhaled. It wasn’t just Sophie; Bernadette had been like this with her mother way back when. Monosyllabic answers. Never asking a question about how her mother was doing. Hanging out at the mall, buying milkshakes—anything to not hang out around her parents.

Her phone started buzzing again. The screen read Maura Stevenson.

Hi, Lieu, she said, answering the phone.

Good afternoon, Bernadette.

Uh oh. This sounds like a work-related call.

A sigh on Maura’s end. Yes, I’m afraid so.

You got my text earlier?

I did. But it’s not about that.

It’s Memorial Day weekend at the end of my vacation. You’re calling to cut it short? Bernadette’s stomach sank. She could have spent the last hour with Lamar—true, it would have been an hour digging through stacks of records, but she didn’t want to wait another month to spend time with him.

Maybe this was karma for not telling Lamar what she was up to. She pulled her attention back to the phone conversation.

I’m sorry, Bernadette, but yes, I’m cutting your time in Miami short. A case has come up—one that we need Dr. Woodhead for.

Oh. Bernadette shifted her weight in the seat. She hadn’t had a vacation cut short for a case since she was an agent.

A twenty-eight-year-old white male in Bend, Oregon died with symptoms consistent with asphyxiation, but also discoloration around the mouth.

Discoloration? You mean like redness around the lips?

Green, to be precise. The Deschutes County Medical Examiner believes he was poisoned.

We’re heading out there on an M.E.’s hunch?

Our victim was otherwise healthy. No asthma or breathing problems. So our M.E. doesn’t believe it was natural causes. Maura clicked her tongue. Dr. Woodhead is flying out of Boston Logan. I’ve already called Lesley—she’s excited to get started.

Bernadette felt a pang of sadness. This would be their first case since Lesley’s predecessor’s death. Curtis Janek had been ambitious and good at his job.

This would also be Lesley Gill’s first case as a CSAB employee. She had been a forensic accountant with the local cops on their last case, indispensable during the investigation, and had just finished her new hire orientation at CSAB—and her move halfway across the country to D.C. Did you smooth things over with the Milwaukee P.D. for hiring Lesley away?

Nothing to smooth over. Her manager knew she would be moving up quickly. Maura cleared her throat. At any rate, I’ve booked myself on the 5:15 out of Dulles. I’ll meet Dr. Woodhead when we change planes at LAX—he and I should get in just before ten tonight. Lesley’s flying out of DCA, and I think she arrives a couple of hours before us. But I haven’t booked your flight yet—there are lots of airports to choose from. You’re in Miami proper? Or Fort Lauderdale, or West Palm Beach, or what?

Miami. I’m pretty close to Miami International right now. But I don’t have work clothes. It’s all beachwear.

Buy clothes at the airport, Maura said. Or when you get to Bend. The body was discovered yesterday. You’re investigating homicides now. The faster we get there, the hotter the trail will be.

Bernadette could hear the keyboard click in the background.

Okay, Maura said. There’s a 2:30 out of Miami, changing planes in Denver. Cutting it a little tight there, but you should be okay. She clicked the keyboard again. It gets you in by six tonight—you’ll beat us there. You should even be able to meet with the detective in charge of the investigation. I’ll send you the file.

Bernadette