Pretty Places: E&M Investigations, Book One

By LJ Bourne

A serial killer has gone undetected for almost two decades, but now the hunt is on in this gripping and suspenseful mystery novel by LJ Bourne.

The prettiest places hide the darkest secrets.

True crime writer Eva Lah has uncovered the trail of a ruthless serial killer. The problem is, she is the only one who knows he exists. The police have failed to connect the dots for years, and catching him is not something Eva can do alone.

But Eva never backs down when it comes to uncovering the truth and she won’t do it now. She enlists the help of an ex-lover, retired US Military Special Investigator Mark Novak. With Eva's determination and Mark's expertise, they may have a chance to finally give the victims a voice and bring the killer to justice.

But will they be able to put their past behind them and work together to solve this chilling mystery?

The clock is ticking and only one thing is certain: if they fail, the murderer will kill again.

A must read for fans of Donna Leon, Lisa Gardener and Karin Slaughter!

PRETTY PLACES kicks off a thrilling and suspenseful new female protagonist mystery series - E&M Investigations. A must read for fans of deep, intriguing puzzle mystery novels and whodunits that delve deep into the psyche and the whys. You don’t want to miss this one!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Waterside Dreams Press
• Release date: Dec 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9789619581575

Book preview

1

When I first met her, she was as innocent and pure as they come. Completely unaware of her beauty and potential. Dumb, you could say.

But she turned right around as soon as I gave her some attention. She was starved for that. I followed it up by boosting her confidence with exaggerated praise of her talent.

That’s all it took for her to become like all the others. Vain, full of herself, vulgar. Better to preserve her while there’s at least a kernel of the pureness and innocence left.

Besides, I already have a new one picked out. This one is as vain as they come. Exactly like one of the princess’ evil stepsisters from the fairytale. Or both rolled into one.

I will enjoy peeling all that away to reveal the pureness and innocence beneath the vain, egotistical exterior, which I still believe is there in all of them.

Sometimes, I almost wish I wasn’t so gullible and naïve. I wish I didn’t still fall for every lie, especially when it’s spoken with bright eyes, and honest, young smiles that cause lines and wrinkles, which disappear immediately after the smile vanishes.

Soon, my new better than the rest girl will never smile again. Her smile will vanish forever. Unless I choose to leave it on her face. I just might. Then she will smile forever.

She’ll never have wrinkles, and she’ll never grow old enough to know better. Never learn there are many, many more just like her. And many more that are far better, far prettier, far smarter.

I am old enough to know better. I am old enough to know there are plenty more exactly like her.

In fact, I’m looking at three of them right now through my window. Smoking cigarettes on a bench in the park, their long hair flapping in the wind, their voices too loud, shrill, and arrogant, and their laugh too harsh. Acting all grown up when they’re hardly old enough to be outside without supervision.

They’re like flowers bordered by fresh green grass sitting there on that bench. Despite the cigarettes, despite their vulgar loudness. Prettier than the yellow and white narcissus flowers that line the dark grey, well-worn paved walkway through this park.

Soon the boys will join them. They’ll talk even louder, with all the arrogant bravado only boys trying to sound like men are capable of. They’ll smoke too, and drink, and tell stupid stories and dig out the cubes of granite that form the two decorative lines running along the walkway through the park. Just to destroy.

I don’t destroy. I preserve.

These girls are pretty as new spring flowers now, but it doesn’t last. I make it last forever.

Her mother might miss her, but the rest of the world won’t. I won’t miss her either, because I won’t have to. I will cherish her. She’ll live on in my memories and lie forever with the others.

She will be one of the special ones, the secret ones—the ones only I know about.

2

EVA

Late October shouldn’t be too cold to sit outside on the balcony and work, but this year it is. I’m decked out in my long black down coat that’s gotten me through many winters much worse than this fall we’re having. I’m also wearing my special, finger-less mittens knitted from black alpaca, cashmere, and merino wool. They cover my fingers almost to the tips, keeping them warm yet leaving me the complete freedom to type.

These mittens were the last present Mark ever gave me. He always got me the best presents, stuff I didn’t even know I craved until he gifted me with them. He surprised me with these on the weeklong getaway in the French Alps that was supposed to put our relationship back on the right track. Instead, I spent most evenings and nights working on the patio of the cabin we rented. I had a big book to finish. An important book. For me and the world.

Inside the Mind of an Expert Serial Killer.

That’s the title of my book on The Fairytale Killer—the worst serial killer to ever emerge in Europe, a one-of-a-kind monster who tormented the city of Berlin for almost a year. He told me all his reasons why over a series of interviews, which became a bestselling book. That is still my bestselling book now, three years and seven more books later.

It launched my career, made me a celebrity author, and took me places I never imagined it would. Away from freelance investigative journalism to being a freelance true crime writer. But it also sank my relationship with Mark.

He is a Special Investigator for the US Military and we met while he was working with the local authorities to catch The Fairytale Killer. We fell in love during that dark and turbulent time too. Apart from killing six women, the Fairytale Killer also destroyed mine and Mark’s relationship. That took longer to die, but it did.

I still miss him sometimes, but by the time it was over between us, it truly was over. There was and is no going back. I’ve accepted it.

I don’t think of him very often and I don’t know why I’m doing it now. Probably because my computer froze from the cold again and the view from this balcony, majestic as it is, lets the mind wander due to its perfect sameness.

My apartment overlooks Ljubljana Castle and Castle Hill. Neither are very imaginative names, but when there’s so much history behind a place it doesn’t need a fancy name. The castle itself is kind of boring compared to other castles elsewhere in the world. No kings, queens, princes, or princesses ever lived there. It served as a garrison for soldiers and was the town’s prison for a while. But it dominates the skyline of the small city center in a way that makes it easy to forgive that shortcoming. And easy to imagine a time when life and living were simple.

Boring, I used to consider this city. That’s why I moved away when I was eighteen and haven’t been back for more than a couple of short visits since. But now, almost twenty years later, having lived in or at least visited most major cities in the world, I’m starting to appreciate the simple life here on a new level. Home is home. It brings with it a certain type of calm and peace that you can’t find anywhere else. Sure, this city is still kind of boring and nothing compared to places like London or Berlin, but life here is laid back and easy.

I needed a change of pace. Since I left Berlin two years ago, I haven’t actually properly lived anywhere. I’ve stayed for extended periods in rent-by-the-month apartments, but mostly I’ve been on the road, in hotels and motels and bed and breakfasts, researching serial killer cases—unsolved, solved and breaking ones, writing and blogging about them, producing books that won’t see the light of day for years to come, because my publisher insists on no more than two books a year from me. I’ve become quite the expert on serial killers in the process. World-renowned. Go figure.

And in between, I’ve been attending conferences and workshops and panels to tell my The Fairytale Killer and I story over and over again. I never imagined that story would ever lose its sting for me, and it hasn’t, not completely, but it sure isn’t as sharp as it was.

Ostensibly, I came home because I wanted to find a notorious crime case in Slovenia to base my next book on. This country is so tiny you can drive across it in about four hours, but it’s filled with gorgeous and unique places of all kinds. The history is rich too. For example, Castle Hill itself was already populated in prehistoric times, and this city was a province of the Roman Empire, sacked not once, but twice by Attila the Hun. And that’s just the ancient history, there’s much more after that, including things that still haven’t been dealt with. People have lived here pretty much since the beginning. But somehow, it’s escaped being the site of serious crimes.

At least that’s how it seems, based on the little research I’ve managed to do in between catching up with family and old friends.

That’s just as well, I suppose. The only reason anyone would buy a book about crime in this small, unknown country would be because my name was on the cover. Neither my editor nor my publisher stated that in so many words, but they hinted at it strongly. It’s fine. I need a rest.

Words don’t flow for me as they used to, and research gets boring too fast. Burnout, my editor calls it. But I’ve never suffered from that, not even when I was working for four major newspapers as their go-to reporter on the ground first in London then Berlin, and lived on four hours of sleep for years, before finally floating into the more relaxed and soul-fulfilling life of an investigative journalist.

So no, it’s not burnout. It’s just that I haven’t come across a case that captured my imagination in a while. All my research so far has been fruitless. But once I find the right case, the words will fly again and neither a beautiful view nor the cold will distract me from putting words on paper.

My fingers are so cold I barely feel them and my face is starting to go that way too. It’s not so much the temperature that’s making it so cold, it’s the fog. It was there when I woke up this morning and hasn’t lifted all day, settling in thickly as evening approached, and growing thicker and colder as the last of the light failed. Fog is an almost constant occurrence here in autumn and winter and sometimes hangs over the city for days and weeks without end.

I shut the lid of my laptop since it’s pointless keeping it open and even more exposed to the cold. I won’t get any more work done today anyway. I lean back in the wicker chair, put my hands in my pockets, mittens and all, and watch the air mist up even worse as I exhale.

Watching the misty evening rise over the castle is putting me in that special kind of mood that being in this city this time of year always does. Kind of eerie and spooky yet comforting at the same time. It’s the look and feel of the winters of my childhood. There are no hard edges in this light, everything is soft and diffused. This view instantly floods my mind with a thousand stories, which took place in cities just like this. Most prominent are Sleepy Hollow, The Little Match Girl, and the one about The Mist Killer.

The last was just a ghost story, I think, but I vividly remember the first time I heard it.

I was young, maybe six or seven years old when one of my older cousins, Lina, told the story of a killer who prowled the streets of Ljubljana, killing young women and men. He only came when the fog was thickest and killed them by slashing their throats. They never saw him coming because of the fog, and the police could never catch him for the same reason. Once the fog lifted, all they found were his victims’ lifeless bodies lying in pools of their own blood. He was never caught.

I shiver, and it has nothing to do with the cold. That story has always given me the creeps. I remember pestering my cousin for more details until she smacked me because I was so annoying. She never had any more details for me, and none of the adults in my life were very supportive of me asking about a serial killer, so I eventually stopped.

Over the years, I heard the story from others too, but no one knew any more than my cousin told me in the first place. That’s why I concluded it was just an urban legend, or more like an old ghost story native to this city that in autumn and winter is often cloudy and foggy.

The thought hits me with the force of a freight train. I sit bolt upright in my chair almost knocking my laptop off the rickety little table I use as my writing desk out here.

The Mist Killer.

That could be my new book.

I will research the story and finally find out if it’s based on any kind of fact.

Talk about finding a story that captures my imagination. This one has caught it and kept it for almost as long as I can remember.

3

EVA

The damp, cold fog is even more annoying out in the street. Down here it wraps itself around you, especially all the parts where the skin is exposed. It’s like a glove of liquid ice around my hands.

But the overall visual effect of the fog is undeniably pretty. Magical even. Fantasy-like. The fog catches the light of the street lamps and passing cars, diffusing it, making everything sparkle. I’m making my way to the square by the Triple Bridge, where I’m meeting another of my old friends, who I haven’t seen in almost two decades. Along these side streets, cobbled and lined with picturesque mansions, it’s not hard to imagine the Mist Killer lurking in some doorway or alley. The street illumination is muffled, soft at the edges, and doesn’t reach far, creating pools of near-perfect darkness. The streets are far from empty though. Walking around the city these days is an exercise in avoiding all the teenagers, students, and tourists.

It wasn’t so when I left, but now the streets of my home city are bursting with liveliness. And what’s even more intriguing, you’re more likely to hear German or Italian walking around than Slovene. Tourists are swarming this place. Often people from other countries who have visited Slovenia sing its praises when they learn I’m from here, telling me what a gem of a country it is, how unique and fairytale-like it is, and I can see why.

There are only a handful of places in the world where you have all the convenience of a modern city so seamlessly joined with the laid back way of life in a village as in Ljubljana. I also never felt unsafe walking here, not even in the middle of the night, and that hasn’t changed. No wonder it’s so hard to find a decent true crime story to write about here.

The square by the Triple Bridge is a historic meeting point in this city and when I reach it, it’s teeming with people young and old, on bikes, scooters, running, walking, and milling about. I stand directly under the statue of one of our most celebrated poets, that is the central piece of this meeting place, and watch it all.

Berlin and New York City might be the melting pots of all cultures, but here people from all walks of life, from beggars to businessmen, decked out rich housewives and boisterous teens blend seamlessly. Though that might also just be a Slavic thing, or maybe heritage from the former country of Yugoslavia, which Slovenia used to be a part of. The differences between the classes, ages, ethnicities, and sexes just aren’t as pronounced here.

Eva, there you are, says a slightly winded middle-aged man with a black cap pulled down over his ears and red, cold-burnt cheeks.

Simon? I ask since it’s taking me a minute to see past the lines and wrinkles of his face to see the young man I went to high school with.

Yeah, he says and laughs. I circled this statue three times looking for you. Not sure how I didn’t spot you right away, since you look exactly the same as you did in high school.

Oh, please, I say and give him a quick hug.

It’s sure been a long time, I add. I’m glad you called.

He wraps his arm around my shoulders. Should we walk? I’m dying for a drink.

The familiarity with which he leads me away from the statue and towards the wide bank of the Ljubljanica River that’s lined with cafes, bars, and restaurants, is a little too much too fast. But I let him.

When I still lived here, this side of the river bank had one bar and two shops, maybe three, I say as we leave the square and pass the first of the cafes—a fancy place where they also offer vegan cakes and such.

Yeah, I remember that, he says. Vaguely, though. It’s been like this for more than a decade now. Should we just sit here?

The cafes and bars here have more tables outside than inside, which is great in the summer and spring, but not so inviting in fall and winter. Though most of the tables are full despite the cold and dampness. It’s because each table is equipped with an infrared heater.

Out here? I ask. Or inside?

He pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and looks at me apologetically. Outside, if that’s fine with you. I still haven’t found the courage to quit.

OK, fine, I say and pull out one of the patio-style wooden chairs from the table closest to us.

You don’t smoke? he asks as we sit down. I thought all writers smoked.

I laugh, but it sounds very plastic even to my own ears. I’m not a huge fan of all the writer and journalist stereotypes floating around. Like that we all smoke and drink excessively, and take tranquilizers on top of it. I’ve heard them all and more besides. The only one that’s true for me is drinking too much coffee. But I’m trying to cut that down too.

I’ll have a cigarette now and again, but it never became a habit for me, I say.

He already has a cigarette in his mouth and offers me the pack, looking at me questioningly. I shake my head. Maybe later.

Maybe never, would be better, he says and lights his, puffing the smoke to the left, away from the table.

Despite the cold, the tables all around us are mostly full, and even here I hear more foreign languages than Slovene. At least three dialects of English—American, British and I think Irish—are represented, as are Austrian, German and Spanish.

The waitress comes over, a slip of a girl, who can’t be much older than eighteen. She’s only wearing skinny jeans and a thin fleece. I order a tea with rum, probably fueling another myth in Simon’s mind about journalists, but I don’t care. I need something hot and strong. He gets a beer, of all things.

When did Ljubljana become such an international city? I ask, more rhetorically than anything else, once the waitress leaves.

He looks around. It’s been that way for years now. But I guess you wouldn’t know, you’ve been busy.

He gives me a very pointed, toothy grin as he says it, and I can’t tell what’s behind it, though I’m sure something is.

I’ve only been back for a couple of months, I say. But I think I’ll stay for a while. It’s very calm here and it’s good to have a place to call home.

He nods knowingly. So, are you renting?

I shake my head. My parents decided to make the move to the seaside permanently this year and let me have the use of their apartment. They’ll be visiting whenever they want, of course.

I chuckle wryly. I’m not sure how that arrangement will work, but I’m willing to wait and see.

Are you working on a new book? he asks.

Our drinks arriving disguises my surprised gasp.

How do you know I write books? I ask as I pick up my steaming cup of tea to warm my hands. I’m famous in certain circles, but far from a household name.

Simon and I attended the International Baccalaureate high school program here together, that’s where we met. Then we both went to university in the UK, him in Belfast and me in London. We lost touch before we even finished our respective studies.

Are you kidding? he asks, drinking some of his beer. Your book about The Fairytale Killer is practically a serial killer bible.

I smile to hide my astonishment. Never heard that one before. So you read it?

He nods and drinks some more beer. I read all your books.

There’s definitely some kind of undertone in his voice, something unspoken between the lines, but I have no idea what. Is he coming on to me? Does he think this is a date?

I haven’t had time to date in the last three years. Nor the inclination. Before then, I was in a serious relationship with Mark for almost two years. I’m very rusty where the telltale signs of someone flirting with me are concerned. Especially Simon.

He’s not a bad looking man, and he actually looks better now that he’s older. He has piercing, light blue eyes and a narrow, a rather long nose. His facial features are very gentle, delicate even, and if I’m honest, apart from the lines around his eyes and the grey in his three-day beard, he doesn’t look much older than he did when I saw him last. But the only thing I’ve ever felt for him is friendship and that hasn’t changed. I hope he’s not flirting with me. If he is, this could turn very awkward fast.

I’m flattered, I say and take a sip of my tea. Which is still too hot and scalds my tongue. If there’s one thing I hate it’s a scalded tongue. The pain stays for days and makes everything taste weird.

Here, cool it with this, he says, offering me his glass of beer as I’m trying—clearly unsuccessfully—to cool my tongue stealthily.

I gladly accept since I’m far too old and weary to pretend I’m something other than I am.

That’s better, I say after sloshing the ice-cold beverage in my mouth until my tongue grows numb.

Glad to help, he says and chuckles. Then lights another cigarette even though he just stubbed the last one out a couple of seconds ago. But I won’t comment on that. He’s his own man.

So what have you been up to all these years? I ask.

He puffs the smoke out away from the table again.

Where do I start? he says, chuckling again. Kind of nervously.

I haven’t seen you since before you finished university, so how about there? I say, smiling in what I hope isn’t too inviting. I don’t want to encourage him if he does think this is a date.

After university, I did my masters in Geneva, he says.

Oh, yeah? Which field? I ask.

Criminology, he says. Then I got a job at Interpol and have been climbing the corporate ladder there ever since.

So, that’s where your interest in my books comes from, I say with too much relief, judging by the way his eyes narrow and eyebrows pull together in confusion.

Yes, he asserts. I kept up with all your articles while the Fairytale Killer case in Berlin was breaking and then read all your books.

You should’ve gotten in touch, I say and smile. I’d have given you the inside scoop.

I’m actually thinking I should’ve gotten in touch with him. I never managed to get a good contact inside Interpol.

Then again, I could’ve done that too, I add.

I worked mostly in the Balkans, he says. Human trafficking and organized crime. I wouldn’t have been on your radar.

I did a few articles about human trafficking in the Balkans, I say. Though I did focus more on where the poor women ended up than their origins.

I read your article on illegal prostitution in Berlin, he says and lights yet another cigarette. It was very good.

Thanks, I say, trying to snuff out the emerging memories of Selima, the Bosnian prostitute in Berlin who gave me most of the information for that article. She hated me for writing it and never spoke to me again.

Inviting you for this drink is me reaching out, he says, his voice clipped like he’s nervous about saying it.

Is it? I ask. How so? I’m afraid I let many of my sources lapse, since I started writing the books.

Are you still in touch with Mark Novak? he asks.

My reaction to the question surprises me. It caught me straight in the face like a particularly cold gust of strong wind, not unlike the kind that was blowing when Mark and I said our last goodbyes. I take a sip of my tea to cover it, and thankfully, it’s no longer scalding hot. It’s actually almost completely cold.

You know, the US Military Investigator who helped catch The Fairytale Killer? he adds helpfully, clearly mistaking my reaction for confusion. He’s mentioned in your book quite a bit.

Mark is mentioned in my book, but in a very superficial way. Definitely not in a way that would suggest I knew him very well indeed. Those were his wishes, or rather, his wishes following the military’s orders to keep his involvement in the book to a minimum. I don’t know why I’m reacting this way. I hardly get any questions about him when I do my talks at conferences, and after I left Berlin, no one I met knew just how serious our relationship was. I don’t get reminded of him and I like it that way. Now I see why.

I nod, since I can’t quite speak yet, but Simon is looking at me questioningly.

I haven’t spoken to Mark in years, I say. Why do you ask?

He chuckles nervously again and lights yet another cigarette. I’m putting together a special task force for investigating major crimes in the area. It’s funded by Europol, but we’ll have full operative capabilities. It’s a joint effort by all the former Yugoslav countries, as well as Italy, Austria, France, and Germany.

Nice, I say as he pauses to take a drag on his cigarette. Sounds like a great project. But where does Mark come in?

We’ll be a small team of top investigators, he says. And I want Novak to join us.

Wouldn’t that be a conflict of interest of some sort? I ask. He’s a member of the US Military.

He shakes his head. Not anymore. He retired about a year ago and he’s living in a small village near the Italian border.

That imaginary gust of wind is back in my face, colder and stronger than before. How did I not know Mark was living in the same country as me? And what do I do with it now that I do know? I can answer the first question—it’s because I’ve worked hard to stay as far away from anything that even vaguely reminded me of him. And I guess that answers my second question as well.

And how do I come in? I ask.

He won’t join us, Simon says. He won’t even agree to a meeting with me. I was hoping you could get me in the door, you know, make the introduction.

No way!

You want me to trick him into meeting with you? I ask, maybe a little too sharply.

He chuckles nervously again, but his eyes are very serious. Not a trick. Just put in a good word. He’s an expert in his field, the best I’ve come across, even. He’s too young to retire. I just want a chance to convince him of that. And I thought maybe you could help me out.

Seeing Mark again? Speaking to him? The mere thought of it unfolds a vista of all that could’ve been between us—should’ve been, maybe, if the Fairytale Killer hadn’t gotten in the way—in vivid color and striking detail.

We’d be married by now, probably living in that little country house on the plateau that he always loved talking about so much and took me to once. I’d have the perfect little room to write in there, overlooking the valley below, and the rolling hills in the distance. He’d finally get the peace he always craved. The simple, quiet life. We’d have a couple of kids by now. A boy and a girl—No. I won’t go there. I can’t. It didn’t work out between us for a reason. That reason being that we’re both much rather alone.

Come on, Eva, Simon says impatiently. The man caught the worst serial killer the world has seen in a long time almost single-handedly. A killer that left barely any trace behind, let alone evidence. And he did it in record time.

He thinks he should’ve caught him faster, I say quietly. Mark never got over the guilt that he hadn’t. It was one of the reasons we’re no longer together, and all my fantasies about our happy life together are just that. Fantasy. Useless fantasy.

He caught him in record time, Simon says, flabbergasted.

I drink the rest of my ice-cold tea. The rum predominates the taste now and that’s a good thing. I can’t wait to get home and have a proper drink.

So, what do you say, Eva? Simon asks. Will you introduce me?

I shake my head slowly. I’m sure Mark has his reasons for saying no to you.

Then his reasoning is faulty, Simon says. I just want the chance to explain the project to him fully.

Simon is looking at me fiercely, feverishly even, as our eyes meet again. Clearly this task force means a lot to him.

I’ve never known Mark to have faulty reasoning, I say, trying to sound cheery and flippant about it. If he said no, he means no, I can tell you that much about him.

Simon sighs in annoyance and leans back in his chair. Fine. Can’t blame me for trying, right?

He grins and I do my best to smile back. I don’t feel like smiling.

We try to talk about other things after that, but it doesn’t work. Soon even the electric heater over my head isn’t keeping me from shivering anymore. Especially after he brings up the subject of Mark again. I say no more firmly this time, but don’t add that after three years there is no way I’m going to Mark just to ask for a favor.

We pay and promise to keep in touch, even embrace woodenly as we part. I rush away, taking a narrow alley off the river bank and away from the crowd of people flowing along with it.

The fog is thicker than it was when I arrived here, cold and cutting as jagged, broken ice. It’s not hard to imagine a man following me down the alley to slit my throat and leave me to bleed out in the fog. I even hear the hiss of boots on the river stones paving this alley and the rustle of his overcoat behind me. But I know that’s just my imagination playing tricks on me.

The real menace chasing me is that fantasy of my serene, peaceful life with Mark. I haven’t been able to escape it for three years now. And I have tried very hard to.

4

MARK

Thunder rumbles in the distance, the echoes rolling in from the distant mountains to cover the sleepy