Calm Waters: E&M Investigations, Book Five

By LJ Bourne

Eva and Mark race to catch a serial killer that’s stayed hidden for decades in this thrilling and suspenseful new mystery novel by LJ Bourne.

Calm Waters Run Deep.

Young men and women stabbed through the heart and left posed by the river in the night. A killing spree that’s been going on for decades. In most of the cases, the official explanation is that the victims were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But true crime writer Eva Lah believes the murders are the work of a serial killer–one that’s successfully avoided detection until now.

Evidence is thin on the ground and resistance by local authorities to reopening old cases is staunch. But Eva and former US Military Special Investigator Mark Novak begin looking into the cases anyway. The hunt is on.

But Mark and Eva have woken a sleeping monster and now that he’s out in the light, anything can happen.

And it will.

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

CALM WATERS, the fifth book in the E&M Investigations series, is a standalone, fast-paced and gripping crime mystery novel full of twists and turns. It's impossible to put down!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Waterside Dreams Press
• Release date: Dec 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9789619646052

Book preview

1

The streets are dark and foggy, the cobblestones and even normal sidewalks treacherously slippery, the air thick with the watery, icy mist hanging low over the city. That moist mist has a way of entering you. It clogs up the chest and makes it hard to breathe. But I can’t stop prowling the streets.

No matter how cold or wet it gets, I can’t stop walking, searching, looking for the right person to save. To dispatch to a better place. To kill.

It’s a compulsion I’ve tried to fight many times for many years. There were times when I tried locking myself in and throwing away the key, chaining myself to the radiator on cold, dark, silent nights when so many lost souls—souls in need of saving—take to the streets in the dead of night. I’ve even tried going very far away. But the night always calls me too loudly and with a voice I can’t ignore.

The lonely, lost souls that wander the streets late at night aimlessly, going in circles, looking for something they can’t find on their own, need a shepherd.

I am that shepherd.

I am the one who brings them home.

The home they seek but won’t ever find without my help.

They won’t need to lose themselves in the night anymore, not after I show them the way.

There goes a lost one now. So pale that his face glows almost as bright as the full moon. And it’s just as soft at the edges as the real moon.

He doesn’t belong on this plane of existence. That’s why he’s lost. That’s why he wanders the slippery streets at two in the morning, the collar of his long black wool coat raised so it covers even his ears as he hunches his shoulders into it to hide from the cold. Hiding from the cold night that he wants so desperately to take his problems away.

His coat is buttoned up tight and his hands are deep in the pockets, his steps fast and hurried. But I know he’s not on his way to anywhere.

He comes this way at this hour three to four times a week. Just walks in circles around this block until he gets too tired to keep going. He’s running from something that he keeps returning to anyway. He is lost. He needs me to show him the way.

I never hunt the ones that own the night. Those who drink and are merry and stay out until the morning sun rises. Or those that walk the streets looking for work. Or the ones rushing to and from their graveyard shift jobs. The night is their domain as much as it is mine, we share it.

I hunt the ones who come into the night to escape. Those who come into the night begging it to take their problems away.

I take their problems.

I am doing a good deed.

I am giving them what they are aimlessly searching for.

In hot blood that steams as it touches the icy cobblestones, I offer the escape they seek.

I am the night that brings everlasting dawn.

I am the rain that brings eternal sunshine.

I am the flood that brings calm waters.

2

EVA

Echoes of the loud crash that woke me are still reverberating in my ears as Mark and I stand in the doorway of the small room that used to be my office. Though the whooshing in my ears could be from the fact that my heart is racing, pumping blood through my body that’s still trying to wake up. Or even more accurately, I think I’m refusing to fully wake up because I’m still hoping this is just a dream.

There is only a pile of white mortar, orange brick and dark wood where my desk used to be and white flecks of dust are still falling from the ceiling like soft snow. None of the lights in the house work because the falling ceiling took out the electrical wires, so Mark is shining his phone’s flashlight at the mess, which is giving everything a bluish tint. So the whole scene is actually very whimsical and makes me hopeful that I’m dreaming.

But I know I’m not.

How the hell did this happen? Mark asks, shining a light at the gaping black hole in the ceiling.

He’s asked this a couple of times already. I haven’t answered. Again, because this is just a dream. It has to be. Because if it’s not, then the roof of our home, the house in which we hope to raise our daughter who is coming into the world very soon, just caved in on us.

An earthquake? I suggest, because I’m wide awake and this is real.

I doubt it, he says and examines the ceiling more closely by shining the light this way and that. It’s been raining like crazy the last couple of days. There must’ve been a leak we didn’t know about. Damn those incompetent construction workers.

Mark put a lot of time and effort into making this hundred-plus-years old house habitable when he decided to retire here almost three years ago. The retirement didn’t work out, but the home part did. I love this house, I love sharing it with him, and I can’t wait to start a family here. Even my writing has gotten better since I moved in.

This house had belonged to his family before they immigrated to the US and was part of his mother’s inheritance. It’s in a small, quiet village near the Adriatic Sea coast and overlooks sprawling vineyards and rolling hills in the distance. And for the last six months or so, we’ve been busy fixing it up even more. Our baby girl is kicking like crazy right now, she must know something awful has happened too. Though to be honest, she’s never still for long.

Mark turns to me sharply, his dark brown eyes are very wide. What if you’d been in there…

It’s not even a question. Just a very terrifying statement of fact. If I had been in there, I would have been sitting right where the ceiling came down the hardest.

I smile at him and run my hand over my belly. Slim chance of that. Lana here absolutely hates it when I try to sit in an office chair. She likes the sofa and the dining chairs fine though. Go figure.

Which is also why my laptop is sitting on the dining table and isn’t buried under the rubble. That is one of the main reasons why I’m not freaking out right now. Because all my work and all the research I’ve been buried in for the last two months are on that laptop.

There have been two stabbings in Ljubljana in the last three months, which I think are the work of a serial killer. A man and a woman. Both stabbed in the heart and found posed on the bank of Ljubljanica River. The police think the deaths are drug related. That the victims were buying drugs late at night and got robbed. I think they were killed by a serial killer who has been active for the last twenty years or so and who has gone undetected.

I’ve been trying to get Mark to have the Europol task force he’s running look into the murders, but he’s staunchly defending the work the local authorities are doing on this one and says we should let them handle it. I’m sure he’s just saying that because he doesn’t want me to get immersed in a new case now that I’m so close to my due date. A little too late for that. I’m already neck deep in this one, and it’s the reason I’m carrying my laptop around the house and setting it down wherever my daughter allows me to sit at the moment.

Mark lays his hand on my belly too. Seems like she already knows what she’s doing. But I’m not a fan of the name Lana.

Me either, I admit. We’ve been trying out different names for our child to get a feel for them, but so far we haven’t struck gold yet.

What are we going to do now? I ask, the full weight of what’s happened and what it means finally catching up with me.

Our child will be born in a month, possibly sooner. And now we have no roof over our heads.

Well, we can’t stay here, Mark says, sounding calm, which works to calm me too. Let’s go get dressed and pack some stuff. We can spend the night at a hotel and figure this out in the morning.

It’s barely two AM, so it’s actually amazing that I was asleep when the ceiling came down. That’s another thing our daughter has an issue with… letting me lie down and sleep.

I doubt we’ll start figuring this out in the morning, because I don’t think either of us will get much sleep tonight. But he’s right, it’s probably best if we don’t stay here, waiting for more of the ceiling to come crashing down.

So, less than fifteen minutes later, we’re in the car. The night is pitch black and rain is pouring down so hard even the wipers on full speed aren’t doing much to help with visibility.

Well, no one can claim we have a boring life, that’s for sure, I say, because the shock has now given way to giddiness.

No, that we do not, he says absentmindedly, which means he’s more worried than he’s showing.

He just wrapped up a case and has been talking about starting to wind down, since the baby is coming soon and there’s really no reason for him to work so much anymore. He’s fully intending to not work when the baby is born, but I wonder if he’ll be able to stick to that.

When we met almost eight years ago now, he was already a veteran investigator for the US Military, and apart from a brief attempt at retiring, he’s been solving crimes for almost two decades now. It’s been his life since he was in his early twenties. Just like investigative journalism and writing true crime books about serial killers has been for me.

We might be able to slow down, but I doubt either of us is actually able to stop working. But maybe that’s another thing that our daughter will change.

Soon, he pulls into the empty parking lot of a hotel, the windows of which are dark, then leaves the car to see if the hotel has vacancy. He comes back a few moments later, his dark hair soaked and fat raindrops clinging to his eyelashes.

It’s closed, he says.

They’ll probably all be around here. It’s the country, I reply. Why don’t we just call my parents and spend the night at their apartment?

The look in his eyes is something between embarrassment and frustration.

The last thing I want is to wake your parents in the middle of the night to tell them you and the baby have no roof over your heads anymore.

I sigh and try to not make it an exasperated one. He worries too much, and he’s too protective. It’s getting better though, and I kind of see his point. My parents will just panic and that won’t do anyone any good. As for failing to notice the roof was leaking over my office, they’ll see that as my fault more than his. They already think I work too much.

Let’s go to Ljubljana and find a hotel there, I suggest. I’m sure there are places open in the capital.

He jumps at the idea and speeds out of the parking lot and down the dark road. He always drives too fast, and ironically never seems to factor that into worrying about me. But he is a very good driver.

It’ll all work out, I say quietly after a while, trying to convince him as much as myself.

It always does. And we’ve faced worse odds, he says and grins at me.

He’s not wrong.

At least now we have the chance to rebuild the house and make it into even more of a home, he adds.

And he’s not wrong about that either.

As I predicted, neither of us could fall asleep once we got a room at the hotel that rises above Ljubljana’s main train and bus station. So we spent the night dreaming up ways on how we can make our small house into something better than it already is.

Though by the time the sky outside the huge windows was already a silvery grey and I finally dozed off, we decided that the house is just perfect the way it is, with its large open living room and kitchen that look over the vineyards and green rolling hills, the two cozy bedrooms—one for us and one for our daughter—and the small room that I use as my office. We could use a second bathroom, probably, but it’s not absolutely necessary.

It’s almost ten AM now and Mark has already gone to start solving the problem, leaving me a note that he’s going to get a contractor to look at the damage and that he didn’t want to wake me.

I’m debating on whether to call my mom and break the news to her now or wait until we know what kind of time we’re looking at before we can go back home.

This hotel room is comfortable enough, with a huge bed, writing desk, and even a small loveseat by the window, but I already see all the ways trying to spend the day in here isn’t going to work. Being pregnant at forty is no joke, and lately, I’ve been having trouble finding comfortable spots even in my own home. Not to mention that I have no access to a fridge stocked with all my absolute must-have foods and drinks here.

The sky outside is overcast and just as slate gray as it was at dawn, but that’s nothing new during winter in this city. That’s another thing I love about living in the country. We get sunshine even in winter.

I can just about see the apartment building my parents live in through the window. It’s about a ten-minute walk from here, maybe twenty since I’m currently not as fast as I used to be. I already know visiting my parents today is a decision I will end up making and there’s no point in putting it off.

Surprisingly enough, my mom has already called me three times this morning, I realize as I take my phone from my purse. So either Mark already told them the news, which I very much doubt, or she sensed something was wrong. Even though she’s been known to sometimes have weird premonitions, I doubt that’s the case today.

Plus, she never calls more than once in the space of an hour unless it’s an emergency, and here I have three missed calls from her between eight and nine-thirty.

I dial her number, trying not to imagine that something even worse than our roof caving in happened last night.

Mom, is something wrong? I ask in a breathless, panicked voice as soon as she picks up.

Oh, no, I’m sorry, we’re both fine, she hurries to explain after a brief pause. It’s something else.

I sit on the edge of the bed, only just now realizing that my racing heart is making me lightheaded, which is not something that usually happens.

What? I ask and try to ignore that too.

It’s Milo. Sana’s son, she says. He’s been arrested this morning. They think he’s responsible for the murders, you know, the ones where the victims were found by the river?

I swallow hard past the lump in my throat. Yes, I know. I’ve been following the case.

There was another stabbing late last night, Mom says. And Milo was picked up in the area and arrested. But he didn’t do it. Sana is beside herself. Can Mark do something?

I assure her I’ll talk to him and tell her I’m coming over now, then gloss over her questions of why I’m in the city and not at home. There’ll be plenty of time to answer them later.

Sana is one of my mother’s closest and oldest friends. A Bosnian hairdresser and beautician, and a single mother to a twenty-something son, who has been in and out of trouble with police since his teens. Mostly drug and gang-related kinds of trouble. She’s done just about everything under the sun to try and straighten him up, including years of all sorts of counseling and even sending him abroad for school, but nothing’s really worked. She’s failed more than she had succeeded in keeping him on the right path, as she puts it.

I know Milo too, not well, but enough to be sure he’s not the person behind these stabbings. He does not fit the profile of the killer I’ve been researching for the last two months or so—the person, most likely a man, who stabs his victims through the heart with a single, practiced motion, then gently poses them as though they are sleeping. And from what I’ve uncovered, or think I’ve uncovered, this killer has been active for a long time. Milo was probably still a baby when the first murder happened, or maybe he hadn’t even been born yet.

But are the police going to believe me this time?

So far, they’ve dismissed me both times I’ve tried to present my findings to them.

3

EVA

The walk to my parents’ home actually took me almost thirty minutes, but only because it feels like all the rain that’s been falling for the past two weeks has collected in my legs and feet. So I actually have no idea how enough of it was left to collapse the roof of our home.

I didn’t have to tell my parents about that right away, thankfully, because when I arrived, Sana was shaking and sobbing at the kitchen table, an untouched cup of coffee in front of her. Both my mother and father looked like they’d seen a ghost as they tried to comfort her. Sana is close to their age. She’s a late mother like me.

I’m sorry, she hiccups at me as I gingerly take a seat across from her so as not to wake any more aches and pains or set the baby kicking again. I just didn’t know who else to call.

Mom brings me a tall glass of cool water and she already has the kettle boiling and a mug with a tea bag ready for me.

You were right to come to us, Mom says as she lays her hand on Sana’s shoulder and squeezes. Eva will sort this out.

Mom’s hair is uncombed and her eyes are red rimmed. Dad isn’t in much better shape. This trust they’re placing in me might not be warranted. I might not be able to do anything about this. I could be completely wrong about what I think this case is and Milo could well have committed the crime they’re accusing him of.

But I don’t think I’m wrong. I have that feeling of just knowing I sometimes get about cases like this, the kind that always turns out to be the correct one.

Can you tell me what happened last night? I ask Sana. Why was Milo arrested?

She hiccups again and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand as she looks at me. Her thick, dark grey hair is a messy, wiry mess, and the bags under her eyes are bruise black, but it’s the haunted, suffering look in her hazel eyes that cuts the deepest.

Milo has finally put his life together. He’s clean of drugs and has been working as a repair man at a specialized cycling store. He always loved biking and bikes, so it is kind of his dream job, she says, rambling nervously as though she’s trying to talk fast to outrun the tears I can hear building in her throat.

He was in the wrong place at the wrong time last night. He was just going out to get a pack of cigarettes from the gas station, the one that’s open all night, and walked along the river to get there. She takes a long shuddering breath and holds it. He told me that she was just lying there in the dirt and the mud. He went over and tried to help her. But she was covered in blood and she was dead. He ran to the gas station to get help because he didn’t have his phone on him and then the police arrested him. Said he stabbed that woman. But he never. He never would. Not Milo. He’s not like that.

Sobs overtake her, and she holds her breath to try and stop them.

She spoke quickly and disjointedly, but I got the gist of it.

I do believe the police officers who arrested Milo had more to go on that just the fact that he discovered the body and was covered in blood because of it.

Did they officially arrest him for the murder? I ask, and she looks at me blankly.

They questioned him all night, she says. All night until five in the morning when he called me and told me what happened. He has work today. Now he’ll get fired. He didn’t do this.

I’ve seen Sana upset before. Often when Milo was in trouble while he was growing up, she’d come to my mom for support. But I’ve never seen her like this and I’ve never seen my mom and dad as worried about her either.

OK, I’ll see what I can find out, I say and push myself up against the tabletop.

Mom and Dad both follow me out of the kitchen and into the long hallway that runs the length of their apartment from the front door to the kitchen.

It doesn’t sound good, does it? Dad asks.

I shrug as I search for my phone in the deep pockets of the long black parka I left hanging on a peg by the front door.

It sounds like how it happened, I say. If this victim that Milo found is connected to the others, then no, I don’t believe he’s the killer. But if she’s not… if the police are right…

I let the rest of the sentence hang unspoken. They know how the rest of it goes. No need to say it out loud.

Just ask Mark to look into it, please, Mom says. I’m sure Sana only needs to know what is happening, and then she’ll be calmer. She’s strong. She can accept whatever happens.

I nod even though I’m not so sure she’s right. I think Milo had finally started to get his life on track, just like she said, which is something she’s been hoping for all his life. If he is responsible for this murder, then this is a blow that might be too much for her to take.

I’ll call Mark, see what he can find out, I say and edge past them to get to the dining room. Go back to the kitchen and be with Sana.

They both turn to do as I asked, but just before she enters the kitchen, Mom turns back and looks at me inquisitively. Are you here this early for work? You shouldn’t be working at all. Being pregnant at your age is difficult enough as it is, without you stressing yourself out.

I’m not stressing myself out, I respond. I’ll tell you later.

Her eyes widen at that, and I’m sure she’s about to barrage me with more questions, so I avoid it by entering the dining room and closing the glass-paned door behind me firmly.

This room has a wonderful view of the Ljubljana castle that always works to calm me, no matter what. The line rings for a long time before Mark finally picks up. I can hear men talking behind him and the sound of something heavy being moved.

Are you at the house? I ask before saying anything else.

Yeah, he says bitterly. And it looks like they’ll have to open and re-do the entire roof. We’re talking months of work.

Months? I ask. We don’t have long.

Tell me about it, he says. But they say the problem is present along the whole roof and they can’t guarantee the same thing won’t happen again in some other part of it if they don’t open it all up and fix it.

That’s what they’ll have to do then, I say. Better that than worrying about the roof caving in.

It wouldn’t have been a problem if they’d done it right the first time, he grumbles. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Then we can start looking for an apartment.

Actually, I say. "The