Haunted Love Read online

  “There aren’t any big cinemas playing the latest blockbuster. There are no Olympic Games or new technology. This is a retirement plan, a second chance at an eternity for us to relax and enjoy the people we love. This is rarely done in life, and we often take the people we have for granted. This is a new chance to appreciate the people in your life.”

  Again, I think of my parents, and then of my grandpa who helped raise me and Flynn after their deaths. He will be here, too. Nana, as well, no doubt.

  I do want to see them. The fact that I can do that almost immediately is incredibly tempting, but I can’t agree to it. I can’t leave Flynn alone, not without ensuring he is going to be okay.

  “Sorry, Santa, but I want to go back. I need to.”

  He appears resigned, perhaps already coming to the realization that I was never going to back away from this decision.

  “It is your choice. I will need you to close your eyes and think about your life. Remember it all, because you’re in for a bumpy road.”

  “Will I see you again?”

  “I hope so. Close your eyes.”

  “For how long?” When fear takes hold of me, my knees wobbling anew, I try to take a deep breath.

  “You’ll sense when it is okay to open them.”

  I do as I’m told, immediately feeling a drop from beneath me as well as the sensation of falling.

  Being terrified of heights and afraid of what I will see, I keep my eyes tightly squeezed shut, feeling a brief hope that maybe this has all been some crazy dream.

  Was I drugged while I was at school perhaps? Or maybe I fell and hit my head at the grocery store? There are definitely some logical reasons I can apply to this. I could have even gone insane! However, when I stop falling—when I feel like I am on solid ground—I decide to be brave and open my eyes, hoping for any of those three options to be true. Anything other than what Santa said to me. Anything that isn’t what I know deep down to be all too real.

  Unfortunately, though, as I reluctantly open my eyes, my hope is shattered into a million pieces.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Aiden

  I stare blankly at the bright screen of my laptop, the words on the screen jumbling together until it hurts my eyes to try to comprehend what I’m staring at.

  It is late Monday night, and I’m sitting alone in my house after a long fourteen hour day. Even then, I’m still looking over the case I just closed today, finishing my report to hand in to my captain tomorrow.

  If I’m lucky, I might have a few days to recover; unfortunately, I am never that lucky. I don’t recall the last time I had a break from work which lasted longer than a day, and the cases keep piling up. There has been a severe shortage of detectives, partly because of the serial killer on the loose. The F.B.I. are officially working that case yet have requested several detectives to help. After almost two years of trying to catch the bastard, they are still no closer.

  Another reason we are short-staffed is because of all the arrests and firing of police officers and higher officials, all charged with corruption. There was a cancer running through our ranks, leaving a bitter taste not only in our mouths, but with the public.

  We might have cleared out the bad officers, but we lost the faith of the community. Now we are all putting in overtime to try to prove we are good and can be trusted. The resentment and scandal has died down a lot since the final arrest over two years ago, although the shame still burns within us all. As a result, while I’m exhausted and desperate for a few days of rest, I won’t complain if I get called in.

  As if my thoughts ask for it, my cell begins to ring. I answer immediately, closing down my laptop and rubbing my sore eyes while listening to my captain bark orders at me, not even bothering with a greeting.

  He states there has been a murder, lists off an address in Temple City, which thankfully, isn’t too far a drive from my home in West Covina, and then proceeds to tell me the basics of the case.

  A twenty-seven-year-old woman has been brutally murdered in her home.

  I stare longingly over at my fridge, wishing I had thought to make myself dinner earlier. I no longer have time, and since I skipped lunch, the bagel I ate for breakfast is going to have to keep me going for a while longer.

  I stand, grabbing my jacket off the back of my chair, and wince at the sore joints that ache. I might only be thirty years old, but sometimes, I feel about eighty. I have an unhealthy diet to go along with zero gym time. The only reason I am somewhat fit is because of my busy lifestyle and constant walking up and down stairs. I live in a two-story house, and Headquarters—where my precinct is situated on the sixth floor—currently does not have a single elevator that works. Neither does the air-conditioning, which should make for an interesting summer. Therefore, I am constantly moving and exercising.

  Part of the reason the elevators at Headquarters haven’t been fixed is because of budget cuts, but a bigger part is the martyr status of the higher ups who want to keep us off any radars. Asking for money to fix problems is not something that is going to happen unless we have some incredible good will, and we haven’t reached that yet. Add in that our morgue is situated close enough to walk, most of us travel by foot rather than risk driving in the usual hectic traffic.

  I run up my stairs and move quickly towards my bedroom, grabbing my gun out of the safe by my bed. I stare wistfully down at my mattress and wish I was sinking on top of it instead of getting ready to enter another crime scene.

  Before I leave my house, I get another call on my cell. A small hope blooms that maybe I’m being told not to worry about the new case, and I really can have the night off. Instead, I see the name on my cell reads Mom.

  I don’t often get phone calls from her, and I rarely call her back. It’s not because she’s an awful mother—because she isn’t—but rather because we don’t get along overly well.

  She hates my job, hates that I’m single, and hates that she has no grandchildren. As the oldest, it is apparently my job to set the example for my younger brother Max, so he is golden while I’m the black sheep.

  I still feel bad to ignore her calls; however, she always insists I talk to her about which case I’m working on, and she always feels worse after I have. The last time I spoke to her about a case—one which I toned down and left most of the details out—she hired a bodyguard for herself.

  I simply can’t deal with my mother often, so I don’t.

  ***

  I pull up to a quaint house in a quiet neighborhood. I haven’t investigated any murders in this area, and after a quick check before I left home, I know the most recent murder within a twenty block radius was four years ago. The biggest crime this area has seen since is some vandalism and a few stolen cars. Gangs aren’t overly active here, and this is an area the serial killer, The Surgeon, has yet to tarnish. This is an area many want their kids to go to school in and want their families to live in. This case is going to get a lot of media attention, and make people scared as well as demand answers.

  I am a damn good detective, having been promoted from working in the narcotics division only four years ago. I will give them the answers they’re after. Unfortunately, the public and grieving families often assume they will get answers quickly, since they would if this weren’t real life. Movies and TV shows have warped people’s expectations on how quickly a case can close. However, I can’t work that fast and neither can our coroners or the techs that run our evidence through the labs. Too many crimes scenes, not enough manpower or proper equipment to work it all quickly enough. Plus, the serial killer case has first priority over everything right now.

  I get out of my car, already seeing two news’ vans pulled up to the edge, looking beyond the police tape. Bright lights have been set up to make it easy for crime scene investigators to collect evidence and for us to see where we’re going.

  At the edge of the four small steps leading up to the front door, I place on a full body disposable suit to keep any contaminant on me from coming off at the
scene. Over my boots, I put ridiculous booties on and then place gloves on so I’m completely covered.

  “Mercer, that you?” Jones, my captain, calls out from the top of the stairs, his head poking out the front door. He appears angry, and I wonder if I will receive the brunt of that. It’s always a tossup on whether he keeps it all inside or blows up in someone’s face. No one usually blames him when he does—he’s more overworked than any of us, putting in more hours, and he’s an excellent detective. He overseas every case and often has some wise ideas when one of us gets stuck. He has the best cop instincts of anyone I know, and I look up to him, not that I will ever tell him that. He’s barely five-foot and will sock me one to my guts if he thinks I’m poking fun at him. He packs one hell of a right hook, too.

  “Yeah, captain,” I call up to him, taking a deep breath and preparing myself for what I’m about to face.

  It doesn’t ever get any easier, but for some reason, I feel like this one is going to be extra hard. Maybe it’s all the sullen faces surrounding me, maybe it’s because of the unease I have felt since looking up this area. For Jones to have called me, I know this isn’t going to be good. I often get stuck with the bad ones yet never this quickly after closing a case. I almost always get a breather of at least a half day. I haven’t even handed my report to him yet.

  “Hurry up; the M.E. wants to move her.” He disappears back into the house as I slowly make my way up the outside steps. Not because I’m trying to drag my feet at what I’m about to see, but because it’s part of my process.

  I stare at the broken concrete at the base of the stairs, seeing weeds already growing inside. It happened a while ago.

  At the top of the stairs is a small patio. The ground is cement, but there is an outdoor rug which brings light and color to the area. Potted plants surround the edge, and a two-seater bench swings in the slight breeze. The front window besides the swing has been broken, which suggests this is the most likely place the murderer gained entry. A woman living on her own isn’t likely to leave a broken window unfixed. However without the artificial lights which are shining on us now the broken window would most likely have been easily overlooked by the victim.

  The front door has been broken open, but I’m told the uniformed police did that after a 911 call from the victim asking for help. She only managed a few mumbled words before she died, but the call was traced here, and she was found a mere ten minutes after she passed away. A search of the area was conducted, but nothing turned up. It means that, if the killer left via the front door, he or she locked it on their way out, which is interesting. It says he or she was either acting out of habit, which suggests it was someone the victim knew and perhaps someone who stayed here often or lived with her. Or it was someone who was in the state of mind to be aware that the door would usually be locked and possibly was trying to hide what had happened.

  Just inside the door, there is a tall table with a handbag and keys resting atop. I assume the victim placed these here after arriving home. I glance at the photos hanging along the wall. A woman is present in a lot of them, and I assume she is the victim. I ran her name on the drive over and found nothing of interest there. No arrests, not even so much as a parking ticket. She was a third-grade teacher who had been employed since her graduation from UCLA three years ago.

  I notice how attractive she is, but I also see a difference in some of the photos. There are several from her childhood with whom I assume are family and friends. Many of them are with a younger man who shares her brown eyes and dark hair color. They have other similar facial features; therefore, I assume this must be her brother. I recall reading on my way here his name is Flynn Bell. There is an older man who is often with them; a father, grandparent, or maybe an uncle, I would guess. I don’t see any mother in the photos, but there is one with a younger couple. The woman has a baby in her arms; the man, a small girl, perhaps four or five years old, sitting on his lap. I assume these must be her parents. Given that they are not in many photos, I assume there was either a falling out or they passed away.

  “Mercer, do you want to see the body or not? We don’t have all day,” Jones yells down at me from the top of the stairs.

  I slowly make my way up, taking a peek at the rooms I see along the way.

  There is a change in atmosphere when I’m at a crime scene. The temperature drops, the air becomes stagnate, and every part of my body switches to high alert. I find that I take in every detail, which can come in handy when I’m working a case. Unfortunately, it also often lives on inside my mind for years after the case is finished. It can make for some vivid nightmares.

  I step into the victim’s bedroom and purposely glance around the room, knowing I’m avoiding the actual scene. This is also part of my process. Once I have seen the body, that moment touches everything else I see. I look at the victims’ photos and see the dead body. I look at their personal items and wonder if any of it was used to bash a victim. I prefer to see everything from one point of view, and then, after I see the victim, I go through it again from another perspective.

  Everything is neat and tidy, placed away in drawers and the closet. There is minor jewelry out on the bedside table, making it appear not to be a robbery. Although, that was fairly obvious from the untouched TV I saw downstairs and the computer sitting on the desk in the spare room I just passed.

  More photos are scattered along the walls, and some books are stacked up on a shelf. I take a quick peek in the attached bathroom.

  Two men are collecting evidence, but it mostly looks clean and simple. I nod at one of the men when he addresses me by name. I often forget the crime scene workers, usually because my mind is already taking in the scene and focusing on that. I also don’t have time for making friends or learning names.

  Finally, I step back out into the main bedroom and look at the victim.

  Gone is the beautiful woman full of life in the photos. Instead, her dark brown hair is lifelessly spread out above her, tangled and matted with blood. Her wide open eyes are bloodshot and glazed—a clear sign of strangulation. Bruises over her neck support that theory.

  Her face is also bruised and bloody. Her wrists are still bound, and her cell phone rests between them, obviously still there from when she called 911. A sheet hides from view the other injuries she has, but I doubt that deterred the first responders.

  “Lay it on me,” I tell the M.E.

  “Female, Theresa Bell, aged twenty-seven—going by her identification—probable strangulation. Dead for three hours. There are cuts along her arms, legs, and throat, suggesting the perpetrator had a knife. None of the cuts are deep. The bruises are mostly concentrated around her head and ribs. Her wrists were bound, and I won’t know for sure until I get her back to the morgue, but I’d put my money on rape.”

  I nod, not really able to speak. Well, several swear words come to mind, but I keep them in. The killer is definitely a man.

  Usually around now, someone will make a joke. Not to be an asshole, but because a scene like this is too much to take. How are any of us meant to go home tonight and not see this poor woman? Not think about her last moments of terror with her probable rapist and murderer? It’s the only way we can try to lighten our mood, try not to get lost in this sick and twisted moment. A joke, a lighthearted comment, or even just a change of subject for a few seconds takes everyone out of this dark place and gives them a breather.

  But not now, not this scene.

  My fists ball in anger, really wanting to punch someone. I save my anger for later, though; I’ll need it to fuel this case.

  “Why did I only just get the call half an hour ago?” I ask Jones.

  “I know you only just finished up on the Caffery case. I didn’t intend for you to take this. You’re stretched thin, and I thought I’d take care of this one myself since everyone else is already on cases. But I got a call an hour ago for a triple homicide. It appears gang-related. I thought I’d give you the more straight up one. In cases like this… Well, it�
�s usually someone the victim knows. Hoping this one won’t take too much time.”

  “Are we okay to move her now?” the M.E. asks.

  I nod my head again, turning away from her.

  Her youth is trying to consume me, even if she is only three years younger than me. I hate having to work cases involving kids, and the innocence in those photos makes this victim appear not much different. This woman had everything to live for, and some bastard took that away from her. Not only that, he did it in a sick and depraved way.

  No way will I let him get away with that.

  I look up, sensing movement from the corner of my eye, and I swear to God, the victim is standing directly in front of me.

  Her eyes aren’t looking at me, but at her murdered self. This woman’s hair is longer, less tangled, and she shows none of the bruises or cuts that are on her body now, but I swear it is the same woman. Does she have a twin? Why is there a family member in here with the body? Why is everyone moving around her like she’s not even there?

  I blink several times then rub my eyes and glance at her again. She doesn’t change.

  She is wearing plain jeans and a loose grey long-sleeved T-shirt that has the number two written on it as if it’s a jersey. Her long hair is pulled up into a ponytail, and I realize she looks much like one of the photos I saw on her wall earlier, one where she was standing next to her brother.

  Am I hallucinating? Is this what my lack of sleep has caused to happen?

  I glance around the room again, watching as women and men work to move the victim’s body onto the gurney. No one is taking any notice of the very alive victim standing in the room with us.

  Just as I rub my eyes again, wondering how strange I would look to everyone if I start to hit my head against a wall, an anguished cry erupts from downstairs.

  Moving on autopilot, I rush out of the room, unzipping my coverall down the front and touching my gun attached to the side of my belt. I race down the stairs three at a time and first see two uniforms trying to hold back a man—the source of the noise.