Don't Make a Sound: A Sawyer Brooks Thriller Page 2

  She’d returned to her run-down apartment with its rusty appliances and spotty plumbing, disillusioned but not defeated. Taking his words to heart, she’d decided to do something about the baggage he referred to. Starting with finding the cheapest therapist alive and telling her story.

  Of all those tragic memories, the night her sisters left was the most troubling, often as eerily vague as it was disturbingly real. Sawyer had been wearing her favorite nightgown, a light-pink cotton shift with a torn hem that fell below her knees. Out of breath and freezing cold, her heart hammering against her chest, she’d stood on the front porch of their old house in River Rock, staring into the night, praying it was all a bad dream and her sisters would return. That’s when a weighty hand had clamped down around her shoulder.

  It was Uncle Theo, the person left in charge whenever their parents took off in search of antiques and collectibles for their store downtown.

  Earlier that night, Uncle Theo had told Sawyer and her sisters he’d be out for an hour or two and to stay put. But he was back. His eyes were glassy, his forehead covered with sweat. He was angry with her sisters for taking off. It was her oldest sister, Harper, who usually calmed him when he got like this, but minutes earlier, Harper had driven away and abandoned her.

  Her uncle yanked Sawyer into the house and slammed the door shut. His hands were cold, but his breath was warm, reeking of liquor. Her shoulder felt as if it might pop out of its socket as he dragged her down the hallway. He kicked open the double doors leading into the living area. Four men waited inside, two of them sitting in her mother’s newly acquired nineteenth-century French Painted Rococo Boudoir chairs.

  Sawyer had no idea what was going on. She didn’t recognize anyone in the room. Why were they here?

  “She’s younger than the others,” her uncle announced in a booming voice that ricocheted off the walls. “Double the price if you’re still in. I’ll give you five minutes to make your decision.”

  “I’m in,” the man farthest away said without hesitation.

  “Me too,” said another.

  A third man nodded. “Same here.”

  The youngest man, the one wearing a suit and sitting in her father’s recliner, stood. He had a thick neck and a wide, square jaw. He walked toward her, his expression hard to read as he reached out and used one of his slender fingers to move a strand of hair away from her eyes.

  Her knees wobbled. “I want to go to bed.” She looked over her shoulder. Uncle Theo had left the room.

  Rooted in place, she didn’t move. Her heart beat so fast she thought she might collapse and die right there in front of the four strangers. Why would her uncle have left her alone with them? Nothing made any sense.

  The square-jawed man smiled at her as he leaned over and took her hand in his. “Come,” he said. “I’ll take you to your room.” His smile. Those sky-blue eyes and the soft lines around his mouth. She’d never forget him. For the two minutes it took to get to her room, she’d thought he was her savior.

  But he’d turned out to be the opposite.

  “Don’t make a sound,” he’d said after he closed the door and turned her way. He’d been Satan in the flesh, blue eyes and all, there to strip her of all goodness and light, spending hours on top of her, inside her, his sweat and sour breath all over her, leaving nothing for his friends but bones and whatever else made up the human body, including a darkened heart and a newfound aversion to being touched.

  A car honked. Sawyer slammed on her brakes. Tires squealed.

  Shit!

  A pedestrian attempting to cross at the red light slapped his hand against the hood of her car and shouted at her.

  Her fingers clutched the steering wheel. Her body trembled. She’d been lost in thought and could have killed him. The light turned green. She drove off. The navigation system on her cell phone informed her the apartment complex was a quarter of a mile ahead to the right. It was easy to find. A row of police cars lined the front of the building, lights swirling.

  As she turned into the parking lot, she assessed the area. A group of journalists stood to the left of the entrance, most likely waiting for an update from the police chief or a case detective. To the right, a group of people huddled together, consoling one another—neighbors, friends, and maybe family members.

  Sawyer parked in the back, away from the chaos. She shut off the engine. Chills washed over her. Someone was watching her. She looked around, took a breath, relaxed. Although nobody was looking her way, a young man—early thirties, she guessed—was sitting behind the wheel of a nearby truck. He’d backed into the space so that he was facing the apartment building. He had a bushy, dark beard, and his hair was mussed. He looked her way, his big brown eyes glistening and overly bright. Had he been crying?

  She grabbed her camera, raised it to eye level, and pressed the shutter button.

  His expression changed, his eyes suddenly darker, colder.

  Sawyer jumped out of the car, hoping to see a license plate. Tires squealed as he sped off. She raised her camera and pressed the shutter button. Another car pulled into the space next to hers. The driver was an elderly woman with silver hair pulled back with a clip. It took the woman a moment to climb out, retrieve her cane, and make her way to the trunk of her car.

  Sawyer looked from the line of police vehicles at the front of the building to the woman opening her trunk.

  An idea struck her.

  She tucked her lanyard inside her shirt, strapped her camera over her shoulder, and went to where the woman struggled with her groceries.

  “Let me help you,” Sawyer said.

  The woman looked relieved. “Are you sure? I live on the third floor.”

  “Not a problem.” Sawyer gathered two heavier bags, leaving the lightest for the woman to take before shutting the trunk and following her toward the entrance.

  “Do you live here?” she asked.

  “I moved in a few days ago. My name is Sawyer Brooks.”

  “Nancy Keener.”

  “Nice to meet you.” After a short pause, Sawyer added, “I wonder what happened.”

  “A young woman named Kylie was killed last night.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Vivian lives in the apartment next to mine, and she called me while I was getting groceries to let me know. I like to go to the store early before too many people clog the aisles.”

  “Did you know Kylie?”

  “Not well. She lived on the third floor too, but she’s usually gone during the day and tended to keep to herself. Vivian thinks it was Kylie’s boyfriend who killed her.”

  “Why?”

  Nancy shrugged. “He spent more time at her apartment than she did. Who else could it be?”

  She had a point. Fifty-four percent of murder victims were killed by someone they knew. Thirty-five percent of female victims were killed by their husband or boyfriend. Sad, but true.

  “Did he drive a red truck?”

  “I don’t know,” Nancy said.

  As they approached the front of the building, Sawyer caught sight of Sean Palmer at the edge of the crowd. He made eye contact and gave a subtle tilt of his head. Apparently, he’d been shut out and didn’t want to risk her being stuck outside the crime scene too.

  The woman Sawyer was following showed security her key card. He entered both their names into a logbook and let them through. The lobby was long and narrow, one wall covered with mailboxes, the other with mirrors. “I’ve never signed in before,” Sawyer said. “Have you?”

  “No. They probably don’t want a bunch of lookie-loos coming around right now.”

  Sawyer looked around for any signs of a camera. Nothing. A key card would get anyone inside. Crime scene tape blocked the stairway while evidence technicians took photographs of what looked like bloody footprints. Chills swept over her as she followed the old woman to the elevator, where they were quickly herded inside. A uniformed officer stood next to the control panel, her gaze unforgiving as she appeared to co
nsider them as potential killers. “What floor?” she asked.

  “Third,” Sawyer said confidently.

  “When you get off, stay to the left,” the officer said. “You’ll have to go the long way around. We’d appreciate it if you stayed in your apartment for the next few hours.”

  The elevator lurched to a stop. The doors opened. As Sawyer walked slowly behind the old woman, she had to stop herself from looking over her shoulder, since she could feel the officer’s gaze burning a hole into the back of her skull.

  She hardly took a breath until she heard the buzz of the elevator as it returned to the lobby. While Nancy dug around inside her purse for her keys, Sawyer looked at the apartment across the way. Markers dotted the walls. The door was wide open; an officer stood guard.

  When Nancy opened the door, Sawyer followed her inside. A minute later, Vivian, the next-door neighbor Nancy had mentioned earlier, joined them in the kitchen. Caught up in the drama of having a homicide right across the hallway, neither woman paid Sawyer much attention as she emptied the grocery items onto the counter, taking her time, hoping they would forget she was there.

  According to Vivian, Kylie Hartford worked for Good Day Sacramento, a popular morning show. “She was dressed up as a banana the other day, and it made me laugh,” Vivian told Nancy.

  “I thought it was a bit corny,” Nancy said. “But I did chuckle. Funny girl.”

  “That was Kylie,” Vivian said. “She was a bright and shining star. A dose of morning sunshine.”

  “Nancy said you thought Kylie’s boyfriend might have killed her,” Sawyer chimed in.

  Vivian looked her over as if seeing her for the first time. “Do I know you?”

  “She just moved in,” Nancy told her friend.

  The suspicious look on Vivian’s face disappeared. In a low, conspiratorial voice, she said, “I heard that Kylie’s boyfriend was some sort of engineer . . . No, not an engineer, an arborist?” She swatted her words away as if they were gnats. “Something to do with trees. Anyway, Kylie and this boy had been dating for five years, but according to Ruth on the second floor, Kylie recently went on a date with a handsome young man who also works on the morning show. Jealousy. Motivation. Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  “Do you know the handsome man’s name?” Sawyer asked.

  “Of course I do. His name is Matthew Westover.”

  Sawyer made a mental note of it. The two women chatted on about their favorite crime show and how the murderer was usually the most obvious suspect. Once it was clear Vivian was merely playing a guessing game, Sawyer said goodbye and made a quick exit. This might be her only chance to chat up the security officer she’d seen outside the crime scene.

  As she approached the elevator, she realized she might have lucked out. The uniformed officer she’d seen earlier was gone.

  Sawyer grabbed her camera still strapped around her neck, ready to shoot, and walked toward the apartment. Voices sounded in the back room. She knew how important it was not to disturb anything. Evidence had to be protected. Reaching into a bucket stationed outside the door, she grabbed a pair of shoe protectors and slipped them on.

  The place was a mess. From the looks of things, Kylie had put up a good fight. Plants had been knocked over; there was an open book on the floor and a broken picture frame. Fingerprint powder covered the coffee table. Drops of blood made a path across the hardwood floor. Markers followed the same path.

  Click. Click. Click.

  Down the hallway, she saw more blood. Had Kylie encountered her killer in the main room and then run to her bedroom? Sawyer had never seen so much blood. It was smeared on the walls and floor. She passed a closed door where someone was clearly losing their breakfast. Before reaching the room at the end of the hallway, she heard voices.

  “He’ll be fine. Give him a few more minutes.”

  Drawers were being opened and closed.

  “Looks like the girl lived alone.”

  The voices quieted. Sawyer took another step forward. She was about to turn around and head out when she glanced toward the room to her left and saw her.

  The dead girl.

  Kylie Hartford.

  She’d been strangled to death. Wire was still wrapped tightly around her neck, cutting into flesh. Her face was ashen, her eyes open, staring up at the ceiling fan. Other than Kylie’s body, a sewing machine, and a toolbox, the room was empty. Why, Sawyer wondered, did she run into this room and not straight ahead into her bedroom?

  She adjusted the lens of her Canon.

  Click. Click. Click.

  A puddle of blood had gathered to the left side of Kylie’s head, where Sawyer could see a gash. Her hair was matted and clumpy. In her grasp was a hammer. That’s why Kylie Hartford had come to this room.

  She zoomed in. Click. Click. Click.

  “What are you doing?” a male voice asked.

  Shit!

  He grabbed hold of her shoulder.

  “Get your hand off me,” she warned. Her heart pounded as she felt his fingers dig into her skin. Her vision blurred. She bent over, removed the memory card, then came up fast and grabbed hold of the man’s arm, twisting hard until he cried out.

  A second man appeared. “What the hell is going on?”

  “Let me go!” the first man said.

  The second man held up his badge. “Detective Perez. Do as he says. Release him.”

  She grudgingly let go of the man’s arm. He stepped away, his face red, his pride damaged. It took a moment for her mind to clear. The panic she’d felt when he’d touched her morphed into worry. Would she be arrested for entering the apartment?

  “Who are you?” Perez gestured toward the lanyard that hung around her neck and disappeared inside her shirt.

  She pulled the lanyard free and showed him her ID.

  “Are you here with Palmer?”

  She nodded. “He’s downstairs.”

  “Where’s Geezer?”

  “Out sick.”

  “Do you have pictures of the crime scene on your camera?”

  “No.”

  His eyes narrowed. He reached for her camera, and she hesitated before pulling the strap over her neck and handing it to him. After a moment, he gave it back to her. “Get out of here before I have you arrested.”

  The detective followed her through the apartment and out the main door. He stopped to look up and down at the uniformed officer standing in the hallway. “Where the hell were you?”

  “I had to pee.”

  “Leave this spot again and I’ll report you. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sawyer had already pushed the elevator button when she saw the detective marching toward her. She forced her shoulders to relax. Don’t check my pockets. If he did, she’d be up shit creek. The elevator doors opened. She stepped inside and turned around. His eyes bored into hers. “What’s your name?”

  “Sawyer Brooks.”

  “Step out here. I want to—”

  “Detective Perez,” someone called from inside Kylie’s apartment. “Found something you might want to see.”

  The doors clamped shut.

  Sawyer inhaled and tucked her lanyard back into her shirt, then hid her camera as best she could before the elevator lurched to a stop and the doors opened again. She walked toward the exit.

  “Hey, you,” a security guard called out as she passed.

  She could make a run for the parking lot, or she could see what he wanted. She stopped and waited.

  “I need you to sign out.”

  She walked his way, signed her name, jotted down the time of day.

  “I couldn’t find your name on the tenant list.”

  “I’m Nancy’s granddaughter.” He grabbed another list and was looking through it when she added, “Bad day to pay her a visit, but I’ll be back.” She left before he could question her further.

  Outside, Sawyer took in the sea of faces as she walked back to her car. The crowd had doubled. Sean Palmer was nowhere to be s
een.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sawyer was back in her cubicle, clacking away on her keyboard. It was ten minutes after six when she finished writing about the birthday party gone amiss. She ended the sad tale with key points about safety precautions around reptiles, then connected to her email service, composed a message to her boss, attached the file, and hit “Send.”

  Immediately after leaving the apartment building in West Sacramento where Kylie Hartford had been murdered, Sawyer had called Sean Palmer to tell him what she’d seen and heard. When he didn’t answer, she drove to the hospital where the boy had died from the venomous snakebite. Sawyer had been surprised to walk into the hospital’s main lobby and find Jason Carlson, the man who’d thought it was a good idea to pull out a poisonous reptile at his son’s party, sitting alone.

  When she found him, he’d been crying—noisy sobs between short, convulsive gasps. He must have needed to talk to someone, because all it had taken was for her to offer a bit of sympathy for him to open the floodgates. He hadn’t seemed to care that she was a reporter from a local paper. The man had talked freely, grief-stricken by what had happened.

  Sawyer had found herself feeling sorry for him. Not a reaction she’d expected after first hearing the story. Her sisters had accused her, on more than one occasion, of lacking empathy. But Sawyer disagreed. Rather than feeling overwhelmed by the suffering of others, she believed her compassion allowed her to keep emotion out of moments like this.

  Jason Carlson and his children had grown up around snakes. He swore his snakes were not aggressive and believed all the commotion that day had prompted the attack. But he also admitted to being naive to think something like this couldn’t happen. He wasn’t sure whether the boy’s parents intended to press charges, but he said he wouldn’t blame them for doing so.