If She Ran. Блейк Пирс

dried blood splattered everywhere.

      “May we?” Kate asked.

      The two policemen shrugged and stepped back. “By all means,” one said. “With a detective and the bureau on this, we’ll happily leave you to it.”

      “Have fun,” the other cop said as they turned away and headed back to the mouth of the alleyway.

      Kate and DeMarco crowded in around the body. Pritchard stepped back to allow them some extra room, but kept close.

      “Well,” DeMarco said, “I’d say the immediate cause of death is pretty clear.”

      This was true. There was a single bullet hole in the back of the man’s head, the hole rather clean but the rim of it charred and gory—just like Frank Nobilini’s. It was a man, in his late thirties or early forties if Kate had to venture a guess. He was wearing high-end athletic wear, a thin zip-up hoodie, and nice jogging pants. The laces of his expensive running shoes were tied perfectly and the Apple ear buds he had been listening to sat neatly to his side, as if placed there intentionally.

      “We have an ID yet?” Kate asked.

      “Yeah,” Pritchard said. “Jack Tucker. The ID in his wallet places his residence in the town of Ashton. Which, to me, was an even stronger connection to the Nobilini case.”

      “Are you familiar with Ashton, Detective?” Kate asked.

      “Not very. Been through there a few times, but it’s not my kind of place. Too perfect, too quaint and sickeningly sweet.”

      She knew what he meant. She couldn’t help but wonder what he was going to feel like, having to return to Ashton.

      “When was the body discovered?” DeMarco asked.

      “Four thirty this afternoon. I arrived on the scene at a quarter after five and made all those connections. I had to beg them not to move the body until you guys got here. I figure you’d need to see the scene, body and all.”

      “I bet that made you popular,” Kate commented.

      “Oh, I’m used to it. I wish I was joking when I tell you that a lot of the cops around here call me Cold Case Pritchard.”

      “Well, I think on this one, you made the right call,” Kate said. “Even if it turns out not to be connected, there’s still someone out there that shot this man—someone that we need to find just in case this isn’t an isolated incident.”

      “Yeah, no clue on my end,” Pritchard said. “I have a few voice memos with my observations if you’d like to check them out.”

      “That could be helpful. I assume forensics has already snapped pictures?”

      “Yeah. The digitals are probably already available.”

      With that, Kate got to her feet, her eyes still on Jack Tucker’s body. His head was tilted to the right, as if he were staring longingly at the earbuds that had been so carefully placed by his side.

      “Has the family been notified?” DeMarco asked.

      “No. And I fear that because I asked the PD to hold off on moving the body and getting the case moved along, they’re going to task me with it.”

      “If it’s all the same, I’d prefer to do it,” Kate said. “The fewer channels the details are being processed through, the better.”

      “If that’s what you want.”

      Kate finally looked away from the body of Jack Tucker and then to the mouth of the alley where the two cops were congregating with the cop who had lifted the tape. She had delivered such devastating news more times than she cared to count and it was never easy. In fact, somehow, it seemed to get harder and harder.

      But she had also learned that strangely enough, it was in the sharp and agonizing throes of grief that those suffering loss seemed to be able to remember the most minute of details.

      Kate hoped it would hold true in this case.

      And if so, maybe an unsuspecting new widow could help her close a case that had haunted her for nearly a decade.

      CHAPTER THREE

      It was only a twenty-minute drive from midtown to Ashton. It was 9:20 when they left the crime scene and the Friday night traffic remained stubborn and grueling. As they came out of the worst of the traffic and onto the freeway, Kate noticed that DeMarco was unusually quiet. She was in the passenger’s seat, staring almost defiantly out the window at the passing cityscape.

      “You okay over there?” Kate asked.

      Without turning toward Kate, DeMarco answered right away, making it clear that something had been on her mind since leaving the crime scene.

      “I know you’ve been at this awhile and know the ropes, but I’ve only ever had to break the news of a dead family member one time before. I hated it. It made me feel awful. And I really wish you had checked with me before volunteering us for it.”

      “I’m sorry. I didn’t even think about that. But it is part of the job in some cases. At the risk of sounding cold, it’s best to start getting used to it right off the bat. Besides…if we’re running the case, what’s the point in delegating this miserable task to that poor detective?”

      “Still…how about a little heads-up on things like that in the future?”

      The tone in her voice was one of anger, something she had not heard from DeMarco before—not directed toward her, anyway. “Yeah,” she said, and left it at that.

      They drove the rest of the way into Ashton in silence. Kate had worked enough cases where she had to break the news of a death to know that any tension between partners was going to make the matter so much worse. But she also knew that DeMarco wasn’t the type who was going to listen to any lessons she had to deliver while she was pissed off. So maybe this one, Kate thought, would be something she could simply learn by living it out.

      They arrived at the Tucker residence at 9:42. Kate was not at all surprised to see that the porch light, as well as just about every other light in the house, was on. From the looks of Jack Tucker’s attire, he had been out for a morning jog. The question of why his body had been in the city, though, presented many questions. All of those questions presumably led to one very concerned wife.

      A concerned wife who is about to find out she’s now a widow, Kate thought. My God, I hope they don’t have kids.

      Kate parked in front of the house and got out of the car. DeMarco followed suit, only slower, as if to make sure to let Kate know that she was not at all happy about this particular detail. They walked up the flagstone walk toward the steps and Kate watched as the front door opened before they even made it to the porch.

      The woman at the door saw them and froze. It looked as if she were working very hard to come up with what words she wanted to speak. In the end, all she could muster was: “Who are you?”

      Kate slowly reached into her jacket pocket for her ID. Before she could even fully show it or give her name, the wife already knew. It showed in her eyes and the way her face slowly started to crumple. And as Kate and DeMarco finally reached the porch steps, Jack Tucker’s wife went to her knees in the doorway and began to wail.

***

      As it turned out, the Tuckers did have kids. Three of them, in fact, ages seven, ten, and thirteen. They were all still awake, lingering in the living room while Kate did her best to get the wife—Missy, she managed to introduce herself through her wailing and sobs—inside and sitting down. The thirteen-year-old came rushing to her mother’s side while DeMarco did her best to keep the others away while their mother came to terms with the devastating news that she had just been handed.

      In a way, Kate realized that maybe she had jumped the gun on DeMarco. The first twenty minutes she spent in the Tucker home that night were gut-wrenching. She could only think of one other moment in her career that was as heartbreaking. She looked over at DeMarco, both during and after she had tried to corral the kids, and saw the defiance and anger there. Kate figured this might be something that DeMarco held