Right Behind Her (Bree Taggert) Page 4

  The makeshift camp had been set up in the far corner. An old lawn chair sat next to a wooden box. A battery-powered lantern and a flashlight occupied the box. A sleeping bag had been rolled out. Next to it stood a beat-up wheelie suitcase and an old-fashioned footlocker.

  Matt pointed to the trunk. “How did he even get that up here?”

  Bree took out her camera. “I don’t know, but he took some time and care to clean and set up this space.” She began taking pictures.

  Matt pulled gloves out of his pocket and tugged them on. He squatted next to the suitcase and opened it. Both sides were full of neatly folded clothes. Matt riffled through brand-name jeans and shirts. “These are not Goodwill finds.”

  Leaning over his shoulder, Bree snapped a photo. “No.”

  “Sheriff?” Oscar called from the ladder. “Where do you want us to start?”

  “In the loft. Bring plenty of evidence bags and boxes. Everything up here needs to be bagged and tagged,” Bree answered.

  Matt found underwear and socks in the zippered compartment. He closed the suitcase and moved on to the footlocker. The lock was broken. Matt lifted the lid. The trunk was full of random, odd personal items: a shoebox of baseball cards, a coin collection, a model airplane, a few cartoon character jelly jar glasses, and rocks. He moved aside a stack of graphic novels to reveal two cartons of cigarettes, a handful of matchbooks, a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label—and at least twenty white pills in a plastic bag. He called out to Bree, “Found more drugs.”

  Matt lifted the lid of another shoebox. Rocks. “Except for the alcohol and cigarettes, he collects things like a ten-year-old.” He replaced the lid and closed the footlocker.

  Bree moved to the sleeping bag, which had been neatly zipped over a pillow. She unzipped it and folded back the top layer. “Shit.” She fell back onto her haunches.

  “What is it?” Matt leaned over her shoulder.

  Nestled on the pillow was another skull.

  “Another victim?” Matt asked.

  “Seems like it.” Bree pointed to a small, neat hole in the skull. “And that looks like a bullet hole.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It was late afternoon when Bree walked from the fenced-in parking lot through the back door of the sheriff’s station. Several hours at a crime scene in a mid-July heat wave had left her feeling wilted. The anthropologist had brought several grad students with him, so the site assessment, mapping, and other pre-excavation preparatory work were progressing at a rapid clip.

  In the squad room, Deputy Oscar worked at a computer. He’d left the scene before she had, but his cheeks were still ruddy from the heat.

  She stopped next to his desk. “Where’s Shawn Castillo?”

  “In interview room one.”

  “Not in holding?”

  Oscar looked up, but he didn’t directly meet Bree’s gaze. “Collins is booking a big, bad-tempered suspect. I didn’t want them to mingle.”

  Though the interview rooms were normally occupied by witnesses, not arrestees, his reasoning was sound. The sheriff’s station was simply too small—one more reason the department needed better funding.

  Oscar added, “FYI, Castillo’s lawyer is on the way anyway.” He handed her the arrest report. “Your copy.”

  Bree read through it. Seemed complete.

  She folded the report in half. “What about his background?”

  “No priors.”

  Surprised, Bree asked, “Employed?”

  “No.”

  Bree plugged his address into her phone’s map application. “He lives in an awfully nice neighborhood for an unemployed man. And why was he camping in a barn? This makes no sense.”

  Oscar didn’t comment.

  “Let me know if you find anything interesting.” She checked her watch. Matt should be here any minute. He’d been helping to set up the tent over the bones when Bree had left, his height proving useful.

  She headed to her office. Once inside, Bree sat behind her desk, a battle-worn and scarred hunk of furniture the size of a Cadillac that she’d inherited from the previous sheriff. It was too large for the room, but Bree liked being able to spread out her files. Leaning back in her chair, she called Todd, who was still at the scene. After he answered, she asked, “Where do we stand on fingerprints on the drug evidence?”

  “It all went to the fingerprint tech at county.”

  “Thanks.” Bree ended the call, phoned the latent-fingerprint tech, and asked her to rush a comparison with Shawn’s prints. “I’d like to know before I interview him.”

  “I can do it right now,” the tech agreed.

  “Thank you.” Bree set down her phone.

  Her administrative assistant, Marge, entered, a pen and notepad in her hand.

  Bree tucked the arrest report into a manila file where she’d put her own notes. “Any messages or news?”

  She was readily available through email and voice mail, but a few citizens of Randolph County still insisted on calling the sheriff’s station and leaving a message with a live person.

  “Two things. Neither of which are going to make you happy. One, the date and time for your budget meeting was changed again.” Marge lifted the reading glasses that hung from a chain around her neck and placed them on her nose. She squinted at her notepad. “To tomorrow afternoon.”

  “It was supposed to be next Tuesday.” Bree swallowed a curse. “I’m scheduled to attend the autopsy on that overdose victim tomorrow.”

  “I know.” With her pen poised above the paper, Marge looked over her half glasses. “Do you want me to reschedule the budget meeting?”

  “No. They’ve postponed this meeting three times.” Bree huffed. She had already submitted a proposal. Now, two members of the public safety committee, Elias Donovan and Richard Keeler, wanted to discuss her proposal.

  Marge went to Bree’s door and closed it. Then she perched on one of the two guest chairs facing Bree’s desk. “They know you want more money. They don’t want to give it to you, but you are very popular right now. So, they are going to drag the process out as long as possible, try to wear you down, hope you’ll cave on some of your requests just to get the process moving.”

  Bree knew all this. She’d padded her initial budget to allow room for negotiation. When she’d been appointed sheriff back in February, she’d taken over a department in shambles. After the former sheriff’s death, the department had hemorrhaged deputies. Bree had hired a handful, but every patrol was still short-staffed. Equipment needed replacing. Staff needed training. The station needed to be updated. Female officers—including Bree—didn’t have a locker room. She wanted to replace the K-9 unit the department had lost three years before when Matt and his dog were shot. All those things required money. Bree had to prioritize.

  In the year the county hadn’t had a sheriff, some funds allocated to the department had gone unused, and the county had reduced the budget. Bree would have to fight for every nickel.

  Marge wrote a note, then looked up and fixed Bree with an unhappy stare.

  “Let me guess,” Bree said. “Your second point is worse.”

  “Much.” Marge nodded. “The man Oscar just brought in, Shawn Castillo, is the brother of Elias Donovan.”

  “Shit.”

  Elias also sat on the county board of supervisors. He was a BFD in local politics.

  “Yes,” Marge agreed.

  “They don’t share a last name.”

  “Technically, I think they’re half brothers or stepbrothers.” Marge’s face creased. “I don’t remember which.”

  “What were the chances?” Bree sighed.

  “With Shawn, they were pretty good,” Marge said, as if she knew him. But then, she knew everyone. Of all Bree’s employees, Marge had worked for the department the longest. “This isn’t the first time he’s broken the law, though he hasn’t been in here for several years.”

  “He doesn’t have a record.”

  Marge lifted both eyebrows, stared at Bree
, and waited.

  “Oh.” Bree rubbed her forehead. She should have guessed. She needed more coffee. “He’s always been given a pass because his brother is on the board of supervisors.” The prior sheriff had been old-school—and corrupt.

  “Elias has a lot of money.”

  Bree turned to her computer and accessed the motor vehicle records. She compared Elias’s address to Shawn’s. “Shawn lives on the same road as Elias. Their house numbers are one digit apart.”

  “Elias built him a guesthouse just down the road from his own, on his property. If Elias didn’t house him, Shawn would be homeless.” Marge humphed. “Personally, I think the arrest will be good for Shawn. He needs help, and if he’s never held accountable, he won’t get it. It’s not healthy for a person to be given everything.”

  “Is Elias Donovan going to hold this against me?” Bree asked. She’d met Elias a few times, but only in a large group. She didn’t have a good feel for him. However, she suspected today’s events would not help her win him over.

  Marge tapped her pen on her pad. “Honestly, I don’t know. He won’t do it outwardly. If anything, look for something passive-aggressive.”

  “Wonderful.” The sarcasm tasted bitter on Bree’s tongue. She hadn’t even had the chance to argue for her budget, and she already had one giant strike against her. “What else do you know about Elias?” She’d tried to catch him after the monthly public safety committee meetings, but he always seemed to disappear.

  Marge made a wry face. “He’s been in county government for decades. He has the kind of money that allows him to manage his money rather than have a real job. He is the primary reason county taxes have not been raised in years. Basically, he gets elected every year on a no-new-taxes pledge.”

  “Unfortunately, operating costs don’t remain the same.”

  “Which is why the county is broke,” Marge finished. “No one wants to pay taxes, even if they like the services their taxes provide. Elias is smart, and he has charisma. Not everyone likes him, but when he talks, people listen.”

  “How did he make his money?”

  “Elias was still a young man when his father left him a small inheritance. He was smart about investments. He bought land and commercial properties during the recession in the early ’80s, and again in 1990. He sold off or developed that land after the market recovered. He went about it ruthlessly and definitely made some enemies. He’ll seem refined, but be careful. He’s a shark in business transactions.”

  “Is there a best strategy with him?” Bree asked.

  “Other than going back in time and not arresting his brother?”

  “Yeah.” Not that Bree would have considered that an option.

  Marge turned up a palm.

  Bree conceded with a nod. She would never let budget negotiations affect her decision to arrest Shawn. She had to play along with local politics, but she couldn’t allow them to change how she did her job. She wouldn’t use a man’s arrest as leverage against his brother. But would Elias use the incident against her?

  “Moving on to the second committee member, Richard Keeler,” she said.

  Marge continued. “Keeler doesn’t come from money, but he married into it. His wife is from the FitzGeorge family.”

  “Should I know that name?” Bree asked.

  “They build custom sailing yachts. They also dabble in horse breeding.”

  “She’s from old money.”

  “The company was founded in the 1800s,” Marge said. “Richard went to the university on a baseball scholarship. He married Susanna FitzGeorge right after graduation. Everyone thought he’d go pro, and he was picked up by a minor league team for a year or two, but that was as far as his career went. He came back to Grey’s Hollow and started working for his wife’s family business. The factory is located in Hyde, on the Hudson River. Many people around here still worship him as a college baseball star. He has quasi-celebrity status. With his wife’s money and influence behind him . . . Let’s just say making him an adversary will make your life—and meeting your budget—difficult.” Marge stood. “So, in short, you’re going to have to squeeze them for every nickel, but you have to do it without making enemies. Be diplomatic.”

  “Not my strong suit.” Bree mentally cursed Shawn Castillo and his crappy timing. “Tomorrow should be fun.”

  “Yeah. Good luck with that.” Marge brushed the wrinkles out of her practical black slacks. “The good news is that I just made fresh coffee.”

  “Thanks.” Bree rose.

  Marge patted her own dyed brown hair, sprayed into a curly do. “You’re going to want to fix your hair.”

  Bree opened the middle drawer of her desk, pulled out a small compact, and checked her reflection. Tackling Shawn Castillo had knocked out her bun. Sweat and humidity had turned her loose hair into a frizzy, fright-wig mess. She fished through the drawer for bobby pins. At thirty-five, she’d been a cop long enough to redo her bun without looking. Hair was always neatly secured when in uniform.

  “Better.” Marge nodded in approval.

  “One more thing.”

  Marge raised a brow.

  “I need you to pull some old records for me,” Bree said.

  Matt had said she shouldn’t assume her father was the killer, but the remains had been buried in her family’s old backyard.

  “How old?” Marge asked.

  “Before 1993. Any arrest records or case files for Jake Taggert and Mary Taggert.”

  “Are you sure you want to go there?”

  “Positive.”

  Marge gave her an all right then nod and wrote herself a note.

  “I want their homicide case file as well.” If Bree could not outrun her past, she would have to face it.

  “I’ll have this today or tomorrow.” Marge snapped her notepad closed. “Physical files this old are in the basement.”

  Bree cracked her knuckles. Time to deal with Shawn Castillo. With Shawn’s file tucked under her arm, she left her office. She headed for the break room and filled a mug with coffee. She added a little cream to cool it enough to drink half the mug in three big swallows.

  Matt walked in looking as worn out as Bree felt. Above his tightly trimmed beard, his face was flushed from the heat. His short, reddish-brown hair was damp with sweat. At six three, he was built like a Hollywood Viking. In a movie, he’d be played by Chris Hemsworth. His eyes were a piercing blue, and sweat that would be gross on anyone else looked damned fine on him.

  Back to work, Bree.

  “Coffee or water?” she asked.

  “Are we killing time while he stews?”

  Bree sipped from her mug. “I’m stalling while I wait for the fingerprint examiner to call.”

  “In that case, I’ll have both.” He stopped at the watercooler, filled a stainless-steel bottle, and drank deeply. “And maybe a snack.”

  He bought a pack of Peanut M&M’s and a bag of almonds from the vending machine.

  “Everything settled at the scene?” She poured coffee into a second mug.

  “Yes.” He set his water bottle on the counter and traded the bag of M&M’s for a coffee.

  Bree opened her package and ate a candy. “I don’t like leaving the remains overnight. It feels disrespectful. The victims have been waiting for years to be found. They deserve better.”

  Matt chugged his coffee, then started on the almonds. “Deputy Juarez will guard the remains overnight. Nothing will happen. What those victims deserve is justice, and proper excavation will ensure the best chance of finding out who they were and who killed them.”

  “I know.” But Bree didn’t have to like it.

  Matt ate a handful of almonds. Turning, he lowered his voice. “How are you dealing with finding the remains at your family’s house?”

  Bree felt the scrutiny of his intense blue eyes. He saw right through her.

  “At first it was a shock,” she admitted. “But as I said earlier, I already know my father murdered my mother. If he killed a few mor
e people, it shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone.” Bree took a deep breath. She’d been trying to outrun her horrific past her whole life, but it seemed violence was determined to snap at her heels. Would tragedy always be right behind her?

  Shaking it off, she explained about the relationship between Shawn Castillo and Elias Donovan.

  “That’s unbelievably bad luck,” Matt said.

  “Right? I’ll miss an autopsy tomorrow afternoon.”

  Matt caught her gaze. “Do you have another homicide case?”

  “I don’t think so. It was an OD, most likely accidental.”

  “Then why did you want to attend the autopsy?”

  Bree shrugged. “Just in case the ME finds something suspicious.” She pictured the victim’s grieving parents. “His death deserves as much of my attention as any other unnatural death. I like to dot my i’s and all that.”

  “You like to make life hard for yourself.”

  “Maybe I do,” she admitted. “Randolph County has had a dozen overdose deaths this year, and it’s only July. Something has to be done about the opioid crisis.”

  “Bree, you can’t be everything to everyone. You’re only one person.”

  Bree nodded. “You’re right. I need to improve my work–personal life balance.”

  Marge knocked on the doorframe and poked her head into the room. “Shawn Castillo’s attorney is here. I put him in with his client.”

  “Thank you, Marge.” Bree mentally cursed. She had wanted to know if they had a fingerprint match before she spoke with Shawn and his lawyer, but she’d have to wing it.

  Her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen. “This is her.” Bree answered, then asked, “Were you able to pull any prints from the backpack?”

  “The texture of the backpack exterior fabric was too rough,” the tech began.

  Not a surprise.

  “What about the objects inside?” Bree remembered plenty of smooth surfaces, including the bag of prescription pills.