Hide (Detective Harriet Foster #1)(8)

Lonergan nodded. “Yeah, but see if you can get her to turn off all that drama before we get back, huh?”

He didn’t wait to see how his words landed or the puzzled look on Hernandez’s face. Foster sighed, nodded a thanks to the PO, and met up with him at the inner perimeter, the duo ducking under the red tape together to stand next to the leaves and the two male POs guarding them. Some of the leaves, Foster noticed, were wet with dew, while others were as desiccated as old bone. The foot was pale, slightly bluish where blood had settled, the victim’s toenail polish the only sign of vibrancy. It had been cold overnight, barely out of the forties. Foster wondered how long the body had been lying here out in the open, discarded like a tossed-away paper cup.

“You sure she’s dead and not sleeping one off like the other guy?” Lonergan asked the tall officer next to him.

Foster slipped into a pair of nitrile gloves, moving cautiously around the leaves, noticing where they’d been brushed away from the woman’s neck and chin to reveal long red hair. The responding officer, Giannis, according to his nameplate, had likely checked for a pulse and hadn’t found one. She was sure they wouldn’t have gotten called up if someone here had found signs of life. No one wanted to be that cop. Foster had an idea what was coming and didn’t have to wait long for it.

“Detective,” Giannis said, his voice as cold as a headstone in January. “We made sure she wasn’t just ‘sleeping one off’ before we elevated the call. Then we sealed off the area, as you see it now. The young man, who was breathing when we arrived, was taken for medical eval. The body we left in situ.”

Lonergan’s eyes widened. “In what?” He checked for the name. “Jaynus?”

Giannis stared at him straight faced. “Giannis. Gee-ah-nis. In situ, meaning we left the body where we found it, undisturbed, except for me checking for a pulse.”

Lonergan grumbled, then moved around the body. Foster hid her smile. The other POs stood close, doing the same. So it wasn’t just her, she thought. Lonergan was an equal-opportunity pain in the ass.

Foster squatted down and pressed her fingers lightly to the woman’s neck to confirm. She checked her eyes, frozen, fixed, the irises blue with a grayish tint. Brushing leaves gently away as though she were lightly pushing back a wayward strand of loose hair, she found the woman’s left wrist and gently felt for a pulse there, too, but again there was nothing. She was gone. But there was something there—a red ring, paint or something—circling the wrist. She didn’t dare explore further, not yet.

As the heels of her ankle boots sank into the damp grass, Foster brushed more leaves away, uncovering the woman as far as her chest. She appeared to be naked. Just past the corpse’s sternum, Foster saw the uneven edges of a bloody gash and was hit by the tang of fresh blood, like rusted pipe or wet coins, mixing with the musty earthiness off the river. She pulled her hand away.

For a moment, she simply squatted there, marking the woman’s passing and the loss of life. Then she stood up and backed away, mindful of where she placed her feet. She’d gone as far as she dared, just far enough to confirm that this was homicide, not a lie-down after a wild night. She looked over at Lonergan and then to the somber POs, including Giannis. “Okay. Let’s get the techs in here. Find out what we’ve got.”

This was going to be bad. She could feel it.



“Yep. This is bad.” The ME tech, Sal Rosales, looked grim as he knelt beside the body, gently flicking back the leaves with gloved fingers.

Foster stood well back along with Lonergan and the POs, now playing the part of observers. The case started here with Rosales. He would confirm manner of death, though it only took a single look to venture a guess. An approximate time of death would also be important. It would establish their timeline. The rest she and Lonergan and the team would have to work out with shoe leather and experience over countless sleepless nights. Foster watched as Rosales went in for the body temp, then she turned away to glance up at the bridge at the people gawking, their phones recording Lord knew what. What was the communal fascination with violent death? What did they gain from watching it, filming it? Maybe if they saw the body from down here instead of up there, where they were safe and removed, they’d think differently. This woman, whoever she was, had belonged to someone. Someone would mourn her, miss her.

The evidence tech moved around, photographing the scene, circling the grim tableau to document every angle, every bit of whatever had been left behind. A solemn wind blew through as Foster listened to the lap of the river against the smelly bank. The sound of the water was a reminder that rivers never stopped, wind never ceased, and despite this horror or the next, no matter who died or when, the sun would always rise and set. Foster turned back to Rosales and watched as he did what he needed to do for someone’s daughter, sister, friend, lover.

A half hour went by as they watched the tech ballet take photos, measurements, and notes. Finally, Rosales’s head popped up. “These wounds are deep. Jagged edges to the cuts. You’re looking for a serrated knife. Fairly big. Hunting variety. Did they find one?”

“No,” Foster said.

“It’s likely in the drink. Perfect dump site,” Lonergan said. “He killed her and tossed it right in. Now we gotta get divers out. First killer I ever had, though, who does it, then lays down and takes a nap. How about you, Foster?”