Yep, I'm halfway finished with Caddy-Did. I'm really working hard on getting this book done as quickly as I can. The next book,
Paid in Full will be a Blaze type story, and I'm gearing up to write it. Jesse Duncan is my hero, Elizabeth Gilmore the heroine. I think it'll be a blast to work on something completely different than I've done before. Also, I'm going to go back and rework
Photographic Memories. It's a very strong romantic suspense. I just need to do some revisions, and finish it up.
Here is the beginning of
Photographic Memories.
Detective Trisha Brent stepped over the yellow tape staked out over a marshy field and almost lost her footing in the thick, murky sludge. She grimaced and shook the foul substance from her shoe, only to splatter it on her beige slacks.
“Son of a—”
Why did this always happen to her? She should have worn boots, or a bikini.
Lightning flashed off in the distance, followed by a boom of thunder. The threatening sky had Trisha’s nerves on edge for more than just the obvious reasons—losing evidence. Rain was forecasted for the next eight to twelve hours, so the forensics team would have a small window of opportunity to process the scene before the sky opened up again.
Trish sloshed down the steep incline to the body that lay draped with a gray blanket.
“What do we have?” she asked the detective standing next to the body.
“White female. In her twenties. Extensive bruising around the throat. Cause of death looks to be strangulation. The killer was strong too. He left finger depressions in the skin. Blood was found under her nails, so I bagged her hands.”
“Good work. What does it look like, murdered here or dumped?” Trisha peered around the field, trying to put herself in the mindset of a killer. One thing was certain, the rural, overgrown terrain was perfect for hiding a body.
Detective Warren cleared his throat and shifted his stocky weight, nodding toward the road. “On the way down, I noticed a narrow path where the vegetation was flattened, consistent with something being dragged. It started from the top of the incline. I'd say she was killed somewhere else, then brought here.” He took a weary breath and shook his balding head, glancing at his notes. “A Mr. Winston’s retriever came across the body. The man had released the dog from his leash, and found him barking next to the woman.”
“Anything else?”
“She’s partially nude. From the waist down,” Warren said, then cleared his throat again. “But we'll have to wait for the Medical Examiner to tell us if she was raped or not. We found no visible signs of semen on her clothes or body, but the rain from earlier could have washed it away. He’s en route now. He'll be able to better determine how long she's been dead. If I had to hazard a guess, though, I'd say less than twenty-four hours.”
The information about possible rape brought a realm of unsettling memories back to Trisha, and sent a cold chill skittering down her backbone.
She studied the surrounding area again, swallowing back the bitter taste of acid that had worked its way up her throat. Eight years suddenly evaporated, and with it came a similar place, an uncanny dank odor. The only thing missing, the strong, copper smell of blood. Hers.
She shivered at the memory. Push the past away, Trish. All you need is to show weakness around the men you work with.
“Detective Brent,” an officer called from above the embankment. “We got a purse up here.”
Maybe luck would be on their side in this case. “Great. Bring it down.” Could the bag belong to the victim? Trisha sure as hell hoped so.
Being with the Special Victims Unit was not an easy job, most of the time she dealt with dead bodies, not living, breathing people in which happy ending could be found. But then, fairy tales were for those with rose-colored glasses.
She hadn’t donned a pair in years.
Her cases were horrific and sad in so many ways. Her unit, responsible for informing loved ones that their sons, daughters, wife’s, mothers were dead, difficult on a good day, downright heart-wrenching when the victims were young and had their whole lives ahead of them.
“Detective?” The approaching officer held out a brown handbag, the smell of wet leather mingling with the musty, stale air.
Trisha pulled a pair of latex gloves from her jacket pocket and snapped them on, then took the purse. Viable prints could be anywhere. With care, she opened the flap, finding a matching wallet inside. She pulled the clutch out and flipped it open. The woman's New Mexico driver's license fit snugly inside a plastic holder.
Trisha flashed Detective Warren the picture. “Is this our victim?”
He glanced at the photo. “Yeah, that's her.”
Dupont, Elizabeth Jo. 240 Weldon Hills. Birth date, 3-27-81.
That would make her twenty-five, not much more than a child in Trisha’s book.
Ten years had passed since she’d been that age.
In the last decade, Trisha had witnessed things most people would be sickened by, but somehow, she’d gotten used to seeing the worst that society had to offer. Any more, it was just another day, another dead body.
Trisha sighed and forced her mind back to the job at hand.
Vital Statistics: Hair: Blonde. Eyes: Blue. Height: 5' 8'' Weight: 125.
She closed the wallet, placed it back into the purse and rifled inside again, coming across a Santa Fe Inn room key.
What a dive. By reputation alone, Trisha knew the motel was one of the worst in the city. They had hourly rates. Perfect for hookers and their clientele to take care of business.
Trisha frown. Already, some facts in this case didn’t fit. According to the woman’s license she lived a few miles from where her body now lay. So why would she have a motel key in her purse? From across town? The whole thing made no sense, unless the woman was a prostitute, herself, and had been servicing a John at the motel. Boy, if that were the case, they’d have to interrogate half the male population of Santa Fe.
