Christy Barritt - Squeaky Clean 07 - Mucky Streak (3 page)

“My therapist agreed that I have too much pressure on myself here. I can’t keep going on like nothing’s changed. Everything’s changed, and I have to accept that.”

I pressed the corners of my eyes as tears threatened to overflow. “I can’t change your mind, can I?”

“This is for th
e best, as hard as it may seem. It’s not ideal, but it’s the solution I’ve been praying for.”

I stared ahead vacantly, trying to grasp another life change, another life disappointment.
My throat squeezed out any words that wanted to escape. It was probably better that I didn’t say anything else. I didn’t want to stress Riley out, after all.

He squeezed my hand. “I love you, Gabby. Nothing will ever change that.”

I nodded and stared back at the parking garage.

I wished I believed his
words. But my past had taught me that love was hard to come by and even harder to make stick.

CHAPTER 3

Five
days later, I sat in my apartment, staring into space. The soundtrack to
Les Miserables
played in the background. More precisely, the track “On My Own” played over and over again. I may or may not have set the CD player on repeat.

What could be m
ore appropriate right now than a sad little melody about pretending your love was with you when he wasn’t?

I mean, if I had a daisy I might pull off the petal
s and do a little “he loves me, he loves me not.” But I was too afraid I’d end up with “he loves me not.”

I
’d almost watched “Message in a Bottle” or any of those other Nicholas Sparks’ books-turned-movies that would leave me in tears. But I resisted.

Riley had moved out yesterday. By moved out, that just meant he wasn’t physically at his apartment. He’d t
aken his clothes and toiletries, but his furniture and everything else remained.

That brought me a small measure of comfort.

Still, the whole apartment building was up for sale, which was just one more of many changes I faced in my life right now. Sure, the place was run down and old. And, there was the fact the residents of the old chopped up Victorian were as vastly different as my mood swings had been lately. But this place was home, and I had no desire to move.

Sierra, my best friend,
plopped down on the couch beside me and squeezed my shoulder. Her little Asian face, usually determined and tense, looked so compassionate at the moment. “It’s going to be okay, Gabby.”

“Nothing feels okay. I don’t want to whine. I want
what’s best for Riley, too. But I can’t help but think this isn’t it.”

Chad—
Sierra’s husband and my business partner—sat on the other side of me. He still had that surfer-like air about him with hair that was too long and a face that needed to be shaved. He and Sierra were total opposites, but they seemed incredibly happy together.

My friends were attempting to have a “let’s cheer up Gabby party,” but it wasn’t really working. They’d brought over a few of my favorite things, including pizza and cheese balls—something I only ate if I was really feeling down. We’d
tried to play a game of Clue, but my heart wasn’t into it.

“Tell me about this job offer you mentioned
,” Chad started, popping another cheese ball in his mouth. “This P.I. gig. It sounds right up your alley.”

I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter. I’m part owner of Trauma Care. I have other responsibilities.”
I had to stay focused and forget about any flights of fancy.

“I think you should take the
job,” Chad said.

I looked up at Chad, surprised. If I slacked off, he was the one who had to cover for me.
That could mean some brutal hours. “It’s too much work for you.”

“Clarice is helping. I think we can manage, especially if you just give yourself a set time limit. I mean, we don’t want you gone for months or anything. But a week or two? We’ll be okay.”

Part of me felt relieved; the other part of me wanted to think I was a little more indispensable than this.

“You said this investigation would take you to
Cincinnati, right?” Chad asked.

I nodded.

“My cousin lives there. You could stay with her. She could show you around. Plus, she has some pull. She’s a social worker, and her mom—my Aunt Lydia—is involved in more local causes than one person can count. I’d say between them, you’ll have a wealth of resources at hand.”

“Really? I
didn’t know you had connections with the area.”

He nodded. “Yeah,
I think you’d really like my cousin. Her name is Holly. Holly Anna, actually. We used to give her the hardest time about her name.
Holly Anna the Pollyanna
. She’s a trip.”

Maybe things were starting to fall in place.

“Gabby, I think it would be good for you to get away from here for a while. There are too many memories,” Sierra started. “Some time away might help you clear your head, gain a new perspective. I know you don’t want to admit it, but you’ve been through a lot.”

“People have been through worse.” I hardly believed the words myself.

“Seriously, Gabby,” Sierra continued. “I was just reading up on the stress scale. I took the initiative to take it for you, and with everything that’s happened in your life recently, you have a good chance of becoming physically ill or having a mental breakdown.”

I stared at her a moment, unsure how to respond. Then I realized she was dead serious and truly worried about me.

Now that she mentioned it, getting away did seem like a good idea. Maybe Sierra was on to something. If Chad thought the business was covered, then perhaps there was nothing to keep me here. For a while, at least. It wasn’t like I’d be moving permanently.

But there were other issues to consider. Issues I
didn’t want to own up to. But I knew I could trust Sierra and Chad. Besides, if I didn’t open up to my friends, whom could I talk to? I had to start letting down the walls I’d so skillfully crafted … for my entire life.

I rubbed my throat, the memories threatening to take over. “There’s also the issue of investigating a killer.
I still have nightmares …”

Sierra squeezed my knee. I didn’t have to finish. She knew exactly what I was talking about. “This is nothing. A little cold case. It’s nothing like Milton Jones.”

“It involves a killer who murdered an entire family.”

“Ten years ago,” Chad added. “I think you can handle this.”

“It will be good for you,” Sierra continued. “Of course I’ll miss you like crazy, but then you’ll come home and tell me all your wacky stories.”

I thought about it another moment
. She was right. I couldn’t let what had happened stop me from doing what I loved. The only way to conquer my fears was to face them. And the only way to truly love someone was to let them go and pray that they came back.

G
etting away actually sounded like a good idea. There were so many bad memories here right now.

I nodded. “You know what? I think you’re
both right. Getting away might just be the RX I need.”

“That’s the spirit,” Chad said.

I stood up. “I’m going to call Garrett Mercer right now and tell him I’m accepting the job. For at least a week, I’m going to be an official P.I.—as official as you can be without the proper certifications, at least.”

Finally, I had a challenge I was looking forward to.

And a reason for my mind to escape the dark prison where “what ifs” chained me down.

***

On paper, the Mercer family had everything going for them, I mused as I cruised down the highway. They were wealthy, attractive, and well liked. Though they were British, they were living the American dream.

I was about to dig into that dream and try to find out what had turned it into a nightmare.

I’d left from Norfolk this morning at 7 a.m. to drive to Cincinnati. Garrett insisted on renting a car for me, and I accepted his offer as a job perk, along with a lifetime supply of GCI coffee. Garrett also gave me a wad of cash, more than enough to both cover my expenses and my overdraft bill.

Of course, Garrett hadn’t actually done most of those things. His assistant
Lyndsey had set everything up and been the consummate professional. Like any good employee, she’d even thrown in a handful of GCI pens.

As I cruised down the road,
I turned up the radio as “Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey came on. One of my full-time friends and part-time employees, Clarice, had made a point to change my playlist on my smartphone. I’d programmed songs like, “I Can’t Make You Love Me” by Bonnie Raitt, “Nothing Compares to You” by Sinead O’Connor, and “You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling” by The Righteous Brothers. Clarice changed my songs to “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor and “Firework” by Katy Perry.

Right no
w, it was nearly 6 p.m. The drive was supposed to take around twelve hours all together, plus I’d taken my time. I’d stopped for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I’d gone inside for each of those meals—and saved the receipts for Garrett. He had told me to do that, so who was I to argue?

If my map was correct, I was about an hour away from my destination.
I was on what was called the AA Highway, and all around me the rolling hills of Kentucky made my spirit feel a little more relaxed and at ease. It gave me that peaceful, easy feeling the Eagles sang about.

Until I glanced in m
y rearview mirror. The same silver sedan had been behind me since West Virginia. It was probably a coincidence, someone else simply traveling to the same destination as me. But something about the car put me on edge.

Sometimes the car was right behind me. Other times, a few
vehicles were spaced between us. Even after stopping for dinner, that car had still reappeared about twenty minutes later.

I should be able to rule out the person following me as someone connected with this case. I mean, I hadn’t even s
tarted investigating yet. Usually ominous, threatening things didn’t start happening until I stuck my nose where it didn’t belong. I hadn’t done that yet.

The only
hypothesis I could conjure was that Garrett had hired someone to tail me. The idea was kind of crazy, but maybe he wanted to make sure he was getting his money’s worth. Maybe he wanted to make sure I was truly investigating.

I tried to ignore the driver and concentrate on the case.

I mentally reviewed what I’d learned from pouring over those files. Edward Mercer worked his way up the corporate ladder, his final career move when he went from a consumer products company to the vice president of a drug company. His wife, Elizabeth Mercer, on the other hand, came from old money. People often said, especially in the early days of her marriage, that she’d married beneath her. In fact, she’d never worked, but was involved in some philanthropic endeavors. Garrett seemed a perfect mix of the two.

The daughter,
Cassidy, had apparently gotten into some trouble for partying, once even driving her flashy sports car into a pole while under the influence of drugs. Even though she was only in high school, the party scene was a well-integrated part of her life.

I’d
seen her picture and she had the sparkle in her eyes of someone who liked to try new things. But there’d also been an underlying loneliness. I didn’t even know the girl, but I wondered if her wild ways were all efforts to get her parents’ attention. For all I knew, they gave her plenty of attention. My gut told me they didn’t, though. People that successful had to spend a lot of time on the job. And people who looked as nice as Elizabeth probably spent a lot of time at the spa, shopping, and at the plastic surgeon.

Again, these were all my assumptions,
my gut reactions from what I’d read in the files.

According to the police report, at approximately
11:20 on Friday night, November 12, ten years ago, an unknown person entered the Mercer residence through an open bedroom window. Cassidy was shot first. Edward was downstairs watching TV and was shot next. The mother must have heard the commotion and come from the kitchen. She was shot last.

There were no signs of struggle
, and the only evidence left behind was a footprint indicating a man’s size 12 boot, which offered no leads.

Nothing was stolen, and the family had many things of value, including jewelry.

One witness saw a green Ford Ranger speed away, but police could never prove the vehicle was involved or connected to the crime. The nearest traffic light cameras were more than a mile away and turned up no evidence.

Phone records for the family
revealed nothing out of the ordinary.

The local police had called in the FBI to help with the case. They’d profiled the killer to be meticulous,
well planned, knowledgeable, and possibly someone who knew the family.

The contractor
had been a suspect because of one rough encounter with Elizabeth. He’d been cleared, and he’d passed away from cancer a couple of years after the murders, so if he was guilty, we’d never know.

Edward apparently had some ina
ppropriate relationships with several women. They were also cleared.

That left the police with the
possibility, despite the FBI profile, that the crime had been committed by someone random, some crazy who just walked in off the street.

I didn’t believe that. I’d bet the police didn’t either.
I was going to have my work cut out for me.

Another glance in the
rearview mirror confirmed that the sedan was right behind me again. The tinted windows didn’t give me any glimpses as to who was behind the wheel. I didn’t have to see a face; I already didn’t like this.

Spontaneously, I pulled off into a gas station. Just as I got to the pump, the driver continued past. I spotted the license plate. Virginia.