Hostile Ground Read online

  Hostile Ground

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Hostile Ground | Melinda Di Lorenzo

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  Hostile Ground

  Melinda Di Lorenzo

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 Melinda Di Lorenzo

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9781697403251

  To my love. I know you’d throw me off a building to save my life, too.

  Prologue

  The moment I stepped out from between the buildings, I knew I’d made a mistake.

  The alley was too isolated.

  The buildings were too silent.

  My attacker was too skilled.

  And I was a heartbeat too slow.

  Before the scream could finish building up in my throat, one powerful hand clamped down over my mouth while another snaked around my waist and lifted me from the ground.

  One

  Four hours earlier

  As I gripped my coffee mug and leaned over the sink so I could snap open the blinds, I let out a groan. A noisy one. Then I immediately flicked the wood slats shut again.

  “Fantastic,” I muttered.

  The misery outside couldn’t have been more thorough. Sideways droplets blasted against the glass; the poplar in my yard shuddered against the wind, and somewhere in the distance, a cat was howling.

  Howling, for crying out loud, I thought, stepping from the sink to the table.

  There, I flopped into one of the mismatched chairs and gave my coffee an irritated slurp.

  Morning was never my friend. Sleep was elusive, and what little I did manage was usually plagued by old, dark dreams. Memories, really. The violent loss of my parents was vague during the day, but at night, it came alive.

  I gave my coffee another grimacing sip.

  The poor sleep wasn’t my issue. After over two decades, I was accustomed to insomnia, and I used the bad dreams to propel myself forward instead of letting them drag me down. The problem was that it was my day off. Although normally, a storm wouldn’t have bothered me at all, either. In fact, the weather was typical for Vancouver in October. And on most occasions, the combo of a day off plus the miserable weather wouldn’t make me scowl. Usually, I would’ve just grabbed my computer and done some more studying. Old case files. Trial notes. Commonly broken procedures. Things that would give me a unique edge over the others vying for the same role I had in mind. But most likely—if I was being honest—I would’ve probably spent some time fleshing out some more of the case I was working on in secret.

  My mind drifted to the details I’d uncovered by accident a month earlier. Several newly recruited cops who’d gone unofficially AWOL. I was convinced that the lack of formal reports had to do with the fact that there was no one to report them missing. No wives or husbands, no brothers or sisters, or even any distant cousins. But it’d still struck me as odd, when I’d found one...then two...then a third. My initial search hadn’t yielded much. No hard evidence of foul play. And no one who was terribly concerned. But my instincts had screamed just loud enough to make me dig further. One thing had led to another, and that other had led me a couple of cities over. And two more recruits who had also dropped off the face of the earth. I’d traveled a little more, and I’d found missing cops six and seven. It’d pricked at me. Nagged at me. And I was sure it was a pattern. So sure, that in just one week, I was using it as a launch pad for my bid to become detective.

  Detective Sarah Sullivan.

  I’d been dreaming of adding the title to my name for twenty-one of my twenty-six years. There wasn’t a day that went by without me thinking about it. If I hadn’t been afraid of jinxing it, I probably would’ve doodled the name across my high school notebooks like other girls did with their celebrity crushes. I used most of my nonworking, waking moments to further my goal. And in all honesty, everything I did as a member of the Vancouver Police Department was also just a push toward becoming a detective, too. I didn’t waste a moment. But for this particular day off, I’d made my best friend, Izzy, a promise.

  No work. Actually, it was more like, NO WORK!!!

  She’d made me swear up and down. And so far, I’d done okay. Glanced at the recent emails on my phone but bypassed the ones I knew would lead me to anything related to the job. Left the newspaper and all its tempting crime sensationalism on the front mat. But the rain was going to make things much harder. Rainy days practically begged for cold-case solving.

  I hazarded a glance toward my computer nook and tried to pretend I wasn’t really thinking about my laptop at all. It sat where it always did when I wasn’t using it. Lid closed. Light blinking. Before I could stop myself, I was pushing out of my chair and moving toward it. But the wall calendar just above the little desk caught my eye, and it sent a tickle of guilt through me. Izzy’s three kids’ faces were smiling out from the glossy paper, each as chocolate-pudding covered as the next.

  Auntie Sarah is sorry, I thought, projecting my apologies out telepathically. But she’s just going to take a quick look, I swear.

  But when my hand closed on the laptop, it didn’t just meet with the familiar, slightly warm plastic. It also met with something smooth. Almost papery. A half-inch wide.

  Scotch tape.

  “What the hell?” I cursed, then cringed as I caught sight of the kids’ two-dimensional grins a second time.

  Sorry, guys. Again.

  Knowing I should’ve been more unsettled than annoyed, but feeling the reverse anyway, I pursed my lips and knelt down to examine the computer. Sure enough, a piece of tape held the top half and the bottom half together. I slid a short, polish-free nail over the offending block. The tape split easily, of course. And I was momentarily triumphant. But the second I opened the laptop, the triumph disappeared. A yellow sticky note, scrawled with black ink, sat right in the middle of the screen. The handwriting was familiar, and even if it hadn’t been, the tone would’ve given away the author.

  I knew you’d try it, it read.

  “Dammit, Iz.”

  I yanked the note off. The move didn’t help. It just revealed a second note, this one with smaller words and a longer message.

  No way, it said. You might want to think about the fact that I, a mother of three, was devious enough and clever enough to sneak into YOUR house. And you, a police officer, have no idea how I did it. I rolled my eyes before I read the next line. Open your secret cookie cupboard.

  I made a face, closed the computer, and obediently moved toward my sugary stash. The moment my fingers tugged the knob, a pink envelope slid out. Reflexively, I shot out a hand and snatched it before it could make its way into the sink. My name was written across the front, once again in Izzy’s handwriting. I sighed.

  “You’re a serious pain in the ass, my friend,” I said. “If you’re using some kind of spy cam to watch me, I think it’s imperative that you know that, okay? And I’d be flipping you off, but I know
you’ve got at least one kid in eye or earshot, so I’ll keep it to myself. Also. I regret giving you that house key.”

  I knew she wasn’t actually spying on me, but I still paused, half expecting her to jump out from somewhere. I was almost disappointed when my kitchen stayed silent. With a wry smile, I gave in to Izzy’s whims, slid a thumb under the envelope’s flap, then dragged out the card that was inside. I flipped open the stiff paper—handmade, knowing Izzy—and scanned the contents. It was more or less a novel.

  If you’re reading this, it started, then you’re either so bored that you decided chocolate chips were the only answer, or you tried to open the damned computer.

  I snorted before reading on.

  Yeah, yeah, she’d written next. Either way, I know you can’t be trusted not to seek out something gruesome for entertainment. So I booked you into the spa. Chez Vera, to be exact.

  I stopped reading just long enough to make a sour face. I knew the place. About thirty blocks from my inherited bungalow, set in one of the heritage buildings, Chez Vera was trendy, expensive, and full of people who’d be appalled to know I kept a mini gun safe in my nightstand. I sighed and looked down again.

  Don’t make a face, read the next line.

  “Hilarious.”

  It’s just a pedicure. They’re expecting you at ten a.m., so you might want to run straight there. And I booked a cab for you after. That way, you won’t ruin your toes on the way home. By the way, I expect NOT to hear from you for the next twenty-four hours. Thirty-six, if you know what’s good for you. I’m well aware that you took the night shift tomorrow.

  I made another face. I couldn’t help it.

  P.S., said the card. A cab also means that you can drink the free sparkling wine at the spa. Because incidentally, they have high standards and low morals, and they serve liquor all dang day. WORTH IT.

  I perked up a little at the last bit. I rarely let myself indulge in alcohol because I seldom took enough time off to have even a single sip. But Izzy was right. If I counted from the end of my overtime shift at midnight the evening before to the start of my night shift at seven the next day, I actually had almost a full forty-eight hours off. Plenty of time to accept the free wine.

  Significantly cheered, I grabbed a celebratory cookie from the stash and stuffed it into my mouth. Twenty minutes later, my fitness tracker was strapped to my wrist, and my feet were hitting the pavement, fast and light.

  To someone outside of my head, it might’ve seemed counterproductive to push through the soggy streets in pursuit of a spa. But to me, it was the perfect segue. I needed to burn out the rough rumble of my thoughts. To clear my mind. There was zero chance of me being able to sit still for an hour and a half or more if my brain wasn’t distracted by the tiredness of my body. There was just too much in my head. And most of it was the kind of thing that didn’t lend itself to serenity.

  Like Tommy Santiago.

  He was the little boy whose mom had left him alone for three days. Friday afternoon until Monday morning, so she could go on a bender.

  “Four years old.” I murmured it aloud, but the wind swept away my words, somehow lessening the impact of the memory.

  Tommy had been dehydrated. Starving. Filthy. But he’d lived. And the same couldn’t be said of every victim I’d encountered.

  My feet hit even harder, sending water splashing up the backs of my calves.

  Andrew Hudson.

  He’d been a local real estate agent. But somewhere along the line, he’d crossed the wrong person. On Tuesday, he was found in the bathtub of a house he was selling. Blunt force trauma to the back of his head. His new bride had found him, and she’d had to be checked into the psych ward.

  The rain picked up its pace to match mine. I wasn’t bothered by it. The increasing torrent was just a backdrop for the rhythm of my thoughts.

  Remembering their names was a compulsive habit. One Izzy had told me more than once was unhealthy. In fact, her exact warning was that remembering them the way I did would scar my psyche. She said I’d store up all the names, and eventually every person I met with the same name would be tainted. What she didn’t understand was that for me, it was cathartic. It was my own therapy. Just like the running.

  I hit a stoplight and a crosswalk, and I bounced on the spot as I waited for my turn to go. I was already soaked through. My light jacket didn’t offer much protection to start out with, and the shirt I wore underneath felt like a second skin. Undoubtedly, my ponytailed hair had morphed into a disastrous state. Dampness turned the gentle waves into near ringlets, and it darkened the light-brown color into something closer to mud. I could feel the strands sticking to the back of my neck and could imagine exactly what it looked like, too.

  Did you warn the ladies at the spa, Iz? I thought with a small smile.

  I actually had no problem picturing her giving them a heads-up that I’d be coming in a bedraggled state. Izzy was a mother, through and through.

  In front of me, the walk signal came on, and I bounced once more, stole a quick look side to side, and started to cross. But as I took my first step, a flash of movement up ahead, almost at the end of the block, caught my eye. Call it cop instinct—or even just straight-up woman-alone paranoia—but there was something about it that made me start off again at a walk instead of a run.

  I’d already made it about three quarters of the way to Vera’s, and through the course of my jog, I’d seen almost no one. Understandable, considering the weather. But there were literally so few I could recall them as easily as I did the week’s victims.

  Woman in an overcoat, pulling along a kid in a yellow rain slicker.

  Fellow runner, male, gave me a nod of solidarity.

  Pair of giggling teens, soaked and probably skipping school.

  That was it. If I thought about it, I might even have been able to remember the cars that had sped by and splashed water in my direction. So a hidden figure did what it ought not to do—it stood out.

  As my running shoes hit the other side of the street, then came back up onto the sidewalk, I kept my eyes loosely on the spot where I’d seen the flash. I made a mental inventory of it while trying not to be overt about my scrutiny. The street was full of aging, single-storey houses, square lawns, and short fences that made for decent visibility. It wasn’t unreasonable to think that someone could slip into the other yards, but it was far more reasonable to think someone would try to escape detection in the cover of some place larger. Less likely to draw attention from a local resident who picked that moment to glance out into their neighbor’s yard. And about halfway up the quiet block was the perfect bit of cover. A couple of three-story buildings—larger homes that had been converted into rental apartments—that stood out from the rest. They had the bonus of being separated from each other by their very own alley. An ideal hiding place. If that was what someone felt inclined to do.

  Automatically, I stuck my hand into my pocket in search of my phone. Then stifled a groan—and another flick of concern—as I recalled setting it down on top of my washing machine. I hadn’t picked it up again after.

  The realization that I was completely lacking in communication made my feet want to slow even more, and as I got closer to the buildings, my hair tried to stand on end in spite of the rain. It was an unpleasant sensation. I squinted, hoping that another glimpse of whoever it was would assuage the squirm. But I really couldn’t see anything much through the sheet of rain, and it made me second-guess my instincts. It was a long block, after all. And if I couldn’t see anyone now, how had I seen them a few seconds earlier? But none of that changed the tight worry in my chest, nor eased the feeling that someone was there.

  So just cross the road, dummy, said a voice in my head that sounded an awful lot like Izzy.

  I debated ignoring the suggestion, but she and my conscience had a lot in common. Including the fact that they were both usually right. On top of that, I’d nearly reached the two buildings, and the closer I got, the surer I became that someo
ne was lurking between them. I paused, bent over with my hands on my knees, and pretended to catch my breath. The all-over, being-watched feeling intensified.

  Be reasonable, added my inner Izzy. You don’t have a weapon. You’re not wearing your uniform. You’re basically a five-foot, three-inch, hundred-and-thirty-one-pound target.

  I couldn’t help but grit my teeth. My stature had little to do with my confidence in my ability. Or with my ability itself, for that matter. I’d outrun, outwrestled, and outsmarted men who were nearly twice my size. It was skill and training and preparedness. All of which I had, and which I used well. But I had a feeling that my conscience wasn’t trying to start a fight. In fact, it was probably literally trying to do the opposite.

  I stood up, took a swipe at the water on my face, and stole another surreptitious look in the direction of the two buildings. If someone was lurking there, it could be for any nefarious reason. Not wanting to get caught in the consumption of an illegal substance. Trying to hide a can of graffiti-intentioned spray paint. And a dozen other things I could think of that had nothing to do with me directly.

  A dozen things you don’t need to make into something about you, I told myself firmly. Or there could even be some things that aren’t criminal.

  I let out a sigh. It was all very reasonable. And not accepting that would be like looking for some crime-related activity, just to get out of my forced spa day.

  I curbed my urge to check it out, and—making a show of it—I performed a quick, hands to toes stretch, then bent my knees, and pushed off into a jog again. Two houses away from the bigger buildings, I cast a quick glance to the right, then cut abruptly from the sidewalk to the street itself. I ran on a sharp diagonal, my eyes on a random lamppost up ahead, and my ears straining for even the slightest sound that would indicate someone was following me.

  For a second, the only thing I heard was the mix of driving rain and my own feet hitting the ground. Then came a whoosh and a crackle. Fear tried to take over. I beat it forcibly back and prepared to turn and face my attacker. But the pivot never got any farther than an intention, because I no sooner made the decision to go on the defensive than the crackle-whoosh-crackle rose to a crescendo, and I realized something. It wasn’t the sound of a would-be pursuer at all. It was just an approaching vehicle, its tires vibrating through the puddles. It reached me, then passed me as I rounded the corner and took myself out of the view of the two converted buildings.