Bound to Die Read online

  Bound To Die

  Laurie Rockenbeck

  Copyright © 2017 by Laurie Rockenbeck

  All rights reserved.

  Bane and Bodkin Press

  16625 Redmond Way, M-229

  Redmond, WA 98052

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Mariah Sinclair

  ISBN: 978-1-947234-03-1 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-47234-02-4 (hardcover)

  ISBN: 978-1-947234-01-7 (ebook)

  —To my darling hubby; I’m really glad you’ve stopped looking at me funny when I talk about where to hide the bodies.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also By Laurie Rockenbeck

  1

  Sweat. Fear. Piss. Shit. Dead body.

  Court breathed in the foul air, recognizing it as part of the job and hating its familiarity at the same time. He fingered the jar of menthol rub he kept in his pocket. The elevator door swished shut behind him, giving him only one direction to move. Toward the smell.

  Yellow crime-scene tape marked an expansive area beyond the only open door of the six rooms in the office suite. All were dark except for one.

  Ivy gagged next to him, raising her wrist to her nose as if her scant perfume might cover the smell of death. “I hate this part.”

  Court opened the jar, tilting it toward her in invitation. She hesitated, looking around before dabbing her finger into the paste.

  “It helps,” he said as he dabbed menthol at each of his nostrils.

  She sniffed loudly, wrinkling her nose at the menthol. “I thought people got used to the odor after a while.”

  “I never have. Don’t care if people think I’m a wimp.” He held up the little jar. “I prefer this to dead-body any day.”

  In the foyer, a woman sat upright on an oversized circular ottoman. Her long hair curled into wide, dark rings with a glowing smoothness straight out of a shampoo commercial. A thin gold chain with a sparkly heart dangled from her throat. Matching glints on each ear twinkled in unison as she moved her head. She looked like a banker, with the exception of her bare feet. And her nose, which was red, wiped raw. Her eyes met Court’s and her lips faded into a tight white line.

  A uniformed officer checked their badges and handed Court the clipboard to sign in. “Detective Pearson, I thought you guys would be here sooner.” He dipped his head and smiled broadly at Ivy. “Detective Langston, congrats on the move to Homicide.”

  Court checked his watch. Five forty-five p.m. “It’s rush hour and a Friday.”

  Ivy reached for the clipboard. “Thanks. Glad to see my first week is finally getting interesting.”

  A fresh case was always more interesting than slogging through cold files, but Court had never delighted in news about a death. Court recalibrated his plans for the weekend. A dead body didn’t necessarily mean there was a murder to investigate. Maybe they’d luck out, and the woman with glowing hair would confess to whatever they were about to find inside. He raised his chin toward the open door. “Who’s running the scene?”

  “Maclean. He’s inside.” The officer pointed his pen at the woman in the chair. “He’s already interviewed her. She called it in.” He lifted the tape as they passed underneath.

  “Maclean’s the guy who writes mystery shorts under a pen name, right? Got in trouble for not changing all the names on something last year?” Ivy asked.

  “Yeah, he’s not a bad guy. Good cop. He likes to get chatty, especially when he’s fresh on first watch.” Court turned back to the officer. “Tell Miss Tension over there we’ll talk to her after we get a look inside.”

  They crossed the common area toward the office in the corner. The sign next to the door said Allegiance Investments. Right on cue, Colby Maclean appeared from within, holding out his hands, barring them from entering. He pointed to a box on the floor. “About time, detectives.”

  Court grabbed four paper shoe-wraps, handing Ivy a pair before covering his feet.

  Maclean led them through the scene. “The 911 came in at four forty p.m. I got here at four forty-five…”

  “It only took you five minutes?”

  “Yeah. Happened to be on a call at the convenience store across the street. Some kids making trouble. Didn’t even have to move the car. How funny is that? Anyway, so I get here and the door is open. Caller’s in there, pacing around in her bare feet.” He circled his finger around his temple. “I don’t think she’s all there, if you get my drift.” Maclean swished his arm back and forth in front of a large wooden desk, tracing her path.

  Small artsy crap and a bunch of leather-bound books decorated a bookshelf lining the wall behind a large mahogany desk directly across from the door. Two squat polished-chrome and pleather chairs sat across from the desk. It sported a green blotter with an iPad and a pile of unopened mail strewn across it. An old-style computer with a monitor the size of a moving box filled a corner.

  A single shoe—a dozen buckled leather straps on a six-inch heel—lay next to the desk. Stilettos stuck out in a city where Birkenstocks were accepted as fashionable. It would match the outfit the woman outside was wearing.

  “So,” Maclean was saying, “she stops when she sees me, points to this other door and says, ‘He’s inside.’ The smell was bad, so I knew without checking there had to be a body in there. Can’t miss that smell, you know? I go inside, and holy shit, you aren’t gonna believe this one. This is one for the books, I’m telling you. Hunter, the woman in the chair out there. She’s the caller, her
name is Karen Hunter? Anyway, she calls this her therapy room.” He laughed, repeated the phrase, jabbing two fingers of each hand at the air for emphasis. “You ask me? I’d call it a dungeon.”

  Maclean led them into the empty room, indicating the path of approach to the body as he went. Court followed, grateful that the officer was competent with procedure. The designated path had been ignored in plenty of death scenes, mucking them up with trace evidence. He wished Maclean would stop talking, though.

  What would it be this time? Brains all over the wall? Blood spatter everywhere? He swallowed, working his tongue over his teeth and lips, trying to get some moisture back in his mouth, breathing in the menthol to steel himself against whatever was to come.

  In the center of the room, a man’s body hung amid a tangle of ropes. His arms were pulled behind his back. Purple rope was wrapped around them in a long neat coil, punctuated with a decorative knot every three inches. Black rope crisscrossed his waist, hips, and upper thighs, and supported the bulk of his weight. A metal bar attached to his ankles by thick metal cuffs spread his legs obscenely wide, giving them an intimate view up his backside. More rope pulled his ankles up toward the ceiling. One final rope cut into his neck. Each section of rope was attached to a Frisbee-sized metal ring hanging from a giant hook in the center of the ceiling. A pulley system anchored the whole assembly to the wall opposite the door. His genitals were distended and bloated, forming a deep splotchy purple along the bottom of the arc of his body. A mass of what was probably dried urine and feces stained the bamboo floor below.

  Ivy let out a long, slow whistle. “Holy….what is this place?”

  Court’s stomach flipped and settled into a slow burn. He’d never seen a person trussed up like a pig before. “Not an investment firm, that’s for sure.”

  2

  Court stayed rooted to his spot near the door as he worked gloves onto his hands. The latex snagged on his hair, prickling his skin. His sweat was already beading up, making his hands clammy. He forced himself to stand still, to take in details before moving forward.

  He approached the body hanging in the center of the room. He had been someone. Someone’s son. Someone’s lover?

  A massage table sat underneath a series of large eyehooks. A shoe matching the one in the front office lay under the table. A counter with overhead cabinets filled one wall. A tray on the counter held the biggest clue to what the space was used for—an assortment of sex toys that rivaled the inventory of a Lover’s Pantry.

  Thick blocks of fabric-covered foam filled in the only windows. To keep light out or noise in? Both? The room itself had a deadening lack of sound, as if it had been soundproofed. Two doors stood open. Through the first, a modern square sink with shiny chrome fixtures out of Architectural Digest was centered beneath a simple round mirror. The second door opened onto custom-made walnut shelving stuffed with clothing.

  The walls were painted in calming greens, and the lights were all fixed in the ceiling. A control box with a mini touch-screen indicated they were customizable. Mood lighting? A number of tracks with lights pointed at various parts of the room, including four obvious spotlights aimed dead center. A simple clock with large numbers hung on the wall facing the victim. Had he hung there watching the red hand sweeping the seconds by as he died? Court shuddered.

  “Man, it’s hot in here, any way we can turn down the heat?” Ivy asked.

  Maclean pointed to the thermostat. “It was set at ninety-eight when I got here, but I didn’t want to touch it.”

  Opening the door had already compromised the temperature of the room, but Court didn’t point it out to Maclean. The switch was set to manual. He changed it to the automatic program and the screen flashed a reasonable seventy-one degrees. The heater clicked off as the system switched to air conditioning. He shut it down entirely. He’d already be in trouble with the ME for turning the heat off, and he didn’t want to risk adding cold air to his offense.

  “Any idea who he is?” Ivy asked.

  They circled the body, careful to follow in Maclean’s steps. “Yeah,” he said. “Take a look for yourself.”

  Court dropped to his haunches so he could see the face of the man hanging from the tangle of flesh and rope. It was Berkeley Drummond—local entrepreneur, big supporter of the current mayor and the Seattle Police Department. Court had shaken hands with him once at a political fundraiser.

  Court didn’t remember anything on the local news or the blotter update about the famous man going missing. How long could someone like Berkeley Drummond be gone before it got reported? Did anyone in his privileged world go anywhere for more than a couple of hours before someone demanded—needed—to know where they were? The state and smell of the body made it appear like he’d been here for days. The high temp had fucked them over in regards to actual time of death.

  Ivy squatted next to him. Her cheeks paled. “Oh, my god. Is that really him? How long has he been here? This is big. Really big.”

  That was an understatement. “A couple days at most, I’d guess. But I’m not the medical examiner.”

  They stood. He pointed to the ropes holding the body in mid-air, indicating their path to the center of the ceiling and out to where the rope anchored everything to the wall. “We can probably rule out suicide.”

  “Probably? You think?”

  “Sarcasm, much? Langston, this is your first gig. You can’t assume murder without considering the alternatives.”

  “Oh, come on. It’s obvious he didn’t do this to himself. Someone else had to do that.” She thrust an accusatory finger toward the mess of ropes. “That says murder to me.”

  “Homicide, probably. We still don’t know for certain. And, if it was homicide, we still don’t know if it was murder.” Court’s tone had taken on that of someone lecturing a child. He checked himself, shifted gears. “Maybe his death was an accident.”

  “It might have started off as an accident, but someone tied him, left him for dead. They even turned up the heat to mess with the time of death.”

  “It’s possible it started out as consensual BDSM shit, and the guy died of a heart attack. The person tying him up ran scared.” Court studied the mechanism holding up the body. He couldn’t imagine how Berkeley Drummond could have done this to himself.

  3

  “Let’s check the place out while we wait for the ME to show up. Maclean, what’s the ETA from the ME’s office?” Court asked.

  “Didn’t get one. Said they’d send someone over. You want me to call them for a status update?”

  It was already six o’clock. The King County Medical Examiner’s office was less than half a mile away. The docs had probably all left for the evening when the call came in, so they would have had to get the on-call doc in from wherever. “No, they’ll get here when they get here. Thanks, Maclean, we’ll take it from here. Make sure someone’s taping outside.”

  Maclean tapped two fingers to his forehead and left.

  Court waved Ivy toward the other rooms. The bathroom was sandwiched Jack-and-Jill style between a small dressing-bedroom and the closet. Drummond’s clothing, even his underwear, was neatly folded on a bench. The ID in his wallet made it official. A shit storm of attention was sure to follow.

  It had been three years since Court had been on anything that garnered much press attention. Multiple homicides and the Chinese mob were always great fodder for those vultures. They’d waited outside his building for weeks, circling him as he stepped outside, microphones shoved at his face, demanding answers and details. He fumbled in his pocket for a piece of gum.

  Court held the wallet open wide for Ivy to look at. Five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills were nestled against the same number of twenties. Behind the hundreds were ten cashier’s checks, each made out to Allegiance Investments for ten thousand dollars. They were all drawn from the same bank on the same date, Wednesday.

  “A hundred thousand?” Ivy let out a long slow whistle. “I’m in the wrong business.”

  “
Transactions over ten K get more scrutiny.” Court slid the checks into their own evidence bag, placing it in a box with Drummond’s bagged clothes. Everything would be checked at the crime lab for trace evidence.

  Both rooms were orderly without anything obviously out of place. Whoever had been here had either been meticulous in a search, or hadn’t messed with anything at all. Initial search done, Court decided to interview their only known witness, at least until the other teams arrived. As they approached Karen Hunter, Court leaned toward Ivy. “I’ll take the lead on this.”

  Ivy paused in her stride, offering an eye-roll worthy of a teenager. “Of course.”

  It hadn’t been obvious to him that she wasn’t going to jump in with questions. Maybe he hadn’t needed to remind her he was in charge, but they hadn’t worked together yet and had no established rhythm.

  Hunter watched their approach with a Mona Lisa-like expression. She stood only when Court and Ivy introduced themselves.