Bound to Die Read online

  Court brought his hand to his neck, pressing the open L of his thumb and forefinger against his skin. “So, when he got tired…”

  Mary let go of the head. Court took a step back as the head dropped downward. His late-afternoon latte burned in the back of his throat. Court had seen hundreds of bodies. Cut-up flesh, blood, smashed brains, burnt flesh, crushed bone? No problem. When a body sat there with its parts all dead and with no motion, he was fine. Put a little movement in it, and it was a different story. He raised his hands as if to ward off an attack. “Please don’t do that again.”

  Mary lifted Drummond’s head again as if Court had not said anything, but this time she pointed out the marks the rope had left. “Definitely in place at time of death—either before or during.” This time, she guided the head back down slowly. “Poor guy.” She put her hands behind her back as if to keep herself from playing with a new toy.

  Court swallowed the bile and forced himself to get over it. He was looking at another body in a long line of bodies. Mary had said it. Poor guy. Whoever had done this was a sick bastard. And now it was Court’s job to find him. His and Ivy’s. He wasn’t used to Ivy yet, hardly knew her. He had gotten to the point where he could finish Sean’s sentences, or they would exchange a glance and know what the other was thinking. Everyone had to retire eventually, but Court was wishing Sean had stuck it out another year or two. He’d been a great partner.

  Ivy though? It was too soon to tell. She didn’t seem to like him all that much, but it could be that he was overly sensitive.

  Ivy turned toward the tray on the counter running the length of the wall. “Check this out.”

  An anal plug, a large dildo, nipple clamps, a ball gag, and a crop were as neatly arranged as a surgeon’s instruments might be. Court eyed the collection wearily. When he was a rookie, he’d never envisioned his job description would include such an intimate knowledge of BDSM and some of the so-called ‘toys of the trade.’ When he was an innocent twenty-two year old, he’d never heard of a ball gag let alone been able to identify one.

  Ivy leaned over the tray and examined the items from various angles without touching them. “Sick fucks.”

  Oh, so she did swear. Court was learning a lot about his new partner. It wasn’t like they’d ever had a conversation about sex in the week they’d been working together, and certainly not about kinky stuff like this. Was she naive or grossed out? It had to be the latter. After being in vice for five years, she must have been exposed to every sexual deviancy on the planet. Maybe she was sick of seeing it.

  She turned her back on the tray. “So, maybe Hunter lied. Drummond shows up as usual and things went wrong? She leaves him here with the temperature turned up to mess up the timing, and makes up a story.”

  “Or, her alibi checks out. Drummond shows up for his appointment and someone is here waiting for him. Or he brings someone with him knowing his domme would be gone.” He pointed to the shoe on the floor. “She didn’t answer my question about the shoes. Why one in here and one out there.”

  Ivy eyed the shoe and shrugged. “Huh. I’m having a hard time believing he liked being tied up like this. He came across as so vanilla.”

  Court donned a fresh pair of gloves, and opened a cupboard door to reveal several plastic bins, each one neatly labeled: Daphne, Iris, Dahlia, Rosie, Daisy. “I am thinking this is the one she used for Drummond.” He tapped on a bin that was pulled forward from the others by a few inches. Its position gave him the sense it had been the one most recently used.

  “Each client gets his own bin?” The word “john” was too crude a term to use. Someone seeing Berkeley Drummond had to be a few steps up the scale from someone working the streets.

  Ivy opened the other cupboards. “There are eight more over here. Same situation. So, that’s, what, sixteen total? Plus a couple that are unmarked.”

  Court tapped the tray with the back of a knuckle. “We’ll inventory it all into evidence. Honestly, I don’t think they’ll find much on any of it. I think Drummond was bound and left to die.”

  Ivy turned to Mary. “Any signs any of these were used on him?”

  Mary looked at Ivy as if she’d never noticed her before. Had Court remembered to introduce them? Mary addressed her answer to Court. ”Can’t tell for sure until…”

  “I know. I know. You can’t tell until the crime lab runs all their tests, and you’ve done the autopsy.”

  They all turned back to the body. Ivy pointed to where the rope held everything together at the anchor on the wall. “Do you think anyone could lift him with this? A man or a woman?”

  “It is a simple pulley system. Almost any adult would be able to haul his body weight like that.”

  “Is there a sign of any struggle?” Court asked.

  Mary laced her fingers together and held her hands in front of her chest, her thumbs pointing upward. “There aren’t many abrasions around the rope areas. No more than what his weight would have caused. I think he got there because he wanted to be there.”

  “Any possible way he did this to himself?”

  Mary tilted her head side-ways as if looking at it from a new angle might give her a new insight. “I don’t see how anyone could get into this position by themselves.”

  “Okay, so accident or murder?” Ivy asked.

  “Could be either.” Court got the sense that the domme would have handled an accident differently. She came across as serious and intense, but responsible. “Why would someone want to murder Berkeley Drummond?”

  Mary threw her arms upward, palms toward the ceiling, a broad gesture either beckoning to The Powers That Be or showing she could not care less. "My job is to figure out how he died, not why. And, for that little distinction, I am eternally grateful."

  6

  Court kept an eye on everyone working the scene through the rest of the evening. Someone would break under the temptation of a bribe and leak the details to the press. If not one of the people in this room, it would be someone working the case. He’d be assigning dozens of uniformed officers to take statements in the building and neighborhood. Someone would give in and talk. What a scoop it would be to let the whole world know about Drummond’s hidden, kinky side. Assuming he really had one. They only had the domme’s word that he was a client. It would be a coup if they could keep a lid on these details until after they had made an arrest. One thing working in their favor was that Hunter hadn’t identified Drummond during her 911 call. A death like this was going to have the press jumping down their throats as soon as it was public.

  The scene wrapped at ten p.m. Quick as these things go. They chased Audrey Drummond down at a fundraising gala at the Woodland Park Zoo. Court discreetly flashed his badge, explained that her husband had been found dead, and asked her to come to the morgue for a formal ID.

  She closed her eyes, drawing her lips in around her teeth. She let out the tiniest gasp of air before opening them again. “Must I ride with you? I have a car and driver.”

  “He can pick you up from the morgue when we’re done. We’ll take you over there.”

  Court sat in the back seat and let Mrs. Drummond take the front next to Ivy. “You’re not surprised your husband is dead, Mrs. Drummond.”

  She gave an imperious wave of her hand. “It’s too late, Detective. We can do the identification tonight and discuss the details tomorrow.”

  She was used to being in control. Court sank back into the seat, exhausted by the day. He’d get more from her later. He closed his eyes and relaxed the rest of the way.

  They arrived at the morgue at eleven thirty. Her attorney was waiting for them in the lobby. Harley? No, Harlan. Harlan Eccles. He was famous, known for getting a local music icon off a murder rap a couple of years prior. Huge case, with this guy’s confident mug all over the TV for months. Big, beefy, smiling guy. Not a genuine smile, but one of those reassuring things that people plastered on their face out of habit when they didn’t know how else to look.

  Eccles wore gel to
keep his hair in a wavy but firm hold on his head. Even late on a Friday night. Who the hell put V-5 in their hair anymore? Eccles didn’t look a day over fifty in spite of the white stripe of hair swooshing into a loop above his forehead. His suit was cut close to his body to make it clear he wasn’t the kind of guy who sat at his desk all day.

  They followed a tech past the records office and the large autopsy suite to the private viewing room where family members were asked to identify loved ones. It wasn’t like on TV where they pulled a drawer open. The window provided a visual while protecting loved ones from the smell and other nasty realities of death. It also kept them from touching the deceased, preventing them from introducing new trace evidence onto the body. Court was pretty sure people would be upset if they could see the inside of the morgue’s giant fridge where bodies lay lined up on gurneys, limbs sticking up in rigor, faces only partially obscured by covers thrown casually on the unprocessed bodies.

  The tech tapped the window and the curtain parted. A second tech, covered in a Tyvek bunny suit, peeled the cover away from Drummond’s face. He went a little too far with it, revealing the marks left by the rope around Drummond’s neck.

  Court made a circling motion at his own neck and pointed to Drummond. The tech caught the frantic motion and rolled the cloth back up to the chin, tucking it behind the ears, but it was too late. Everyone had seen the embossed pattern of rope.

  Audrey Drummond’s brow creased as she approached the window. “Yes. This is my husband, Berkeley Drummond.” She placed her hand up against the glass, the diamond on her wedding ring slipping around so it fell in the V between her spread fingers.

  No tears. No questions. No surprise. Only a calm poise. There was a lot more to the Drummond story than what he would find via internet search. Their charitable foundation had given a million-dollar grant to the Seattle Police Department’s community-policing initiative. Politics and personality would influence the case as much as the facts. If she had killed her husband, any prosecuting attorney would be looking at a career-ending case. It might prove to be the end of his, too. Being objective about it all was going to be challenging.

  Harlan Eccles put an arm around Audrey Drummond. “We’re done for this evening, detectives. You can come to the house tomorrow at ten o’clock to talk to Audrey. I’ll take her home now.”

  Ivy was all hyped up as they left the morgue, speaking with more animation than he’d seen from her all week, making verbal lists of what to do next in the investigation. It had been a long time since he’d been that pumped up about a case. This case made him nervous. Anxious. Wary. Excited? Okay, maybe a little bit.

  He dropped himself into the car and checked his phone. Four messages from Cami. He’d forgotten to text her to let her know he couldn’t make it to their regular Friday night watering hole. If he was lucky, they’d get back to the station, get their reports in, and he might still have time to connect with her. He texted Cami he would be there late, if at all. When she asked if he was on a new case, he replied with, “Yeah. Big one.”

  He ached to climb into his bed and pull his comforter over his head. It was going to be a nasty case. The press would be circling as soon as word about Berkeley Drummond’s death was made public. Reporters would be stepping all over official toes, getting in his way.

  He snagged five minutes to update Lieutenant Stensland before the scene was closed off for the night. He closed his eyes and ignored Ivy as she drove them back to the station. This late at night, it took them less than a third of the time it had taken for them to get there.

  The main floor of the station was bustling with activity. Late Friday was always like this. Ivy went to a computer, setting up a table of what they had learned and what they needed to do.

  Given what Hunter had told them, Drummond had probably been dead since Wednesday evening. The forty-eight-hour window thought to be so critical to investigation was not as solid as television made it seem. They were well past the magical hour. It irked him that Stensland didn’t see it the same way. He always started the clock at the discovery of the body, even if the death occurred twenty years before. They’d be expected to work through the weekend.

  While Ivy was working on logistics for tomorrow, Court summarized everything for their report. When he was done, he spun to face Ivy. “Let’s start with a web search on Drummond. Get a handle on his public image, anything on his business. Figure out who we need to talk to at work, and get working on finding them. It’s too late tonight to get out there, and they might be hard to find on the weekend.”

  Ivy was nodding along. “Okay, right.” She paused, appearing confused for a minute and then checked the time on her watch. “Man, it’s late.”

  “Let’s put on a fresh pot of coffee and see what we can figure out about our dead guy.”

  An hour later, Court found Ivy with her head slumped against her chair. Reading online articles about a man who made it big by manufacturing sleeping bags and down-filled vests wasn’t exactly thriller material. Besides, nothing was more boring than studying the rich being rich.

  Court squeezed her shoulder and she startled, blinked and rolled her head around to stretch her neck. “Sorry. What did I miss?”

  “Nothing. Why don’t you go take a nap? I’ll keep on with the research.”

  She glanced at the clock and nodded. She shambled over to the little bunk room reserved for detectives working around the clock.

  Court was settling into his chair when Cami texted him. Come on, dude. Look at the time. No one will miss you.

  Court considered the text for a while before answering. He got up and hovered by the bunk room door and listened to Ivy’s steady snoring for half a minute. He put a sticky note on her computer, telling her he’d be back in the morning.

  7

  Court leaned on his elbows, his drink dangling between his hands. Half an order of satay sat on the table between them, the peanut sauce congealing into an unpleasant cold mass. Maybe he should have climbed into one of the other bunks instead of sneaking out.

  Hanging out with Cami was usually easy. Fun. She wasn’t his type, and he wasn’t hers. It had taken them about three minutes together to figure it out on a blind date set up by his sister, Britt. She kept missing the target. Sometimes by miles. Britt had gotten it half-right with Cami. They both liked the exact same kind of women—feminine, soft, girly-girls.

  Cami picked up a skewer of chicken, swiped it through the sauce, and bit into it. She made a face and dropped the rest on her plate. “Court, I honestly think you’re lucky.”

  “Lucky,” he said, repeating the word slowly, as if he’d never heard it before. He drank down the remnants of his lager. His half-hour grousing about Ivy had gotten them to his being lucky? “I don’t get her. One second she’s interactive and working with me, the next. I don’t know… She’s a wall. It’s weird. The guys in Vice have only good things to say about her. Not what I’m seeing firsthand. If we’re on task, it’s fine, but being alone with her without a specific focus is extra chilly. As soon as we got this case, it was like a switch was thrown.”

  Cami stabbed at the cherry on the bottom of her glass with her straw, piercing it through the middle and sliding it to the top. The progress of the red blob moving along, smooshed into a half-flat dome was a visible metaphor of Court’s life—upwardly mobile and sweet in some ways, but with his back firmly against the wall in so many others. She lifted her prey to her mouth and stirred the dregs of her drink until the little bits of fruit and mint swirled to life in a tornado of gooey, boozy slush.

  She sat back, pushing the sticky glass away from her. “Dude, you need to talk to her about it. Maybe she’s trying to figure you out, too.”

  Court had watched Ivy kick ass taking someone down on a vice bust the year before. He trusted her physically, and she knew how to read email—some of the old farts in the department would still be using typewriters if they could.

  “You’ve got a point,” he said.

  Cami fiddled
with the skewer on her plate, turning the chicken over. “So, this new case you’re on? Anything interesting? What’s got her all fired up about it?”

  If anyone would understand the case, it would be Cami. Her connection to the kink community meant she might even know Karen Hunter. Talking to her about it would be risky, though. She was a reporter and, while the Seattle Police Department wasn’t her beat, this kind of story was too provocative not to pique her interest. Time to divert. “It’s new. Barely getting started. We didn’t even have an official ID by the time the news was airing. We aren’t even classifying it yet. It’s Ivy’s first official death investigation, so I can see why she’s switched into eager-puppy mode.”

  “Anything you can share? Off the record, of course.”

  She sure was being persistent. “Nope. Definitely not looking forward to the media shit storm heading my way.” Had he tipped his hand admitting to the fact he was working something high-profile?

  “Well, whatever it is, it can’t get as bad as the thing with the Chinese mob.”

  She always had a way of putting things in perspective. “Hell no. I’m thinking this is a probably a murder. Maybe accidental death. Hard to say for sure. But, I’ll tell you what, I’ll take this over human-trafficking shit any day.” He picked up one of the chicken skewers, twisted it around before taking a bite. He caught the eye of the bartender and pointed at his glass to order a second beer. “Hey, you know, Cami, I can’t get into this with you, all right?”

  She waggled her eyebrows, the diamond in her brow-piercing twinkling bright with the movement. “So, what’s she like. This lady detective. Gets me kinda tingly thinking about it … you know, a woman with handcuffs?”

  Court relaxed back against his seat, reaching for the fresh drink that appeared in front of him. Back to women and sex, his favorite topic with Cami. “Not your type. She’s married with children, and she doesn’t eat pork. You’d never agree on dinner.” Cami’s love for barbecue had ended more than one relationship.