The Watched (CSI Reilly Steel #4) (2 page)

‘
Morning, Miss Steel,’ he replied with a smile, not bothering to check her identification badge. Reilly was used to getting appreciative looks; the California blond thing just seemed to do it for most men. But notwithstanding appearances, she knew that she’d long since proved herself to the Irish force since taking up her role at the GFU three years ago. Not that she’d ever felt she needed to prove herself to anyone – her investigative record spoke for itself, but boys will be boys. Cops especially.

Her track record at the San Francisco FBI field office and Quantico-trained background was the reason she’d been offered the job in the first place, but lately she was beginning to question whether the move away from the US had been the right one.

It had been at first, when her dad was going through such a dark phase in his life, and the Dublin position meant that Reilly would be able to keep an eye on him firsthand when he moved to the city to be closer to his roots. But in the ensuing years Mike Steel had banished his demons, given up the bottle and completely turned his life around, so much so that he was currently vacationing in the US with his current lady-friend. Reilly had received a postcard from him only yesterday, its sun-filled, carefree imagery completely incongruous with the damp, gray and bitterly cold Dublin weather.

She had returned home after work, struggling against strong biting winds as she tried to open the heavy old Victorian door serving as the entryway to
her building in Ranelagh, while trying to keep her shopping bag from being snatched out of her hands by the stormy gusts. In the three years she’d been in the city, she’d slowly come to realize that springtime in Ireland was pretty much the same as any other time of year, bleak and miserable.

Among
some white and brown official-looking mail that all looked like payment demands was a brief flash of color. Reaching down, she’d scooped up the envelopes and sought out the postcard upon which ‘Greetings from Santa Barbara’ was emblazoned diagonally across four cloudless images. The scenery was instantly (and painfully) recognizable: a golden Pacific sunset, an old-fashioned wooden pier, a sandy beach and the old town area. Keenly aware of the dark skies and worsening storm battering the windows around her, Reilly had felt more than a little tortured as she turned the card over to read the message inscribed.

Hey honey, just a note to let you know we’re alive. The party went great – really nice to see all the boys again. We’re on our way down the 101 at the moment in a soft-top, no less! Weather’s getting warmer as we head south. Maura really loves Cali and it’s been great to revisit some old haunts. Hope all’s good with you. Call you soon for a catch up, OK?

Lots of love, Dad and Maura

A retired firefighter, Mike had gone back to the States to attend the retirement bash of a colleague from his old job and, while Reilly was pleased to hear that her dad was having fun, what she wouldn’t give for a snazzy convertible, some warm sunshine, blue skies and the open road . . .

Turning her attentions back to the job at hand, she waited for the uniform to point her in the right direction. ‘Third floor. S
tairwell is the last door on the right.’ He gestured down the well-lit corridor lined with post boxes. ‘Do you need somebody to give you a hand with that?’ he asked then, indicating her heavy-looking kitbag.

She hid a smile. ‘Thanks, but
I’ll manage. The rest of my team will be here shortly and we’ll be processing that lift first so we can get it up and running again. Make sure no one goes near it in the meantime.’

‘Of course.’
The officer nodded as Reilly made for the timber door that led to the stairwell.

She
began to move quickly up the stairs before suddenly starting to feel out of breath, acutely aware of how her carb-filled Irish diet and declining opportunities for exercise were starting to creep up on her. She cursed herself for the ready-meal mac ’n’ cheese she’d ‘cooked’ for dinner the night before. At the time, she’d considered it a little taster of home, when in reality back in the US she’d never touched the stuff.

Reilly
felt a long way from the person she’d been upon first crossing the Atlantic to take up this job. Back then she’d enjoyed picking up in-season fruit and veg at farmers’ markets or the local organic shops close to where she lived in Ranelagh, and had relished trying out different recipes with unfamiliar ingredients. When had it all changed, she wondered now? When had she gone from embracing the gastronomic (and indeed cultural) differences to feeling alienated by them?

By the time
Reilly got to the doorway that led to the third floor she felt like she’d just run a marathon. Pathetic for someone who used to pound out fifteen miles straight and barely break a sweat. The inevitable guilt descended as she was reminded of more leisurely pursuits, but lately there hadn’t been much time for non-work activities of any kind.

Not only was she getting old, she admitted dourly, thinking about the recen
t non-existent celebrations for her thirty-third birthday, but she was getting soft with it and lately in particular could feel herself starting to lose her edge. Not good for a CSI investigator and certainly not one who was responsible for the smooth running of the forensic operational center on behalf of the Irish police force.

As she pushed through
the door with her shoulder she swore to herself that she’d head out for a proper run when she got home later, regardless of the weather.

‘Speak of the devil . . .’
Detective Chris Delaney said with a grin as she emerged through the heavily sprung fire door.

‘
Hey,’ she greeted, trying her best to conceal the effects of her exertion. ‘Should my ears be burning?’

‘
You just lost me twenty quid,’ Kennedy, Delaney’s middle-aged overweight partner commented.

‘
How so?’

‘
I reckoned you’d arrive up already suited and booted,’ the older detective explained.

‘What he actually said
,
again
, was that you probably slept in them,’ Chris elaborated, rolling his eyes as this was a very old joke of Kennedy’s and it was by now long past wearing thin.

‘
Full marks for originality, detective,’ Reilly said, shaking her head. ‘And too bad neither of you will ever get to collect on
that
bet,’ she added archly, enjoying their familiar banter.

In truth, Chris Delaney and Pete Kennedy were probably the closest thing she had to friends in Dublin, which spoke volumes. Not so much about the quality of any friendship, but more about the time they’d spent working on challenging, all-consuming investigations. The three had worked side by side since Reilly’s arrival at the GFU and knew each other well. They’d been through a lot over the course of their investigations together – not all of it good – but Reilly knew she could trust these two men with her life, and was secure in the knowledge that the feeling was mutual.

And while there might once perhaps have been something stronger brewing between her and Chris, she was now pretty sure that ship had sailed. Which, Reilly supposed, might also be contributing toward her increased sense of isolation lately. While nothing was ever said out loud, the relaxed, easygoing nature of her and Chris’s relationship in the early days had since become somewhat more reserved. Probably for the best, Reilly thought. Everyone knew it was never a good idea to mix work and personal stuff.

Especially in this business.
‘So do you mind if I get to work?’ she said, moving on. ‘What’s the lie of the land? Has the ME been called? And how many . . .?’

‘
Don’t worry, nobody’s been in or out since the ambulance crew,’ Chris assured her, instinctively realizing that she wasn’t in the mood for joviality. ‘And yes, Karen Thompson’s on her way.’

He quickly brought her up to date.
‘Dead girl in the bedroom, looks like an OD. Her mother and four-year-old son called it in, they’d just come back after a weekend away . . . poor kid.’ Chris shook his head in dismay, and Reilly grimaced at the thought; she knew all too well how that felt.

‘
OK, let me get started. Gary and Julius will be here shortly.’

Reilly pulled her dust suit from
the kitbag and began to pull it on, retying her blond hair back in a tight ponytail before pulling the hood up over her head. Perching a face mask on her forehead, she slipped blue plastic covers over her shoes, before picking up her toolbox and heading for the doorway the detectives had pointed out.

This led into a short
hallway with doors left and right. Straight ahead was the bathroom, a cramped windowless space with long shelving above a bath partly obscured by a shower curtain. Vying for space on the shelf were numerous colorful bath toys and toiletries. A kid’s toilet seat and footstool were tucked in between the toilet and the wall.

As Reilly appr
oached the bedroom she made a quick reconnaissance of the full layout of the flat. To the right was a kitchen living room with a large sliding door that led out to a balcony. In the opposite direction was the first of two bedrooms; the door for the second bedroom was now visible.

Inside, she immediately
saw the double bed and the lifeless figure of a young woman draped across it. The bed was covered in vomit as was the bound and naked body, the pungent stench almost making Reilly recoil. But there were other scents vying for attention too: cheap perfume and alcohol but also cooking – fried onions, garlic and some kind of red meat . . . veal, she decided quickly. The contents of the kitchen would confirm or deny whether her famously sensitive nose and odd knack for cataloguing scents – for the most part a major plus in this particular line of work – had got it right.

Making her way to
the bedside, Reilly took out the camera and began taking pictures. She looked again at the lifeless form on the bed, but there was no indecision or hesitation, she knew exactly what to do and where to start. She moved around the bed, checking the floor and bedside table, but saw nothing visibly out of the ordinary. Then she gave the victim’s body a brief once-over – keenly aware that her hands were tied, so to speak, until Karen Thompson, the medical examiner, arrived to carry out an initial appraisal of the corpse. Afterward, she moved on to the kitchen/diner to look for evidence and try to get a full mental picture of the scene before the other GFU field techs arrived.

On the small kitchen table were two bowls,
with spoon lines of what looked like cream and red syrup streaked across the bottom. Dessert had been served and devoured.

One look at
the stack of crockery by the sink told Reilly that a meal of at least two if not three courses had been shared by two people. She took several shots of the table and the contents of the kitchen from a few different angles.

Then, temporarily finished
with the camera, she set it down on a nearby countertop. Earlier, when zooming in on the table surface for a shot, a thin layer of fine whitish dust had caught her attention. She guessed it was icing sugar (possibly the non-bleached organic kind) or something related to dessert, but would be taking samples in any case. Finding out exactly what was on the menu before the murder occurred could be crucial.

Taking a pack of sample dishes from her kitbag, Reilly used a cotton bud to pick up some of the fine powder. She also procured a few scraps of the leftover
food before assigning a number to each dish, attaching a sticker and then number to the corresponding sample before placing each dish into individual evidence bags.

Feeling suddenly warm in her dust suit, she
wiped her forehead with a latex-clad hand. She guessed the heating in the flat must be set on high, and knew this was something the ME would have to take into account, given how it would affect her time-of-death assessment.

It was the last thought Reilly had before she collapsed to the ground, and her
head crashed against the tiled floor with a sickening thud.

CHAPTER
2

Tampa, Florida             

Holly’s little Russian doll, Todd Forrest of the Tampa PD forensic unit decided.

That was what this crime scene reminded him of:
one of those Russian nesting dolls that opened up to reveal another one inside. Babushka dolls, he thought, recalling the correct description. His childhood friend had carried that damn thing with her everywhere until she was eleven years old. Todd shook his head. He didn’t want to think about such memories now, not while he was standing at the scene of a vicious murder. It seemed like bad luck, somehow. Besides, he had a case that needed his focus.

The south city
apartment complex was laid out in four two-story blocks, forming a square surrounding a fountain. Inside the square was a section blocked off by yellow crime scene tape, an area filled with a group of police officers. The top of the fountain was just visible over the heads of the tallest officers, but no one was looking up. All eyes were on the base of it upon which their victim, a brown-haired, green-eyed Russian girl, was splayed.

She didn’t look older than seventeen and she’d never be older than that now. She’d
also been just as cute as the little babushka doll Todd remembered. And like that doll, it looked like someone had been expecting to find a smaller one inside. The girl had been sliced from ribcage to groin, leaving her stomach a gaping mess.