Delilah: A Ronnie Lake Cold Case (An Accidental Lady Detective, A Private Investigator Crime Series Short Story Book 2) Read online

  DELILAH

  A Ronnie Lake Cold Case

  By

  Niki Danforth

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people (living or dead), events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Delilah: A Ronnie Lake Cold Case

  Copyright © 2015 Niki Danforth

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed, electronic, digital or any other form without permission of the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of authors’ rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Publisher: Pancora Press

  Book Design by Donnie Light – eBook76.com

  Cover Design: KT Design, LLC www.kristaft.com

  For Dan

  Delilah

  The bloodied corpses lay dumped on each other as if they’ve been sorted for the trash. Even with blindfolds covering their eyes, their frozen faces show an unspeakable terror. Two of the teenaged victims appear to have their hands tied behind their backs. The third must have worked out of the rope that’s still twisted around one wrist, her other rubbed raw from the binding. Her arms reach around the two girls as if she’s pulling them close. Were they already friends before this final embrace?

  I click through the next photographs, close-ups of the girls’ battered bodies. Their clothes are filthy and ragged, as if they’ve been held captive for some time.

  Other pictures on my laptop reveal the surroundings, possibly a warehouse somewhere in a rundown industrial area. The bleak, abandoned space is light years away from my cozy, safe cottage in Willowbrook, New Jersey, where I complete homework for my Intro to Criminal Justice class.

  Warrior, my beloved German shepherd, stirs near my feet on the end of a comfy chaise in my bedroom. This has always been my first choice of where to hunker down with a great book, but at the moment it’s where I study these photos.

  Suddenly, not wanting to taint my refuge with this Russian mob-related case, I take off my drugstore glasses, sweep up the materials, and head downstairs to the kitchen. I continue reading about this tragic human trafficking case and contemplate whether I’m really cut out for this world of investigative work.

  Unexpectedly, the wind picks up. Crack!

  I jump at the same moment the phone rings and grab it before it can ring again. “Hello? Who is it?”

  “Ronnie, it’s Will. Are you okay?” his calm voice asks. “You sound panicked.”

  “I’m fine, I’m fine. A huge noise outside startled me, like a gunshot, but it was probably just a limb that broke off.” I pour a glass of pinot noir. “What’s up?”

  “Do you want to assist me on a new case? I’m swamped—”

  “I’d love to, but is it more involved than the gofer work I did last time?” I take a drink. “Not that I don’t appreciate the opportunity—”

  “It’s a cold case in Parklawn, just west of Paterson. It’s not that far from you, and you’ll have a chance to help a lot in the field,” Will interjects. “We’ll find out more tomorrow when we talk to the client. Meet me at the diner at eight.”

  “You’re really going to put me in the field?”

  “With my close supervision,” Will says. “I don’t want to see a repetition of your—”

  “See you there. Thanks!” I hang up.

  I grab my computer and run upstairs to turn in. The wind continues to howl outside, and I pull Warrior’s dog nest next to my bed before sliding under the covers. I look at the computer screen, determined to pick up where I left off with my assignment. Outside, the branches creak spookily.

  “Who are you trying to kid?” I turn off my laptop. “Enough of the Russian mob for one night.”

  ~~~~~

  Will and I sit in a booth at Angie’s Diner drinking coffee, happy to be inside on a cloudy, chilly February morning. Bells jangle when the front door opens and a sandy-haired man in a plaid flannel hooded jacket and heavy canvas work pants enters. He has several folders tucked under his arm, so Will assumes he’s the man we want to meet and waves. As the guy walks to our table, I note he looks to be my age, somewhere in his mid-fifties.

  “You’re Will Benson?” he asks.

  “I am.” Will extends his hand to shake, and we introduce ourselves. After we order breakfast and make a little small talk, Steve Lyla begins his story.

  “Like I told you on the phone, my dad’s cousin, Benny Paola, retired from the force over in Paterson where he worked with your dad back in the ’80s,” Steve says to Will. “He said I should give you a call, that maybe you could help us on a cold case.”

  “How old is the case?” I blurt.

  Will grins at my eagerness. “Start at the beginning, Steve.”

  “My aunt, Doreen Lyla, was murdered back in 1972, and they never got her killer. Hey, I get it that the police didn’t have everything they’ve got now to track him down.” He drinks his coffee. “Parklawn P.D. and detectives in Paterson worked the case long and hard, but they still came up empty.”

  “So, why now?” Will asks. “It’s been more than forty years.”

  “My old man’s got cancer, and we don’t think he’ll make it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Will and I say almost in unison.

  “Pop’s dying wish is that his sister’s killer be brought to justice,” Steve says as the waitress delivers our breakfast.

  He gestures toward the folders next to him on the seat. “My dad’s cousin gave me his old case files. In his spare time, Uncle Benny helped a guy named Detective Brannigan who ran the Paterson part of the investigation.”

  “Do those files include a list of people the police talked to back then?” Will asks.

  “Yeah, and it’s a long one.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “No, but I was first on the scene—”

  I jump in. “How did that happen? You must have been a kid.”

  “Yeah, I was only twelve. But Mom and I stopped by to drop something off at Aunt Doreen’s after basketball practice.”

  “What do you remember?” Will digs into his eggs, but his eyes are on Steve.

  The man looks down and takes a moment. “Mom and I pulled up to the front of Aunt Doreen’s house.”

  “Do you remember what time?” I ask.

  “No, but the light was on outside. The door was wide open, and I remember thinking that was weird because it was cold out. Then I noticed something on the landing.”

  “What did you do?” I ask.

  “My mother hadn’t even stopped the car when I jumped out and raced over. My aunt was sprawled across the steps. Her eyes were wide open, staring at nothing. I’d never seen a dead person before, let alone someone who’d been murdered.” He shakes his head. “It looked like someone had stabbed her over and over and over. I touched her wrist to find a pulse, like they’d taught us in Scouts. There was no pulse, but she was still warm. So I guess it had just happened.”

  “What an awful memory to carry with you,” I say.

  “I remember her expression…it was like she couldn’t believe that someone wanted to kill her.” Steve’s mouth goes tight. “I ran inside and my mom screamed at me not to go because maybe the guy was in there. But I had to call the police. Pretty soon, I heard the sirens.” He goes quiet, staring at his food.
r />   We give him a moment, and then Will asks, “What happened with the investigation?”

  “Like I said, this Detective Brannigan ran it. As the case got colder, Uncle Benny tried to help.”

  “They didn’t come up with anything?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” Steve says. “Brannigan retired fifteen years ago, and Uncle Benny ten.”

  “To be fair to the police and detectives, their other work never stops. New cases keep piling up,” Will says. “Once the leads dry up in a homicide, it gets pushed to the side for more recent crimes and the case goes cold.” Will waves to the waitress for the check.

  “Because of Uncle Benny, both the Paterson and Parklawn cops said I can check out their records,” Steve says. “That goes for you, too, since I’m hiring you and all.”

  “I’ll email you the paperwork,” Will says, “and we’ll start right away.”

  ~~~~~

  Back at the office, we lay out Steve’s files on the work table.

  “I have an appointment in twenty minutes,” he says. “It shouldn’t take long. In the meantime, take a look at these. Let me know what you think.”

  “Do you want me to head out to talk to some people who were around when this happened—”

  “Not yet. Let me be clear, you’re working under my supervision. You’re not to set foot out of the office on this case unless you’ve cleared everything with me.” Will’s voice is firm. There isn’t even the usual flirtatious twinkle in his eye as he talks to me.

  “But Will—”

  “No buts, semi-Detective Lake.”

  “Yes, boss.” I don’t mean to, but I’m certain a discouraging tone sneaks into my voice. Sure, Will’s been a private detective for almost two decades, but I’m a good fifteen years older than he is. That has to count for something in experience and maturity. So why do I feel like a bumbling office intern when he tells me what to do?

  “Now look, I want you to get some experience while you’re going to school for this, but I don’t want you in danger.” He pauses, and his piercing blue eyes soften. “As we both know, rushing into the field too soon without enough facts can land you in hot water. Remember?”

  “Right.” I try to keep my voice calm. I’ve known Will long enough to understand he only wants the best for me. But after last summer’s family matter that I tried to investigate on my own, I know I have a lot to learn. Thankfully Will hasn’t written me off completely as a detective, and is still game to help me out.

  “Look, I just…I want you to be sure about your decision to become a private investigator.” The kindness in his voice and the gaze in his eyes makes me want to melt. My face feels hot.

  Once Will leaves, I dig in, carefully reading through copies of the autopsy report, various police reports, and Doreen Lyla’s death certificate. Next I look at photos of Doreen from that time, and then digest the newspaper articles that Steve’s family saved about the murder.

  Amazingly, the killer appears to have left no clues so the evidence is slim. The police follow-up back in the seventies yielded very little, but it’s hard to believe this may have been a perfect crime.

  Doreen was twenty-four at the time of her death and a popular, well-regarded teacher at the local high school. She sang in a church choir, worked out several times a week at a gym, and volunteered at a soup kitchen. The transcripts of the interviews indicate that everywhere she spent time, she left a trail of admirers.

  I check out Brannigan’s list of candidates who were interviewed, create a shorter version, and then look up contact info. I’m itching to leave the office to investigate, but I don’t want Will to fire me before we’ve even started.

  ~~~~~

  We meet at a Starbucks around the corner from Will’s office. I fill him in on what I’ve learned so far from the files.

  “There were no clues at Doreen’s house, nothing from the killer, no prints, no defensive wounds, nothing under her nails. It looks like she turned to walk into the house and maybe he got her from behind.” I sip my decaf mocha. “Oh, and none of the neighbors saw anything.” I pull a yellowed snapshot out of my bag. “Here’s a picture of her house back then.”

  Will studies it. “Those bushes by the front door were a good place to hide.”

  “Or maybe Doreen knew the guy and blew him off,” I answer. “Then she turned to go inside, and that’s when he got her. According to the autopsy report, there were twenty-two stab wounds. They were all over her body, front and back.”

  “A passionate attack like that, it’s a classic sign that the killer knew his victim, meaning he wasn’t a pro and there should have been mistakes.” Will slowly drinks his coffee. “It’s surprising there are no clues.”

  I pull out another photograph, one of Doreen. “Here.” He looks closely. “She was beautiful,” I say. “And from what I’ve read, equally nice.”

  He nods, pulls out a small pad, and writes a name and number. “Tomorrow morning at eight we’ll meet at Parklawn P.D. and spend time going through their cold case files. Give this guy a call. Let him know that Steve hired us, and we’d like to come by in the morning.”

  “Got it,” I answer. “Here’s the preliminary list I put together of top candidates to re-interview.”

  “Go ahead and set up meetings, in person or by phone. Try not to set up any evening interviews unless you have to. And never by yourself at night.” Will looks at me with a mixture of tenderness and sternness. “Are we clear?”

  “Ten-four, boss.”

  ~~~~~

  After setting up several appointments and leaving voice mails for others on my list, I reread everything Steve left with us, getting lost in the details of Doreen Lyla’s murder.

  It’s late afternoon when I head home. Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young’s “Woodstock” explodes from the radio in my red Mustang. Along the way I decide on a new destination, pull over, and reach for my case notes from the back seat. I put the address in my GPS and blast the music even more for the long drive in rush hour traffic.

  It’s getting dark by the time I arrive, probably close to the time of day of Doreen’s murder. I stare at the scene of the crime, an ivory-colored stucco bungalow from the thirties with slate shingles and black shutters.

  The large bushes that used to stand sentry on both sides of the front door are long gone. Now, a two-foot-high, neatly trimmed hedge stands in their place. There are lights on inside, and every now and then I see a silhouette run past a window.

  I turn up my satellite radio when I hear Megan Trainer singing “Lips are Movin’.” My daughter Brooke had shown me the video on YouTube of a pretty, voluptuous blonde with lots of black eyeliner, and I loved the 1960s vibe to her music. I quickly text Brooke that I’m listening to the song again.

  I look at the old photo of the house and then glance around the street filled with similar bungalows. It’s a quiet neighborhood, perfect for families or a young teacher like Doreen.

  A car turns into the driveway and a woman gets out. The light over the door turns on as she runs up the front steps. Before she can open it, a young girl and boy fling open the door and rush to her with hugs. They all go inside.

  Wouldn’t Doreen’s neighbors have heard her cry out when her attacker came at her? The music fades out as I mentally step back to 1972.

  I imagine the two large bushes on either side of the front door, tall enough for someone to hide behind. Perhaps Doreen walked up the steps, tired at the end of a long day at school, and pulled out her keys. As she unlocked the door, she may have heard him behind her, maybe she even knew him.

  Before she could fully register his unexpected presence, he grabbed her, covered her mouth, and stabbed her. He cut her again. Over and over, angrier and angrier, he kept stabbing as she dropped to the stoop. This hulking figure loomed over her, continuing to knife her. He didn’t need to cover her mouth anymore, because the life was finally out of her and she was quiet.

  I snap back to the present where the stoop is empty. The neighborhood is quiet and p
eaceful, and I drive away listening to another talented blond musician famous for her heavy black eyeliner, 1960s icon Dusty Springfield, singing “I Only Want To Be With You.” I wonder if that was what the killer was thinking as he waited here to make his move. And if he couldn’t have her, no one else could either.

  ~~~~~

  The next morning, Will and I walk down several aisles of gray metal shelves stuffed with files, black binders, large brown envelopes, cardboard boxes, and plastic tubs. Parklawn Police evidence tags hang out of many of the files and containers, names written on each of them.

  “Are all of these homicide cases?” I know my voice sounds meek, but this room creeps me out.

  “Not this entire room—many of these are active but not murders. We’re heading to that section over there.” Will directs me toward one corner. “This is where they keep some of their cold cases. Parklawn is close to Paterson, so their other case files are over there.” He looks for Doreen Lyla’s files.

  “Do you have to do this a lot?” My voice sounds shaky.

  He stops, looks at me, and puts a hand on my elbow. “Are you okay?”

  “I will be in a moment.” I pause. “It’s a little overwhelming.”

  “Ronnie, when you become a P.I., you’ll work all sorts of cases. This one just happens to be a homicide.” Will’s tone is gentle. “Remember, you’re working to see justice for Doreen and her family.”

  I see a box labeled Lyla, Doreen. “There it is.” I also see Lyla tags on several notebooks and large envelopes.

  Will pulls out several files from a shelf where Doreen’s case begins. He opens the first file and flips through several pages. “This looks like a master list of what’s stored in Doreen’s case.”

  I peer over his shoulder. “Where do you recommend that I start?”

  “Make a copy of this list so you can write on it as you go through everything.” He pulls a package from his jacket pocket. “Here are some temporary tags. Use them if things are out of order. Make sure the evidence people don’t remove them.”