Works of Darkness (Matt Foley/Sara Bradford series Book 1) Read online

  A Matt Foley/Sara Bradford Novel

  Book One

  WORKS OF DARKNESS

  V. B. TENERY

  DEDICATION

  To my Savior Jesus Christ.

  May all I do honor You.

  And

  To my beloved sister Mary McFadden.

  I still miss you, Sis. The poem inside

  is dedicated to you. Someday, we’ll walk

  those streets of gold together and

  you can show me around.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Copyright

  Other Books by V. B. Tenery

  Excerpt from THEN THERE WERE NONE

  WORKS OF DARKNESS

  COPYRIGHT © 2013 by V. B. TENERY

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The town of Twin Falls, Texas exists only in the imagination of the author.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, photocopy, recording—or in any other manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  eBook editions are licensed for your personal enjoyment only. eBooks may not be re-sold, copied or given to other people. If you would like to share an eBook edition, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with.

  Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated are taken from the

  King James translation, public domain.

  Cover Art by Nathan R. Adams

  Editor: Kathy McKinsey

  Publishing History: First Edition CBC Press, March 2014

  Published in the United States of America

  “The night is far spent; the day is at hand, let us therefore cast off the works of darkness.”

  ─Romans 13:12

  CHAPTER 1

  Bay Harbor Development

  Construction foreman Jason Watts stood by his truck and gazed across the job site. Heavy equipment cleared the prime lakefront property of stumps and rubble as machinery shifted sand from one place to another. The smell of damp earth permeated the air around him. An early morning chill crept under his coat collar making him shiver.

  Across the way, his backhoe operator scooped up a load of sand, lowered the bucket, and stopped the machine. Isaac Hummingbird, the Native American operator, stepped off the front-end loader and tossed something to the ground.

  “Hey, Jason, you’d better come take a look at this.” Hummingbird stood next to what looked like a large, white trash bag.

  Jason shoved his clipboard onto the truck’s bench seat and trotted across the field, the dirt still sticky from the recent storms. He noted the heavy, dark clouds hovering overhead as he crossed the field. Fierce October rain that pummeled the area had thrown him behind schedule, forcing him to play catch-up. Big time. The moneymen who financed the project were popping Xanax by the handful.

  Those clouds would dump any minute, and he’d have to send the crew home. Again. And lose another day’s work. “Whatcha got, Hummingbird?”

  The machine operator didn’t reply. He stepped back and pointed at the open bag, the side folded back. It was the tattered remnants of a sleeping bag. Cold sweat broke out on Jason’s brow, and a tight knot clutched at his gut, his breath shallow as he gazed into the opening. Inside, were the skeletal remains of a child, the bones white and clean.

  Pink overalls hung on the shoulder bones of the wasted frame. Tennis shoes had slipped from the feet. A small birthstone ring hung loosely on the right ring finger.

  Jason rubbed his hand over his face and drew in a lung full of moist air. He removed a cell phone from his jacket pocket. “I’ll call it in.”

  Home of Police Chief Matt Foley

  After finishing an eighteen-hour shift Wednesday, Matt Foley hadn’t made it to bed until after two o’clock. He’d finished a full day at the station and then spent the evening at a political dinner with his boss.

  Matt’s Yorkie awakened him at six o’clock before the alarm went off. Rowdy’s whines predicted storms better than The Weather Channel and he stuck to Matt’s side like a burr under a saddle until the sky cleared.

  The dog shivered and tried to nose his way under the covers. Matt lifted the blanket and allowed the frightened animal to snuggle close. Otherwise, he would keep whining and neither of them would sleep. With luck, they’d both catch a few winks before it was time to get up.

  Half-awake, Matt reached over to touch Mary, to hold her close. But the sheet was cold and empty, her pillow undisturbed. He closed his eyes and turned over, refusing to revisit the dark memories.

  In his state between drowsiness and slumber, the phone rang.

  He waited. The caller might give up and the message go to voicemail. Didn’t happen.

  Whoever it was kept redialing.

  Fumbling for the bedside lamp switch, he snatched up the phone, and pressed it to his ear. “Foley.”

  Static filled the line before Sheriff Joe Wilson’s voice came through, strong and clear. He chuckled. “It’s me, Matt. Did I wake you?”

  His friend was persistent, if nothing else. “No, I always let the phone ring fifteen times before I answer. I’m awake now. What’s up?”

  The cell phone connection faded for a second before it came back. “Construction workers turned up the remains of a child at Bay Harbor. It’s about a mile past the bridge on the reservoir road. You know the place?”

  Matt tossed the cover back and slid his feet into slippers beside the bed. “What are you doing out there?”

  Lightning filled the bedroom with flashbulb brightness, followed by a bass roll of thunder. Rowdy whimpered and moved closer.

  “The foreman called me, but this one’s your baby. It’s within the city limits.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Matt slipped out of bed and headed towards the shower. “I’ll find it. Anything else?”

  Joe paused for a second. “I spoke to the desk sergeant at the station. Your people are already rolling on it. Since it’s a kid, I thought you might want to get involved.”

  “Thanks, Joe. I’m on my way.”

  “Wear your rain gear. It’s coming down out here.”

  Matt rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Don’t remind me.”

  “I’ll keep the scene clear of tourists and media until you get your lazy behind out here.”

  In twenty minutes, Matt had showered, dressed, and headed downstairs, the Yorkie whimpering at his heels. Matt picked Rowdy up. “I hate to leave you here alone in a storm, buddy, but I can’t take you with me.”

  Rowdy still in his arms, Matt snatched a Benadryl tablet from the medicine cabinet. He stopped in the kitchen, wrapped the pill in a hunk of bologna, and fed it to the dog. That would calm him until Stella came in at ten.

  He didn’t have time for a pet. Keeping Rowdy wasn’t good for either of them. But Matt had never been able to consider finding the dog another home. They both missed Mary. The Yorkie was the only reason he came home at night.

  Home had become an insidious adversary he didn’t want to face. Everywhere he looked, there were reminders of his wife. Even Rowdy had been her dog.

  Mary hadn’t been a morning person, but she had insisted on seeing him off each day. A cup of coffee in her hand, eyes half-closed, she’d leaned into him for a lingering goodbye kiss, say
ing, “Something to remind you to come home.”

  He recalled the first time he’d kissed her. They’d met at a political fund raiser and afterward he’d walked her to her car. She’d opened the door then turned to thank him. He’d leaned down and placed a light touch on her lips. A nice-meeting-you acknowledgement of his attraction to her. When he turned to walk away, she’d said, “Call me, Matt.”

  His job and his friend Joe had saved him. Kept him from falling into the abyss of grief. He couldn’t think of his own sorrow while helping others with theirs.

  Perhaps he should sell the house, find the dog a good home. But that was a decision for another time and another day.

  He strapped on his nylon holster, stuffed the 9mm Glock in the pocket, then retrieved his slicker and rain boots from the closet. With the galoshes securely snapped over his shoes, he strode through the kitchen to the garage and climbed into his Expedition. He backed out of the driveway and headed towards the city. Coffee would have to wait until the Starbucks drive-through.

  Bay Harbor Development

  An ocean of gray mist greeted Matt’s turn onto the aqueduct roadway. The downpour had stopped, but a steady drizzle persisted. In the distance, a flock of geese honked their way farther south for the winter. The fresh smell of wet pine needles drifted through the SUV’s window.

  Ahead, blue-and-white strobe bars of two sheriff’s cruisers pierced the gloom. The vehicles formed a roadblock just before the bridge. Uniformed deputies, in canary-yellow ponchos, stood in the road and turned back a press van and onlookers. The grim set of the officers’ jaws spoke volumes.

  One of the deputies recognized Matt and waved him through the maze.

  Matt made a right turn after the bridge. A mile down the gravel road, he swung his SUV in beside the sheriff’s vehicle. The mire clung to his rubber boots as he trudged up the muddy incline. At the top of the knoll, the land leveled out for fifty yards where construction trucks, sheriff’s patrol cars, black and whites, and a coroner’s van formed a half-moon around a muddy, yellow backhoe. The worksite lay about a hundred yards off the lake’s beachfront.

  Matt’s detectives had beaten him to the crime scene. Lead detective, Miles Davis, waited near the mud-splattered machine. He stood six-feet tall, with a tight, muscular frame. No ordinary slicker for Miles. In his belted London Fog coat and Denzel Washington good looks, he appeared more at home on the cover of a men’s fashion magazine than at a grubby crime scene.

  Within the cordoned-off area, Davis motioned for the Crime Scene Unit Chief, Dale McCulloch, to join him. Dale’s people set up two portable lights to dispel the morning gloom while he recorded video and pointed his assistant to locations where he wanted still shots. Camera flashes added sporadic brilliance to the gray morning.

  To the untutored eye, a murder scene looked chaotic as people moved in different directions. But to a cop, the investigation progressed like a synchronized ballet, a symphony of precise motion. The company missed nothing. Cataloged everything.

  Matt stood out of the way as the detective squatted like a catcher behind home plate beside the remains of a sleeping bag. Davis pulled the flaps aside and exposed the contents. He straightened and called the photographer to move in for close-ups.

  Sheriff Joe Wilson caught Matt’s eye and lifted a coffee cup in a salute. Joe’s fullback physique and chiseled features lent authority to his slicker-covered uniform. At six-foot-three, he could never meld into the background, and the Stetson he wore negated Matt’s one-inch height advantage.

  Joe saluted Matt with the foam cup in his hand. “It’s about time you showed up, Foley. I’m tired of standing in the rain, babysitting your crime scene.”

  “And a good morning to you, too,” Matt said and reached to shake hands.

  Joe scowled at him.

  County medical examiner, Lisa Martinez’s petite frame looked smaller than usual standing next to the sheriff’s bulk. The ever-present cigarette between her fingers was missing. Probably difficult to smoke in the rain. Her thick, dark hair was pulled into a ponytail under a navy-blue cap—strikingly beautiful, despite the miserable weather.

  “Hi, Lisa,” Matt said. “Is he always this grumpy in the morning?”

  She laughed. “Only when he misses his fiber.”

  Matt inclined his head towards the taped-off area. “Who found the body?”

  Joe pointed to a group of men near the backhoe with his coffee cup. “One of the workers uncovered it before the rain started. He unzipped the bag—found the skeleton. I haven’t talked to him. Detective Hunter is doing that now.”

  Matt followed his gaze to the crowd of construction workers. Detective Chris Hunter stood in their midst, notebook and pen in hand.

  A hole yawned in front of the machine. Dale had stretched a tarp over the grave, but it hadn’t stopped the storm’s runoff from seeping into the hole.

  Lisa left to join the CSU team, and Joe put his hand on Matt’s shoulder. “So, how are you doing?”

  Matt shrugged. They’d been friends too long for him to lie.

  “That doesn’t tell me much.” Joe released the grip, giving Matt some space.

  “I don’t know what you’re looking for, Joe. Why do you ask?”

  “Because I’ve seen you in the valley, my friend.”

  Matt knew Joe cared. Really cared. But his questions brought back emotions Matt didn’t want to deal with. Not here. Not now.

  Matt hesitated. He needed to change the subject. “Lisa been out here long enough to reach any conclusions?”

  “She arrived shortly after I did.” Joe nodded towards the group headed their way. “You can ask her.”

  Lisa, Miles, and Dale caught up with them.

  “Anything so far, Lisa?”

  She gave a slight shrug. “The articles we found, as well as the skeletal remains, are those of a child. Can’t be sure, but the age appears to be about six or seven. Two front teeth are missing, which is consistent with a child that age. I’ll have to have DNA tests done, but based on the clothing, it’s a girl.”

  “Any idea how long ago?” Matt asked.

  She turned and scanned the gravesite. “A very long time. My best guess is twenty years or more. The skeleton is intact. The depth of the grave and the sleeping bag kept animals from scattering bones across the countryside.”

  Davis handed Matt a plastic bag that contained a small piece of red plaid fabric. “We found this still inside the bag with the manufacturer’s label attached. The plastic liner is intact. Lucky for us, vinyl doesn’t decompose quickly. One reason landfills keep piling up.”

  “Any thoughts on cause of death?” Matt asked.

  Lisa shook her head. “Too soon to make a prediction. I’ll let you know more after I get back to the morgue.”

  “Anything to help with identification?”

  “Relatives, if and when we find them, should be able to make a positive ID of the clothing and a birthstone ring that were inside the bag.”

  A construction worker near the backhoe skirted around the crime scene tape and stopped in front of Davis. He held out his hand. “Jason Watts, job foreman. We’re packing up. How long you guys gonna hold on to the worksite?”

  The detective turned to the grim-faced supervisor. “As long as it takes, but just this area. You guys can work the other sections, weather permitting.” He shoved his rain hat off his brow. “Look, it’s a moot point. You can’t work today in this mess anyhow. We’ll have to sift through every shovelful of dirt inside that hole before I can let you guys back in.”

  Watts punched his hands into his pockets. “The developer will not be happy. We’re working on a tight schedule.”

  “I understand,” Davis said. “Nevertheless, I have to secure the scene, big and messy as it is. Homicide 101.”

  The man shook his head and turned to leave.

  Matt stopped him. “Those buildings over there, are they part of the Bay Harbor project?”

  Watts turned back and faced Matt. “Yeah, they’ll
come down though. The plan is to clear the lakefront property first. That’s where we’ll start putting up homes as soon as it’s ready.”

  “Are they safe for us to go inside?”

  “They’re structurally sound,” Watts said. “But they’re a mess. A bunch of drunks and druggies have used them as crash pads.”

  “We’d like to take a look. Is that a problem?” Matt asked.

  “Knock yourself out.” He waved as if to say “They don’t pay me enough to do this job,” and walked back to his crew.

  Davis shook his head. “He thinks he has problems. Years of weather, people, and animals have erased any evidence there might have been here. You want to check out those buildings now?”

  “Yeah. It shouldn’t take long.”

  They trekked fifty yards uphill to the two structures. Davis moved up beside Matt as they stepped around the mud puddles that dotted the path. “What were they used for?”

  “For more than fifty years, twenty acres of this property belonged to the Twin Falls First Baptist Church. They sold it when the developer bought all the land around them. These buildings were a retreat. The two-story structure was a housing complex for guests, and the one-story was used as a fellowship hall for meetings and meals.”

  Davis raised an eyebrow. “What’s a retreat?”

  Matt’s gaze swept the property. The grass came up to his knees, most of the windows were broken, and a tree had fallen against the roof. “It was a place for people to get away from telephones and televisions, to reconnect with each other and God. As a kid, I used to come here for summer camp. It looked a lot different then.”

  The apartment’s outer door clung to its upright position by a single loose hinge. Matt shoved the door open and kicked trash out of the way. Inside, a wide hallway ended at the stairs that led to the second floor. There were eight bedrooms on each side of the corridor, all with built-in bunk beds. The same upstairs, six bunks per room.