Cold-Blooded Liar

Chapter One

San Diego Police Department, San Diego, California

Monday, April 4, 11:30 a.m.

Present day

Hey, McKittrick."

Kit swiveled in her desk chair, raising an eyebrow at Basil "Baz" Constantine, her partner of four years. "You rang?"

Baz pointed to the double doors leading into the San Diego Police Department's homicide division. "You got company."

Kit turned in time to see the doors close behind familiar wide shoulders. Harlan McKittrick ambled toward her, his gait as smooth and his smile as wide as it had been for the nineteen years that she'd been privileged to know him.

"Pop!" She pushed away from her desk, walking into his outstretched arms. She still didn't like to be touched, but she made exceptions for Mom and Pop McK. The contact seemed to make them happy.

Kit would do nearly anything to make those two happy.

"Kitty-Cat," he said, tightening his arms until her ribs protested. He let her go when she grunted, his expression sheepish. "Sorry. Haven't seen you in too long."

"It's been two weeks," she said dryly, but leaned up to peck his cheek, her heart warming at his pleased look. "What brings you into the city?"

Because Harlan McKittrick hated the city. He was made for wide open spaces, not high-rises and traffic.

"We're getting a new kid. Mom is meeting with the social worker and I thought I'd stop in and say hi."

"Well, hi. Come and sit with me. I can take a short break."

He looked around as he followed her back to her desk, curious as always. He was no stranger to the homicide division, having haunted its halls for years after they'd lost Wren. He'd kept the promise he'd made after Wren's funeral, helping her search for the man who'd killed her sister. They'd been unsuccessful in finding the monster, but even after sixteen years they still searched.

She wondered if he'd come with a new lead. If so, it would be the first one in five years.

"Nope," he said as he eased his six-foot-two frame into the chair next to her desk. "Nothing new."

He'd always been able to read her mind. It had been maddening in her teenage years. He'd always known when she was ready to bolt or if she was telling anything less than the total truth. Now it was a comfort that someone knew her so well.

"Me either. So tell me about the new kid."

"Thirteen-year-old girl." His shoulders drooped. "She was scared of me."

She squeezed his hand. "She'll see that you're different. They always do."

One side of his mouth lifted. "You did."

"I did, indeed."

He sat quietly for a moment, then dug something from his pants pocket. Kit tensed, knowing what it would be even before the little carving appeared.

It was that time of year. Again.

Sixteen anniversaries of Wren's murder and still no closure. But true to his word, Pop McK had never forgotten the little girl who'd been such a bright light.

He held out his offering on his flat palm, just as he always did, year after year. It was always a little bird. Kit had a special shelf in her bedroom for the birds, placed where she could see them when she opened her eyes each morning.

They were the only things in her home that she routinely dusted.

Except today it wasn't a bird-or not just a bird. It was a cat with a bird perched on its head. The bird looked quizzical. The cat looked . . . content. Three inches long and an inch wide, it was intricate and detailed and beautiful.

"Pop," she breathed. Gingerly, she took it from his hand. At one time, it had been because she was touch averse. Now it was because it looked like the little figurine would snap if she gripped it too firmly. "Thank you."

"It won't break," he told her. "You can carry it in your pocket if you want to. For luck."

"I will." But she didn't, not yet. She held the small carving up to the light, marveling at his skill as she always did. "It's amazing."

His smile was shy, an adorable look on a man as big as he was. He dug in his pocket once again, bringing out another carving. This one was just a bird. It was still beautifully done, but the bird sat alone on a twig.

"For your shelf."

She took it from his palm. "Thank you, Pop."

"You're welcome, Kitty-Cat," he murmured, running a hand over her hair. "I have something for you, Baz."

Baz got up from his desk to sit on the corner of Kit's. He hadn't even been pretending not to listen. "Yes, please."

Harlan produced a small carved horse, making both Kit and Baz frown. It wasn't a bird. They both always got birds.

"It's for Luna," Harlan explained. "She saw me carving the last time you brought her out to the farm and asked if I'd make her one for her birthday."

Baz's face softened at the mention of his five-year-old granddaughter. "She's going to love it, Harlan. Thank you."

"Well." Harlan cleared his throat gruffly. "You've been there for us more times than I can count. So thank you." He held out a fourth carving. A bird. "For you."

Harlan had started giving Baz and Kit carvings at the same time. Kit, so that she could remember Wren. Baz, so that he wouldn't forget about the victim whose murder he'd never solved.

Baz didn't try to aw-shucks his way out of the gratitude. He'd been the detective who'd worked Wren's case and was not as callous as fifteen-year-old Kit had assumed.

Wren's murder had been Baz's very first homicide case. It had shaken him, and his attempts to distance himself from their grief so that he could do his job had come off as cold and unfeeling. He'd been anything but, having helped them track down every lead ever since.

That they hadn't found Wren's killer was not from lack of trying.

Baz slipped the carvings into his own pocket. "I'll make a video when we give Luna's to her. Be prepared for squeals that could break glass."

A door opened behind them and their lieutenant's voice cut through the bullpen noise. "Constantine, McKittrick. With me. Now."

A chorus of ooooh came from their fellow detectives, like they were all in middle school. Which wasn't far off for many of them-behaviorally speaking-despite being mostly middle-aged men. It was how they coped.

"Gotta go," Kit said. "Sorry, Pop."

"I need to pick up your mom and our new kid. Wish me luck."

"You won't need it," she said. "I give the kid a week before she's calling you Pop."

"Unless she's like you," he teased. "Then it'll be four years."

"I was a little stubborn," she admitted.

Baz snorted. "A little?"

"Shut up," she told him without heat. "Pop, I'll be there on Sunday for dinner."

Harlan gave her another rib-crushing hug. "See that you are. Your mother worries."

Betsy McKittrick did worry about her. She and Harlan had been the only ones who ever had.

"I'll be there." She started walking backward toward her lieutenant's office, not turning until Harlan had passed through the double doors.

Straightening her spine, she slid both carvings into her pocket before opening the lieutenant's door. "What's up, boss?"

Reynaldo Navarro gestured to the chairs across from his desk, handing them each a sheet of paper. "Transcript of an incoming call. Audio's been sent to your email for your listening pleasure."

Kit scanned the transcript before looking up with a frown. "He mentioned me?"

"In particular," Navarro said. "Listen." He hit a button on his computer and the voice of a very nervous-sounding man filled the air.

"Hi. This message is for homicide detective Kit McKittrick. I have reason to believe you'll find the victim of a murder in Longview Park at the following coordinates." He rattled off a string of numbers and the call ended.

Kit tried to place the voice but came up empty. "I don't think I've ever met him before."

Navarro shrugged. "Well, if he hasn't met you, he at least knows of you. I want you two to check it out. Report back. Baz, you can go. Kit, stay."

Damn. Kit had a feeling she knew what was coming.

When Baz was gone, Navarro sighed. "You skipped your appointment. Again."

Yep, this was what she'd expected. "I thought it was optional."

Navarro gave her his I'm-disappointed-in-you look. She was almost immune to it. "You promised," he said. "That's why I made it optional."

She had promised. "I'm sorry. I just hate going."

"None of us likes going to the department shrink, Kit, but we've talked about this every year for the past four. Every one of your bosses before me has talked to you about it, too. This time of year, you work yourself into near exhaustion and we all know why."

Well, yeah. That she'd lost Wren this time of year wasn't a secret. Especially in the homicide department.

"Working helps. And I can handle it."

"Maybe this year you can. Maybe next year, too. But sooner or later, it will become too much. Your performance will drop. You'll lose your edge."

She ground her teeth. He knew her too well, because losing her edge was one of the things she feared most.

"Go to your appointments, Kit. You might be surprised. Dr. Scott may actually be able to help you."

"And if he doesn't?"

"You mean if you don't want to tell him anything personal?"

"Yes." Because she didn't. She didn't dislike Dr. Scott. She just didn't want to bare her soul. Like any normal person wouldn't.

"Then you can sit and talk about your cases for an hour. It's one hour a week, Kit. It's not going to kill you." He dropped his gaze to the paperwork in front of him, effectively dismissing her.

She wasted no time leaving his office.

"This anonymous guy sounds like a kook," she grumbled to Baz when she was back at their desks. "We've got better things to do than chase after anonymous tips all day."

"No, we've got a mountain of reports to write. It's a beautiful day. Let's go check it out and then we can grab some lunch."

"It's always a beautiful day. It's freaking San Diego."

"Stop whining, McKittrick. I've got a craving for Vietnamese."

Rolling her eyes, Kit followed him out. "Waste of time."

Luckily, she liked Vietnamese food.

Longview Park, San Diego, California

Monday, April 4, 5:30 p.m.

Kit pulled the handkerchief across her nose and mouth as she watched the two CSU techs meticulously uncovering what was, indeed, a grave. Based on the odor, the body had been there awhile.

They'd arrived at the mystery caller's coordinates to find that the ground had settled somewhat, creating a slight depression that measured five and a half by two and a half feet.

Ground-penetrating radar had shown a body.

The victim had been small.

Kit slipped her hand into her pocket, finding the little cat-bird figurine. Stroking it with her thumb. Please don't be a child.

"I hope it's not a kid," Baz murmured, echoing her thoughts.

All homicides were difficult. Even drug dealers murdered on the street had been loved by someone. Were missed by someone.

But the child homicides were a completely different level of hell.

She looked away from the grave to where Sergeant Ryland, the CSU leader, was making a plaster cast of the only footprint they'd found in the area. It was a man's shoe, size eleven.

"You got anything for us, Ryland?" she called.

"I just might."

She and Baz walked from the grave site to where someone had stepped off the asphalt path, leaving the single footprint in the strip of ground between the path and the field of grass.

Ryland finished pouring the plaster over the footprint, smoothed it out, then set the timer on his phone. "Thirty minutes for the plaster to set. Come see the photos I took of the print while I wait." He retrieved his camera and beckoned them closer. "There was lettering on the sole of the shoe-likely a brand name. I can't quite make it out in the photo, but I'm hoping to get detail from the plaster cast."

"So it'll be seventy-two hours or so," Baz said and Ryland nodded.

Kit leaned closer to the screen. "Can you zoom in on it?"

Ryland did, handing the camera to Kit. "I can make out what looks like a Y at the end of the brand name, but-"

"Sperry," Kit said. "Sorry to interrupt, Sergeant. I recognize the logo. They're Sperry Top-Siders." She gave him back his camera. "My sister runs a charter fishing business and sometimes I first mate for her on my days off. A lot of her customers wear them."

Ryland studied the photo. "You could be right."

She was, Kit was certain. "Trouble is, that's a popular shoe. I've even got a pair."

"So do I," Baz said. "Tracking those will be nearly impossible."

Kit shrugged. "But when we find the guy who owns these shoes, we can put him at the scene. Any way to get a weight estimate on the wearer?"

Ryland shook his head. "Ground's too hard. Barely enough sinkage to get the plaster cast. I'll let you know when I have something definite."

"Detectives?" one of the techs at the grave called, his tone urgent. "Something over here you need to see."

"Thank you, Sergeant," Kit said, then approached the grave alongside Baz, schooling her expression. If it was a child's grave, she would maintain her professionalism. She'd let herself react later, when she was alone.

"Victim's a postpubescent female," the tech said when they were graveside. "The ME will be able to give you a better age than I can, but I'm guessing somewhere between fourteen and eighteen."

Feeling Baz's eyes on her, Kit reassured him with a quick glance. She was fine.

He always worried about her reaction when the victim was the same age that Wren had been when she'd been murdered, but after four years as a homicide detective, Kit had seen far too many victims who'd been Wren's age. It never got easier.

She hoped that it never would.

But at least she no longer wondered if it was the same guy who'd done it. That had been her first thought earlier in her career. She'd never stop looking for Wren's killer, but she'd made her peace with the fact that she might never find him.

The CSU techs had uncovered the victim's head and torso. The remains were badly decomposed, but some of the girl's basic features were identifiable. She'd been Caucasian with shoulder-length blond hair.