One Way Ticket Read online

  One Way Ticket

  A Detective Julia Sawyer Story

  Rachel Hargrove

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2017 by Rachel Hargrove

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  To C, K, and J. Your friendship means the world to me. Thank you.

  Chapter 1

  9:05 AM – LA Express

  It’s a packed train to Los Angeles, but the only trip he’s taking is straight to the pearly gates. There’s a dead guy on the toilet seat. A fresh dead guy.

  Detective Julia Sawyer steps away and presses her palms into her face. How long since she last slept? One day? Two? Maybe the body is a hallucination—albeit a morbid one, if not familiar in her line of work. She opens her lids. Her vision bursts with stars, but the corpse is still there, sitting on a closed toilet seat in the women’s bathroom.

  He’s in his early fifties. Blond, his hair as limp as the lifeless hand hanging by his side. His eyes are bloodshot, and his lips have a blue tinge. Jules takes his wrist. The heat’s fading. He could’ve died thirty minutes ago. Her gaze travels up his arm, shoulders, and to the red ligature marks around his neck, not quite the purple they’ll become. Whatever strangled him cut deep into his flesh. Probably cracked his larynx too. Blood saturates the collar of his shirt. Painful way to go. His mouth gapes open as his head tilts back to hit the wall with a rhythmical tha-thump from the train’s movements.

  Hell of a way to spend her day off.

  The guys at the station said she was an idiot for taking the notoriously unreliable train to LA. Jules didn’t care. Driving to LA was murder. Figuratively. And spending the weekend cramped in her tomb of an apartment wasn’t anywhere near as enjoyable as relaxing at her father’s house, in a hammock strung between his orange trees. So she decided to visit him. It’d be a chance to curl up on the comfortable seats, get some sleep, and read a chapter of that book she’s been meaning to finish for months. It would be relaxing.

  Who was she kidding? Trouble bought its own round-trip ticket just to stay in her shadow.

  The phone in her purse vibrates. She grabs it. Stifling a groan, she stares at a grumpy photograph of her seventy-year-old father on the screen, imagining what she’ll say.

  "Hi, Dad. Yeah, the ride’s going fantastic. Wow, pot roast? That’s great… Listen, I hit a little snag. I might not make it for dinner. There was a murder on the train. Sorry."

  She answers the phone because somehow that’s preferable to dealing with the dead guy. "Hi, Dad."

  "Hey, sweetie. Calling to check up on you."

  Just like a father to still keep tabs on his forty-year-old daughter. "Yeah, everything’s…fine."

  "You sure? You sound weird."

  "There’s been trouble on the train." No need to fill him on every little detail. "I might be late to dinner."

  His disappointed huff is almost exactly how she imagined it. "I don’t believe it. No, that’s bullshit. It’s your goddamn day off. I told you. If they bother you on a vacation day, you call your union rep—!"

  "Nobody called me in, Dad. Someone was killed.”

  His tone takes a dramatic turn. “What? How did that happen?”

  "Well, it looks like he was strangled in the women’s bathroom.”

  Her mouth goes dry. But John Doe over here didn’t hang himself, did he? By the looks of it, he was throttled to death.

  “Jesus. How can you tell?”

  “I’m staring at him right now. There are ligature marks on his neck and burst capillaries all over his eyelids.”

  The train shifts as it chugs along a bend, and Jules throws out a hand to steady herself. The dead guy’s head lolls on his shoulders and hits the wall twice. It’s loud, and she winces.

  “There isn’t anyone else who can take care of this?”

  Sure, she could step outside and pretend she never saw the body. Perhaps she could also walk up and down the aisles and ask if someone would like to deal with the murder victim.

  “No, Dad.”

  “Look, I’ve got the pot roast in the oven. Are you going to be in time for dinner or not?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Okay.” He sighs. “I’ll make you a plate.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  She hangs up and slips the phone into her purse, grateful that he stopped himself from giving her a hard time about her job. Lately, he’s been ragging on her for never having children. No kids, but she’s got a couple cats. No husband, either.

  The fact he nags her about that is rich, considering both her parents were happier apart than they ever were together. She doubts throwing kids in the mix made things better. Jules can’t bring herself to care about her dad’s conniptions. There are more important things.

  Like the dead guy rotting beside her.

  Right.

  She turns her attention back toward him. Thirty minutes ago, this man was in unimaginable pain. His lungs burned. The wire dug into his flesh. The cracked larynx meant he couldn’t call for help. It’s not something she’d wish on her worst enemy.

  Who would commit such a violent murder on a packed train—and why?

  And how the hell did they get away with it?

  Someone killed this man only thirty minutes ago, right here, probably while she and everyone else dozed in the sleeper cars. The train had only just left Oakland. There are no stops until LA.

  The killer is still on board.

  The recycled air pricks her skin in a row of gooseflesh. The floor shifts under her feet, and the man’s head drops to his chest. He’ll fall off the seat in a few moments.

  The familiar acidic burn rises to her throat. She digs in her purse for the packet of pink tablets, popping a few in her mouth. The ground paste slides down into her uncomfortable stomach. God, she needs to get it together.

  A quick scan of the bathroom suggests little. No signs of a struggle. Jules grabs a pen and lifts one of his fingers, finding nothing. Strange. No defensive cuts. No murder weapon. This killer wanted someone to find the body. Why leave it alone like this?

  Which means he might be nearby, waiting for a scream, a commotion, something to give away that she saw the corpse. Blinking through tiredness, she leaves the bathroom and shuts the door tight.

  What next?

  She usually talks to the officer who was first on the scene. It's quite a novelty to discover a body herself. Ordinarily, she’d ask people to leave and call for backup to secure the crime scene. But the train has to stop first.

  She chews her lip as her back rests against the wall. Then she glances to the right, down the long row. There’s no sign of movement in the darkened sleeper car, only formless bodies huddled under blankets. No sound, either, except for the air hissing from the ceiling, the rocking of the train, and the tolling of the bell. Occasional blasts from the horn echo inside, muted by the thick glass. Half-drawn shades block most of the sunlight from outside. It’s hard to make out faces when it’s this dark. On her left side, same deal. Everyone’s tucked into their s
eats, oblivious to the dead man in the women’s bathroom.

  The conductor isn’t far. One door away.

  She walks past the rows of silent passengers and heads toward the end of the car. She yanks open the employees only door and descends the stairs into a small, roped-off compartment where two train employees are laughing. One of them, a young man in a dark blue uniform, looks at her.

  "You’re not supposed to be here."

  She shows him her badge, and he shuts up. "Detective Sawyer. There’s something I need you to do while I talk to the conductor."

  The other male employee sneers. "Miss—"

  "Detective."

  He gives her a look that makes Jules want to cuff the back of his head. "Detective," he grinds out. "We have a job to do."

  She doesn’t have time for this. Jules leans in, reading the nametag on his chest. "Well, Herb, you seem to be standing around. Unless—do they pay you to shoot the shit?"

  He flushes. "No."

  "I didn’t think so. I need you to keep passengers out of the women’s bathroom in car one."

  "Why?"

  "There’s a body inside."

  They exchange a worried glance. "What happened?"

  "Keep the passengers out."

  Herb’s eyes bulge. "So, like, someone died?"

  "Don’t let them in. That’s all you need to know for now."

  A sulky frown returns to Herb’s face, but he nods. Jules brushes past the two men to enter the conductor’s cabin. The moment she steps through the glass doors, she’s hit by a blast of rank sweat. She wrinkles her nose. The tiny room is cramped, with only a single seat where the conductor sits. He looks too big to be allowed, his fat hanging over the cushion and his belly touching the control panel. The tolling bell is almost deafening, so she prods him hard in the back. He glances over his shoulder, at her finger, and then at her through squinty, black eyes.

  "The hell do you want?"

  "So far I’m very impressed with the customer service here." She shoves her badge in his face. "Detective Sawyer."

  "Name’s Vinny. What’s this about?"

  "I need you to stop this train and contact the state police—"

  "Whoa, whoa, whoa," he chimes, cutting her off. "This is an express train, hon. No stops until Los Angeles."

  Hon.

  Jules bristles. "Sir, I’m a state police detective. I’ve just discovered a body in the women’s bathroom.”

  His tiny eyes narrow even further. "A body? You mean someone died?"

  "Yes. I need to control the crime scene—that means stopping the train. Now."

  He gestures toward the scenery outside as the train snakes along a winding path through a thick forest. "I can’t. We’re in Sunol. The middle of the woods, in case you haven’t noticed."

  It didn’t take fifteen years working violent crimes to teach a girl to ignore arrogant assholes. When she was younger and more of a hothead, she’d dealt with morons like Vinny with a string of colorful obscenities. Now she lets their comments roll off her back like rain.

  "Make the announcement, wait until we join the highway, and stop."

  His voice is doubtful. "I need to look at the body first."

  "No you don’t."

  "Don’t get nasty. I want to confirm what we’re dealing with."

  "I just did. Me, the police detective."

  His cheeks go pink. "I still wanna see it."

  "No offense, but you look like the blubbering type, and I don’t have time to hold your hand."

  He launches from the chair. "Let's go."

  The emergency brake hangs within arm’s reach. She could yank the damn thing herself, but it’ll only be five minutes until they’re cleared from the forest, and then they’ll stop close to the 680. There’s no point in grinding the whole train to a screeching halt when police cruisers can’t get to them anyway. So she beckons him forward.

  Vinny squeezes through the glass door, whistling at one of his employees to man the control room. It’s a wonder how Vinny can navigate through the train, the narrow aisles unforgiving to his very wide waist. Jules heads down the sleeper car, away from the sound of Vinny’s heavy breathing. Good, the two employees are guarding the women’s bathroom like she asked. Herb gives her a swift nod and stands aside. Vinny catches up, his round face blotchy with exertion.

  "The body is inside."

  He looks at it warily. "Well, open it."

  "You’ll shoot your pants."

  He waves her off, but Jules can’t help but notice his skin turn a shade of green.

  Taking the handkerchief from her pocket, she grasps the door handle. She already contaminated the crime scene without even knowing it—but hopefully they’ll pick up some prints. She yanks it open, preparing to see the same dead guy she stumbled upon fifteen minutes ago.

  Instead she sees nothing.

  He’s gone.

  Chapter 2

  10:01 AM – Somewhere near Sunol

  Naomi’s eyes snap open. A cold sweat clings to her limbs as she sits bolt upright. The name leaves her lips in a soft whisper. "Candace?"

  The four blank walls of her bedroom absorb the sound of her voice, and she waits for a response, hardly daring to breathe. A low whine under the bed answers her call, and something wet touches her fingers.

  She sighs. It’s just the dog.

  Naomi runs her hand through Cooper’s dense golden fur as the retriever props his head on the edge of the mattress. He stares at her. Another whimper tugs at her heart.

  It was a dream. Her shoulders curl forward. For a moment she thought Candace, the girl next door, was still in the house. Her eyes fill with tears, and she blinks them away. When her cheeks are dry, she slides out of the sheets.

  The sunlight filtering through the sheer curtains is watery and weak, giving the false impression it’s early morning, but lately she’s been sleeping in. Ten, eleven—sometimes noon. Every day she wakes up and waits for a reason to peel herself from the bed. Usually that's Cooper. That dog won’t let her mope, not when his belly is empty and he hasn’t had his walk.

  Cooper follows her as she walks out barefooted. She begins her daily routine in a series of automated motions like a robot programmed to wake up, make coffee, spread butter on toast, feed the dog, and stare at a wall. Ever since Candace went missing, Naomi's been lost. She doesn't know how to move on, and she wouldn't feel right if she did. A twelve-year-old girl is gone.

  This place used to be filled with joy; now it's filled with long bouts of painful silence, broken only by Cooper’s plaintive wails. She expected things to slow down when she retired, but not quite to this snail-crawling pace. It's not her fault that this community is uninterested in socializing.

  People here prefer to keep to themselves. They don’t appreciate "nosy busybodies," which was what the neighbor said when Naomi asked if the detective on Candace’s case found anything yet. Naomi was the one who organized the search party for Candace, and who showed up? A few members of the local church and the girl's immediate family.

  It’s not right.

  The dog pads toward the door and makes another mournful sound. He used to do that every day Candace stayed missing, just sit there and stare as if he expected her to burst through any second. His ears would perk at any high-pitched voice. It was the saddest thing in the world, watching Cooper sink to the ground when he realized she was not coming. His baleful eyes haunt her as she thumbs her iPhone and pretends not to notice her dog begging for attention.

  "All right. You win. Get back, you crazy beast. Let’s go out."

  At the word out, Cooper barks and does a little dance. She grabs the leash from the wall and attaches it to his collar. Then she grabs the door, hesitating as a fist-sized lump clenches in her stomach. What if she misses a call from Candace? Cell service outside is spotty.

  The fog this morning is unusually thick. It rolls in when she opens the door. Naomi steps into the cold snap, and then locks up. She tests the handle three times before setting on her wa
lk. Cooper lets out a joyful yip as they set out across the untidy lawn, heading for the street between the mobile homes. The thin rays from the sun wash over her face, and she feels better. What a difference.

  Then she notices a bright color through a bed of grass. A metal frame lies there. It's a child’s bicycle. The lawn is so overgrown that there are blades poking through the wheel’s spokes. That’s Candace’s bike—she recognizes the fire-engine-red paint. How long has it been sitting there? It sends a horrible thrill through her. Something about her neighbor leaving Candace’s bike to molder outside doesn’t sit right with Naomi, like a body denied the dignity of a burial and instead left out to rot.

  Maybe she’s being dramatic, but there’s something wrong with that family. It’s easy to be suspicious when Naomi has to shut her windows every evening when Mr. Parker comes home—the constant raised voices were too much for her—but their daughter Candace was a delight. She’d come over after school to play with Cooper and eat the cucumber-and-salami sandwiches Naomi always prepared for her. The blonde girl with a toothy grin broke the monotony of her routine. It was nice having her around—more than nice. Naomi grew attached to her, dreading when she’d leave for college. Every attempt to make friends here has been snubbed except for the one with a twelve-year-old. Who is now missing.

  She tried. God help her, she tried.

  There wasn’t a book club, so Naomi started one. The first meeting was attended by a grand total of two people. Maybe there wasn’t much interest to begin with. Some folks don’t like to read. Fair enough. She didn’t let the poor attendance of the book club deter her. So she threw herself into promoting a monthly ice-cream social. It took hours to design the newsletter and get her printer to cooperate, and then she walked around the neighborhood to post signs. She handed them out to those who promised they’d come.

  Nobody did.

  She shakes her head, recalling the five gallons of Kirkland Signature strawberry ice cream, wasted. Her last desperate attempt to be more involved in the community was campaigning for the local mayor. Doors slammed in her face the moment they saw the clipboard. There were a few other attempts that fizzled out like the end of a firework. Naomi gave up.