Veil of Night Read online

  “Shit,” Eric said. He hated high-profile cases, because as often as not the family caused problems and actually hindered the investigation with their demands, not to mention that the increased media attention also ate into their time. As luck would have it, Franklin, the older, more experienced detective who would likely have drawn the case because it was high-profile and he was more diplomatic—a huge understatement—than Eric, was on vacation at Disney World with his family. Like it or not, this case was his.

  “The victim’s family is being notified, so her name hasn’t been released to the media yet,” Sergeant Garvey continued as they walked into the reception hall. The crime scene guys were already at work, taking pictures, combing the area for trace evidence. Eric put his hands in his pockets and approached close enough that he had a better view of the body, but not so close that he got in the way. Garvey stayed at his side.

  The victim lay sprawled on her back in a pool of blood, one shoe on and one lying several feet away. A veil was draped across her face. Protruding from her body were several long, thin—

  He blinked, to make sure he was seeing what he thought he was seeing.

  “She’s kabobed.”

  Behind him, stifled laughter escaped from a couple of the patrolmen who heard the remark. Garvey put on his long-suffering expression, but not before he had to control the grin that threatened to crack his face. “For God’s sake, Wilder.”

  Eric squatted so he had a better view of the body, looking it over from head to toe, his sharp gaze noting every detail. “What else would you call it?”

  “Stabbed. The term is stabbed. Remember that, especially when you’re talking to her family or the media.”

  He grunted, continuing his visual. As far as he was concerned, “kabobed” was on the money. Metal skewers protruded from the corpse at different angles, and even from a distance he could tell that a couple of them had gone very deep, while others had barely punctured the skin. There were more puncture wounds than there were skewers; the killer had stabbed her repeatedly, maybe even using both hands, because of the difference in angles. The one that had apparently punctured her heart was buried damn near to the hilt, where a piece of blood-drenched meat dangled, along with what looked to be a pearl onion.

  Too bad Franklin was on vacation. He thought he’d seen everything, but Eric would bet the farm this would be a new one on him.

  Eric was very aware of the emotional wreckage this would cause. The dead weren’t the only victims of a murder; the families suffered, long and deep. Carrie Edwards was—had been—a beautiful young woman, murdered as she was planning her wedding. She’d likely have parents, siblings, friends; she definitely had a fiancé who had yet to be notified. Someone, somewhere, loved her. But he’d learned long ago that if he took every case to heart he wouldn’t be able to function, so he couldn’t afford to be too empathetic, to let himself get sucked into the emotional pain and grief that surrounded a murder. All cops handled it with dark humor, the darker the better. For the family’s sake, though, he’d remember to deep-six the kabob comments.

  It was someone else’s job to soothe the pain this woman’s death would cause: a minister, a psychiatrist, a friend. His job was to find the killers and bring them to justice.

  Food, ribbons, pictures of flowers and veils, and different brochures littered the area around the body. She’d struggled; the table she lay behind had been knocked askew, and her arms bore defense wounds. A briefcase lay on the floor. After the crime scene techs finished, he’d see what information the briefcase yielded, but he couldn’t be so lucky that the killer had left such a huge identifying item at the scene. The victim’s cell phone, which lay beside her, was more likely to point them in the right direction. It was an iPhone, so God only knew what they’d find on it.

  Now that he knew the identity of the victim, he was aware of a small knot of tension easing from his stomach. He hadn’t let himself consciously think of her, but when he’d heard “reception hall” he’d instinctively prepared himself for the possibility that Jaclyn could be the victim. She was in the business, and she’d told him herself how crazy people got when they were planning weddings.

  Maybe that was what had happened here. Someone had definitely gone crazy.

  He rose to his feet; he’d seen all he could see for now. “Where’s the manager?”

  “One of the officers is taking her statement. She discovered the body, made the 911 call.”

  From the time the first patrol car arrived, an officer would have stayed with the woman, both to control the scene and to prevent her from making any calls. They didn’t want her contacting the media, friends, or anyone else, because controlling the information that got out was as important as the physical scene.

  “She was almost hysterical,” Garvey said sourly. “She’d locked herself in the office, convinced a Freddy Krueger–like serial killer was hiding in a closet somewhere, ready to slice and dice her if she poked her nose out. An officer searched every room before she’d calm down, and she’s still wound as tight as a yo-yo.”

  She could rest easy; this wasn’t the work of a serial killer. The veil placed over the face—after the victim’s death, by the looks of it—suggested that the murder had been personal. The murderer had known the victim, probably very well. The multiple wounds were also the mark of someone in a rage, which wasn’t the hallmark of murder by a stranger.

  He got a quick briefing from the first-on-scene officer. The manager’s name was Melissa DeWitt. She was much calmer now, though through the open door he could see that she was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

  She might not be so calm if she knew that right now suspicion was resting most heavily on her. It was amazing how often the killer would “discover” the body, either figuring the police would assume he or she couldn’t possibly have done it because otherwise why risk drawing so much attention, or thinking that would give a logical reason for any trace evidence left behind. Innocent or guilty, she was the starting point of the investigation.

  When the briefing was finished, he went into the office, pad and pen in hand, ready to write down everything she said. “Mrs. DeWitt, I’m Detective Wilder. Do you think you could answer some questions for me?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said. She closed her eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, then turned her head to look out of the window behind her. “That’s Carrie’s car,” she said, pointing to a silver Toyota. “I was watching, waiting for her to leave so I could lock up. Everyone else had already gone, at least … I thought they had.” She shuddered a little, but didn’t appear to be losing control again.

  “Everyone else? Can you give me their names? I need to know who all was here this afternoon.”

  The woman nodded. “Of course. Just give me a moment to clear my head. I swear, I can hardly think straight.” She took another deep breath, and while she was occupied with calming herself, he visually inspected her. The attack would have left plenty of blood on the perp; she could easily have washed any blood from her skin before placing the 911 call, but he didn’t see a speck of blood on her clothing—and she was wearing a white blouse. He’d have to see if she kept a change of clothing here at work.

  “Carrie met with so many vendors,” she finally said.

  “Vendors?”

  “You know—people who do work for the wedding. The caterer, the florist, they’re all vendors. Some of them I know very well, others I know by first name and trade. Today they were all, well … unhappy. Carrie wasn’t satisfied with anything anyone did. Time was getting short and they all needed decisions made, but she gave everyone the runaround. Anyway, Premier was handling the event, so Jaclyn Wilde will have everyone’s contact information. You should talk to her.”

  Oh, shit. Everything inside Eric stilled, for a moment. There couldn’t be two wedding planners with that name. “Jaclyn Wilde.”

  “Jaclyn Wilde, the wedding planner.” Mrs. DeWitt frowned. “Well, she was the wedding planner, but Carrie fired her this a