The Sound of Murder (A Veronica Shade Thriller Book 3) Read online

  “Law enforcement is particularly difficult for women and people who identify as non-binary. Which is why I am excited to speak to someone who has not only succeeded as a female in the City of Greenham Police Department but excelled. A woman who has been through her share of tribulations, from being sexually assaulted by a fellow officer to being kidnapped by a husband and wife team who murdered women and left their bodies in the Hilltona Forest, but who never gave up. Please, put your hands together and help me welcome Detective Veronica Shade.”

  The crowd erupted into applause, augmented by Foley sounds pumped through the speakers, but Veronica felt sick to her stomach. She hadn’t even considered the idea that Ken Cameron would be mentioned.

  This was supposed to be about bringing down the dollmaker. That was what they’d discussed and what they’d agreed on. Details would be scant, nothing more than what the sheriff had revealed in his multiple press conference, with an emphasis on Veronica’s involvement.

  Marlowe, still beaming, looked over at her.

  “Welcome, Detective Shade.”

  “Please, just Veronica.”

  This response was automatic and rehearsed, something that Marlowe had called setting the scene and leveling the playing field.

  “And thank you for having me,” Veronica continued, working on autopilot now.

  “No, thank you. Thank you for what you do. Thank you for keeping us all safe.”

  More applause.

  “Right? Right?” Marlowe clapped twice. “Now, please, tell us what it’s like being a woman in a predominantly male industry? One that is historically full of toxic masculinity?”

  Veronica felt her brow crease and forced it straight.

  In preparation for her interview, she had watched and suffered through two episodes of Marlowe. It was clear that the host had a tendency to go off script, but this felt more like a hard right and not a subtle deviation. Veronica had been instructed to ‘go with the flow’, but she had other ideas.

  Redirect the stream where she wanted to go.

  “The Greenham Police Department has only been good to me. Yes, there was an issue in the past, but that has been dealt with in a more than satisfactory way. What I can say is that I have one of the greatest partners that I could ever ask for. Detective Freddie Furlow is a fantastic detective and an even better man.”

  She expected further applause, but whoever’s finger was on the button to illuminate the sign had fallen asleep. And while Veronica thought she had done a good job of hiding the annoyance from her face, Marlowe was an absolute ventriloquist dummy.

  “Right.” Marlowe licked her lips. “Well, I’m just glad to see a woman moving up the ranks as you have. Is it correct that you are the youngest detective in all of Greenham?”

  “I am.” Veronica felt a tinge of pride.

  “Congratulations. Now,” the woman leaned forward dramatically, placing her elbows on her thighs, “tell us about the night you were kidnapped.”

  Veronica began massaging the back of her hand with her opposite thumb where she’d been burned, but then stopped herself.

  “Well, Bear County had already arrested Gordon Trammel for multiple homicides—the man the media called the dollmaker. But there were some inconsistencies, and the idea of an accomplice was bantered around. See, the real issue was that the cars that—”

  “Sounds terrifying. But what must’ve been more frightening is when you were actually abducted. What was going through your head? Did you think about the possibility of becoming a doll?”

  A dramatic, collective intake of breath.

  “I wouldn’t say I was abducted, not really. But I’d rather focus on the evidence that—”

  “Veronica, I know this can be difficult. But as a victim of abuse and trauma myself, I know first-hand that talking, opening up about our experiences is the only way to move on. The only way that we can grow.”

  For the first time since the interview began, Veronica broke eye contact and scanned the audience. She saw Steve off to one side, angrily gesturing at a cameraman.

  This was absolute dog shit.

  Veronica hadn’t come here to be paraded around as a champion of women’s rights. She’d come here to talk about what happened and how effective police work and evidence collection had led to the capture and death of those behind the dollmaker murders.

  She’d come here to pump Greenham PD’s tires.

  “I don’t mind talking about it,” Veronica said flatly. “But I’d rather talk about how we took a woman murderer off the streets. I’d rather talk about how the hard work myself, but also others, including my detective partner Detective Furlow, and the Bear County Sheriff, made sure to stop these people before anyone else was hurt.”

  “But it was a woman, right? It was Gloria Trammel and not her husband who actually killed those young girls?”

  “Yes… but both her and her husband are responsible.”

  Veronica tried not to picture little Bev Trammel, her pigtails, tongue in her cheek as she attempted to perform a new yo-yo trick.

  Bev was off-limits. Veronica had made that crystal clear. If Marlowe so much as hinted at the girl’s involvement, she would stand up and walk off the set.

  “Hmm. But everyone believed that it was Gordon all along—working alone. Isn’t that right?”

  Even though Marlowe exercised restraint, her implication was clear: the male cops thought these violent crimes could have only been committed by a man.

  A bizarre and twisted way of calling out inequality.

  Yes, women are capable of depraved and horrific acts, too. We’re just as sick as you are. How dare you think differently?

  “I wouldn’t say everyone thought Gordon was working alone. In a case, we look at the evidence and sometimes—”

  Marlowe stopped her by holding up a hand. Then she turned to the audience.

  “Hold that thought, Veronica—I would love to continue this discussion with you, but first, we need to take a break.”

  More clapping, camera panning, then the LIVE light switched off.

  “What are you doing?” the woman said with such venom that Veronica actually pulled back. Even more surprising was that Veronica saw a hint of a yellow aura encircling the woman’s face and head. “This is my show. That’s my name over there.” She pointed at the neon lettering on the wall. “My show. So, if I lead you in a direction—”

  “This is not what we agreed to,” Veronica said, finding her voice. “I have no problem speaking about the dollmaker, but I won’t lie to fit an agenda.”

  “You were told that we might go a little off topic.”

  Marlowe’s yellow aura had become burnt.

  Was the woman really that pissed that she would resort to violence?

  Veronica considered, very briefly, that she was just projecting. Her synesthesia was never perfect but ever since the fire that had taken her brother’s life, it had become less reliable.

  “A little off topic? That was more than a little—”

  “Dahlia! Dahlia!” Marlowe hollered.

  The mousy handler appeared out of nowhere.

  “Yes?”

  “You told me she was prepped. You told me she was going to go along with things.”

  Dahlia clutched a clipboard to her chest and said nothing.

  What the hell? What happened to women empowerment?

  This wasn’t right.

  “Leave her alone,” Veronica said.

  Marlowe shot lasers at Veronica with her eyes and the glowing aura extended more than three inches from her head now.

  “Don’t tell me what to do. Did you forget that this is my—”

  “Did you forget that I’m a detective,” Veronica shot back feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. “Remember that before you do or say something that you might regret.”

  Marlowe sneered and she glared at Dahlia.

  “Let’s just skip to the call-in part of the show.”

  Steve came on stage, pushing by a burly cameraman. Veronica stood as he approached.

  “This is bullshit,” he said into her ear. “Let’s just go.”

  Marlowe overheard but rather than exacerbate her anger, this seemed to amuse the woman.

  If Veronica left with Steve now, she knew how the rest of the show would go. And it wouldn’t be good. Comments would be made, disparaging ones, ones related to setting women’s rights back.

  Further damage to Greenham PD’s reputation would be done.

  Veronica was trapped and the sinister grin spreading on Marlowe’s lips was an indication that the woman knew it.

  “I’ll stay,” Veronica said. “But I agree, let’s take some calls.”

  Dahlia nodded so vigorously that her thick glasses threatened to fall off her face.

  “Fine.”

  “Ten seconds to air,” a man bellowed.

  Dahlia started to guide Marlowe to her seat, but the host pushed her away. Veronica waited for the other woman to sit first before she lowered herself into the plush blue armchair.

  Marlowe scowled at Veronica, and Veronica smiled back. They stayed locked like this, two twelve-point bucks intertwined, neither giving an inch. Then the red ‘LIVE’ light came on and the woman’s face transformed.

  “Welcome back. I’m here with survivor and feminist Greenham PD’s youngest detective Veronica Shade.”

  Oh, fuck you, Veronica thought. But she had to respect the woman for sticking to her guns.

  “I know that you guys have many questions for our esteemed guest, so we are opening our phone lines right now. The number’s on the screen—feel free to ask Detective Shade anything you want.”

  This wasn’t true, of course. Veronica had been assured that all calls would be vetted and only softballs would come through.

  But that was before.

  “Who do we have on the line now?”

  Marlowe put a finger to her ear.

  “Stacy from Portland. Stacy from Portland, what question do you have for Veronica?”

  The sound came from a speaker overhead, giving it an otherworldly quality.

  “Hi—Hi, Veronica. First of all, I just wanted to say that you’re an inspiration to me. After seeing you on the news, I enrolled in a criminal justice degree at the local college.”

  A smattering of applause.

  “Thank you.”

  “What’s your question, Stacy?”

  “My question is… were you scared? Were you scared when you were in the dollmaker’s home?”

  Veronica briefly considered that this could be a plant, someone from Marlowe’s staff, but she decided to answer anyway.

  “Yes. Yes, I was frightened.” She pictured Gloria Trammel’s shaking hand pointing a gun at her chest. She cleared her throat. “To be honest, I was terrified. This job can be scary at times, rewarding, sure, but also frightening. If anybody tells you differently, they’re lying.”

  Marlowe’s face gave nothing away.

  “Thank you, Stacy, for your call. Next up, we have Pearl from Montréal? Is that right?”

  “Yes,” Pearl said with a hint of a French accent. “I’m a big fan of yours, Veronica.”

  These calls went on for the better part of five minutes and true to Marlowe’s word, they were softballs. And Veronica actually enjoyed answering them. Unlike her esteemed host, she had no delusions that her presence on this shitty daytime talk show was driving feminism forward, but, as the old adage goes, if she could inspire just one person…

  “We have time for one more call. Is this…” Marlowe pushed her finger against her ear again and nodded. “…ah yes, Gina? Gina, are you there?”

  There was a pause, one that lasted the better part of three seconds.

  Marlowe looked at Dahlia who just shrugged.

  Then there was a click, and someone spoke.

  Only, it wasn’t Gina.

  “Hello, Veronica,” a man said. “Or should I call you Lucy?”

  Chapter 3

  Veronica froze completely.

  Lucy.

  The man on the phone had called her Lucy… her birth name.

  How was that possible?

  When Veronica had been six, two men had broken into her home while everyone was asleep. They’d tied her up, along with her dad, brother, and mother. Then the sadistic fucks had played a game of EENIE, MEENIE, MINEY, MO.

  Veronica was MO. Then they’d made her choose: only one person was coming out of that house alive, and it was up to her to pick.

  She’d chosen herself.

  The will to survive is ingrained at birth, Lucy.

  The men had set the house on fire with the Davis family still inside. Police Officer Peter Shade arrived first on the scene and found Veronica sitting on the grass, alone, frightened, and confused. Unwilling to put her in the system, he’d broken all the rules and adopted her. He changed her name from Lucy Davis to Veronica Shade and they’d moved around constantly, Peter doing everything in his power to keep Veronica’s past a secret.

  And it had worked. Until someone came looking for her.

  Benny Davis hadn’t died in the fire, but nobody had adopted him.

  He’d festered and stewed, spending most of his time in an orphanage called Renaissance Home, which had a less-than-stellar reputation.

  Eventually, he found his sister—he found Veronica.

  And he’d tried to get her to commit suicide. To right what he perceived as a wrong committed nearly two decades ago.

  In the end, Benjamin ‘Benny’ Davis, now going by the name Holland Toler, had started a fire of his own. Veronica and Steve had escaped, her brother had not.

  There were only three people who knew the story of Veronica’s past life, of Lucy Davis: her father, Peter Shade; her psychiatrist, Dr. Jane Bernard; and herself.

  And the voice on the phone now was none of these people.

  As her shock settled, Veronica became aware of the colors. Unlike when Marlowe had become furious and her aura had pulsed, the colors weren’t originating from one distinct location, like the host’s face and head.

  Instead, they were everywhere. Perhaps it was the fact that the booming voice came from above, or maybe because this reveal had the potential to ruin her—whatever the reason, her vision was nearly completely obscured.

  It was as if someone had taken a moist napkin and dotted it with yellow, orange, and red watercolors. The wet paper made these drops bloom and she was staring through this filter, coloring her world with a fire that only existed inside her mind.

  Rarely had her synesthesia been this extreme, this visceral.

  Veronica expected the call to be cut, to move on, for the colors to fade. But Marlowe—that bitch—waved her hand, signaling to whoever was behind the scenes to keep the call rolling.

  “Lucy?” Marlowe asked. “I think you’re mistaken. I’m here with Detective Veronica Shade.”

  “You’re mistaken. The woman seated across from you is Lucy Davis.” The stranger’s gruff baritone voice through the speakers was enough to make the plumes in front of her eyes dance. “Ah, you’re seeing them now, aren’t you? The colors. Lucy, you’re seeing the colors in front of your face. The ones from the fire.”

  It was a dream. It had to be a dream.

  Her heart started to race, and now, adding to the disorienting kaleidoscope of colors, blue entered the fray. A light, blossoming blue inspired by the slick, cold sweat that had formed on her skin.

  “I’m sorry, sir, I think you’re confused, I think you’re referring to someone else.” Marlowe shrugged as if she had no control over the situation.

  “Veronica Shade was born Lucy Davis.” The man almost sounded seductive. “That’s her real name. I know about her family, about what happened to them. I know about her synesthesia, too.”

  Veronica swallowed hard. Marlowe was listening intently to her earpiece, probably getting a quick lesson on what the hell synesthesia was.

  “Who are you?” she asked softly.

  “Who am I?” the voice boomed. “Who are you? Are you Lucy Davis, daughter of Trevor and Roberta Davis, sister to Benjamin, also known as Holland Toler? Or are you Veronica Shade, a detective who got promoted because your adopted daddy was the police captain?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Veronica spotted movement. Sheriff Burns was trying to come onto the stage again, but security was blocking the way.

  “Or are you the detective who uses her disease, her synesthesia, to solve cases? Sees flames when there is only violence, sees blue when people are nervous and sweating?” Simply mentioning these manifestations made everything in front of Veronica throb and shake. “Is a human lie detector? Smells gas when somebody isn’t telling the truth. Let me ask you something, do you smell gas right now, Lucy? Am I lying to you? Am I making this all up?”

  Veronica started to tremble. Steve had told her to remain calm and Dahlia had instructed her to act normally no matter what happened. No sudden movements, limited hand gestures. No profanity.

  But Veronica felt like jumping to her feet, throttling the air with her hands, while uttering every curse word she’d ever known.

  Everything her father had done, everything he’d sacrificed to keep her secret safe was ruined.

  “Excuse me, are you saying that —”

  “Are you the same girl who used to hate her brother singing to you? Taunting you with a song? La, la, la, la, laaaaa, laaa.” Truth be told, since her brother’s death, Veronica hadn’t heard that song inside her head. But now, even though the voice was different and the cadence slightly off, it made tears well in her eyes. “Well, I have a new song for you, Veronica Shade.”

  Marlowe finally made a gesture to hang up and move on. This had gone from interesting to too bizarre to be of much interest.

  But, once again, whoever was on the switchboard was napping.

  “You ready? Here goes: one, two, I’m coming for you. Three four, lock your door. Five, six, I crossed the river Styx. Seven, eight, I’ve sealed your fate. Veronica, your first—”

  Two things happened at nearly exactly the same time: the audio cut out and Steve came to her side.