Zero Island (Blessid Trauma Crime Scene Cleaners Book 2) by Chris Bauer (i want to read a book TXT) 📕

like the other white noise of the crashing waves, and the seagulls, and the foghorns, and the tinkling of an ammunition belt feeding an airplane gun, interrupting the baseline purr of the plane’s engine.

Ella didn’t try to wake up, this soundtrack lifelike, soothing, making her smile even in her dream. She’d cuddle with Ben soon, pull him into her after a few more minutes of peaceful sleep here, on the beach, in their paradise.

16

Police Chief Terry Koo sent Philo a text. Mister Trout. I know this is highly irregular…

It was nine p.m.-ish, and he and Patrick were beat, had each retired to their rooms at their cottage. Philo also suffered from the incredibly spicy Mexican food from their lunch at Da Crack. Chief Koo’s text said to meet them at a crime scene that was “right up your alley,” and gave them the address. The irregular part:

Scene’s not cleared yet. You know your shit, Trout, so get over here now, please. Ask for me at the door.

Ten p.m. Philo and Patrick arrived at Pakala Village, a neighborhood on Kauai’s southwestern shore. They negotiated its tidy, quiet streets, no house number needed, the police activity visible from half a block away. The front door to the address was open. A uniformed cop guarding the entry stepped up to stop them before Philo even had a chance to open his mouth.

“Sorry, sir, but it’s not going to happen. Please leave the premises.” Tall, gaunt, Caucasian, the officer and her bug eyes keyed on Philo and his cup of contraband Dunkin’ in hand, no badge, no other proper law enforcement ID to give him rightful entry.

“Philo Trout and Patrick Stakes. I’ll leave the cup outside. Chief Koo said to meet him here—”

“At an active crime scene? I don’t think so, sir. Turn around and leave, please.”

“But—”

“Get going, poser,” she said, puffing up her upper torso, her nitrile-gloved hand now resting atop her sidearm.

Philo held back and chose not to argue regardless of how over the top her hard-ass attitude sounded. “Fine. Sure. Patrick, we need to back up, bud. Officer, please tell Chief Koo that Philo Trout and Patrick Stakes stopped by per his request—”

“Trout!” The shout came from inside, carried across the crowd of crime discovery personnel milling around the house’s living room. “I’m in the hallway,” Chief Koo called, then, to the officer, “Give them some supplies and let them through, Officer.”

Wide-eyed from the caffeine, Philo navigated his way through the knots of gloved detectives and techs wandering the interior, Patrick right up his ass so the sea of people didn’t need to part twice, the two of them gloved and masked, their footwear covered in elasticized pull-ons. Philo managed glances into the kitchen and the hall bath on the way past. They arrived at the bedroom. Chief Koo wiggled his upturned hand, had them enter.

“Some blood here, some in the kitchen,” the chief said. “We’re thinking none of it is from the victim, at least not in here, but we’ll know later. Looks like it was one hell of a struggle, Trout.”

Philo’s eyes absorbed the room’s chaos. A jumble of broken furniture, lamps, mirrors, the tossed mattress, and the slug holes in the bedroom door. “How many people live here?”

“One, far as we know. Something the neighbors confirmed. Nobody says they heard anything, but we have more people to talk to. The vic is in the bathroom.”

She sure was. What was left of her, her torso split open from neck to abdomen. Her rib cage was parted, and her internal organs had been ransacked, her spine visible because there wasn’t much else inside getting in the way of it. Her head was bruised but otherwise intact, including what Philo noticed as newly colored black hair, with dark trails of dye framing her naturally tanned face, running down her neck and on the lip of the tub.

“She’s a civilian worker at the military outpost in Howling Sands,” Chief Koo said.

“You sure?”

“Her ID was in her bedroom, is in evidence now.”

“Shit. That’s not good. What’s her name? You call the CO yet?”

“The ID said Vena Akina. Commander Malcolm? Didn’t call him yet. We’ll get to it.”

“You’ll get to it? Fuck that, I’m calling him now.”

“Fine, I get it, he’s your friend, but”—Koo grabbed Philo’s forearm—“we have two crimes with similar circumstances involving people in the same circles. That includes Evan Malcolm. I’ll let you call him in a minute. First, what do you see here, Trout? Anything stick out to you?”

“You’re saying Evan’s a suspect?”

“Person of interest.” Chief Koo relaxed his shoulders and his grip on Philo, calmed himself, and gave a measured, more personal answer. “Officially he’s a POI, but in my book, no, not really. I know him too well. It’s just… procedure. Give me your feedback, then you and your associate can get a hold of him and get the hell out of here.”

They walked back through all the other rooms, Philo and Patrick in the lead, eyeing the counters and other visible surfaces, touching some with their gloved hands, breathing in the stuffy air, opening and closing cabinets, doors, drawers, appliances, but generally not disturbing anything at the scene, just observing it.

Philo addressed Patrick. “What do you think, bud?”

“Someone else was here, sir,” Patrick said, quick to respond. “Not just the killer or killers. Someone else. Someone who did some cleaning, sir.”

“I agree with my associate, Chief.”

“One other person at a minimum,” Chief Koo said. “The person who found her and made the anonymous call to 9-1-1. A woman. No leads on her yet.”

“So the victim gets surprised by an assailant,” Philo said. “She puts up a fight. Those bullet holes… she was armed. She shoots an assailant, and the guy drips blood around the house.”

“Why his blood? Why not hers?”

“Considering what they did to her when they finally cornered her, I’d say they didn’t want to shoot her. So she went down with guns a-blazing. Your people find a gun in the house?”

“Not yet.”

“Your caller shows