Their Frozen Graves: A completely addictive crime thriller and mystery novel Page 7

  Stepping outside, Mackenzie hugged her coat around her tighter. She was carefully navigating her way back to the car, avoiding the sporadic ice patches, when another movement caught her attention.

  “What?” Nick followed her gaze to the bluish-green neighboring house, the one with the electric snowman already in the yard.

  “We should talk to that neighbor.” Mackenzie narrowed her eyes at the peach-colored curtain still fluttering.

  “Why? Justin can gather the generic statements.”

  “She keeps peeking.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You’re such a keeno. Okay.”

  After two rings, the door opened a few inches. A face appeared in the space. The woman’s doe-like eyes flitted between Mackenzie and Nick. “Yes?”

  Mackenzie flashed her badge. “Mind if we ask you some questions?”

  She pressed her lips in a thin line and left the door ajar.

  The layout of the house was a mirror reflection of the Beckers’, except this house hadn’t been renovated. The wooden tables had cabriole legs. The couch and armchairs were covered in dated upholstery with a flowery pattern. A grandfather clock stood imposingly in a corner. A shelf running along the length of one wall displayed miniature dollhouses.

  The house was clean and the clutter was organized, but the sheer abundance of things irked Mackenzie. She stuffed her hands in her pockets.

  “I’m Delilah Pine,” the woman said and looked at Nick. “Would you like some tea?”

  “No, thanks,” Nick said.

  She looked disappointed. She already had an elaborate tea set out—something Mackenzie would reserve for guests. “How can I help you?”

  Delilah Pine reminded Mackenzie of an overflowing bucket of water. This woman had a lot to say but for now she was holding back. Mackenzie could see it in her twitchy eyes and trembling fists. But she was all about decorum. When she held the teacup, her pinkie finger stuck out straight.

  “Are you friends with the Beckers?” Mackenzie asked.

  “Not really. It’s not like I didn’t make an effort. When they moved here, I sent over lasagna. But when my husband died, they were the only ones who didn’t even bother sending a casserole.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry for your loss,” Nick said.

  “Thank you. Are they in trouble? I’ve seen you visit twice.”

  Mackenzie was relieved that she wouldn’t have to draw information out of Delilah. She looked eager to help. “Not exactly, Mrs. Pine. We found two bodies and just want to know what Cole and Katy know about it.”

  “Bodies?” The teacup almost tipped from her hand. She set it on the table and looked at Nick. “Like murder?”

  “We’re not at liberty to share much.”

  “Are they suspects?” Her eyes bugged out. “I knew Katy would end up getting involved in something.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “She’s too opinionated. She doesn’t have to be vocal about everything.”

  Sheppard Hallows had a reputation for being uptight. The middle-class community was respectable and safe. Acceptable topics of conversation probably included recipes, weather, the annual local art show, and football. Always football. Anything with a tinge of controversy would be understandably brushed aside, which is why politics, social issues, and global events were likely considered inappropriate. There was an unspoken rule in such neighborhoods, an implicit understanding. Their logic was to promote unity and civility.

  “Did she get into a disagreement with anyone local?” Mackenzie asked.

  “She can’t get into disagreements with anyone because no one talks to her in this neighborhood,” Delilah said, again addressing Nick.

  Mackenzie and Nick exchanged a knowing look. Delilah was fishing for information. They’d also realized that Delilah answered only to Nick, even when Mackenzie was asking the questions.

  “How are Cole and Katy otherwise, Mrs. Pine?” Mackenzie pressed. “Do you know anything about them?”

  She smirked and looked at Nick. “They fight a lot.”

  “How do you know?” Nick asked.

  “The walls are thin. I’m not a creep.” She flipped her hair back. “You’ll be surprised at the things you know if you keep your eyes and ears open.”

  She was baiting them with a little waggle of her eyebrows and a coy smile playing on her lips.

  Nick leaned forward, performatively taking the bait. “Like what, Mrs. Pine?”

  “Like the fact that Cole goes somewhere on Thursday and Saturday nights. And sometimes at other times, when Katy is either out at work or visiting her parents.”

  Mackenzie offered, “Maybe he goes to some class or the gym?”

  She rolled her eyes. “My late husband was sleeping with his boss for around a year before he died. Trust me. I know how a man acts when he’s going to a class versus going someplace he doesn’t want to be followed.”

  “Did you ever follow him?” Nick asked.

  “Of course not.”

  “Have you ever seen anyone you don’t recognize visit them? Anyone suspicious?”

  “No. Katy’s family and the cleaner, Maria, are frequent visitors. Cole has a brother who lives on the east coast and visits on Thanksgiving with his partner. Katy’s co-workers sometimes drop by with their spouses to celebrate happy hour.”

  She continued listing the people who visited the Beckers—and how often. It was clear Delilah was a shut-in. Mackenzie could sniff the staleness in the air.

  “Well, thank you for your time.” Nick stood up with Mackenzie. “If you think of anything else or see anything, please let us know.”

  Delilah shot up quickly. “You didn’t give me your contact information.”

  “You can just call the police and ask for Detective Blackwood or Price,” Nick said.

  On their way to the car, Mackenzie let out the giggle she was holding.

  “Shut up,” he muttered.

  “Why didn’t you give her your card, Nick?” she asked, getting inside the car.

  “Because I don’t want to wake up with her standing by the foot of my bed with a knife.”

  He started the engine and turned up the heat. The hot air fanned Mackenzie’s face, making her eyes droopy. “I almost asked if she likes you or if she likes men to be in charge.”

  “I almost asked how her husband died.”

  Eleven

  On their way back from the Beckers’, Mackenzie and Nick visited Dr. Rees Preston, the cosmetic surgeon Becky had recommended they consult. Preston presided over a private practice in a medical complex that housed various other services. Located close to Forrest Hill, the few rich residents of Lakemore flocked to the place. It smelled like a spa. Preston’s practice occupied the entire top floor. A koi pond was situated in the waiting area. Green vines dropped from the wall behind the reception desk. There was a skylight above, making the room bright and cheerful. Mackenzie was appreciating the appealing aromas and gentle babbling of the interior waterfall when she heard someone walking towards them.

  When Mackenzie looked at him, she was slightly taken aback. Preston was a tall man with a strong build. He had broad shoulders that tapered into a narrow waist. His hair was thick, blond and glossy and his skin was sun-kissed without any blemishes. His nose was long and sharp, his face perfectly symmetrical, his eyes gray.

  He looked like a Ken doll. Utterly handsome and molded into the kind of “perfection” the world was socially conditioned to recognize.

  “You must be Detectives Price and Blackwood. Becky—Dr. Sullivan—told me you would visit. I’m Rees Preston.” He offered his hand with a dazzling smile.

  “Thank you for seeing us today,” Nick said.

  “It’s a good thing to catch a break at work before heading into big family reunions. Trust me.”

  Preston led them into his minimalistic office. A series of photographs of a woman’s face getting more enhanced were displayed on a wall. “Please take a seat. I met Becky at a conference in Seattle a few years ago. I
made a joke about consulting on her cases. The offer was genuine, but it seems I should have been more sensitive in how I made it.”

  “So what kind of work do you do, exactly?” Nick asked, scooting along the couch.

  “Any kind of enhancements.” He gestured to the hanging pictures. “The stereotype holds true. Most of our clients are women above forty. It gets a bit repetitive sometimes. We also have a tie-up with Lakemore General and assist in plastics.”

  “And how many doctors are there in your practice?”

  “Five, including myself. We have clients from across the state.” His hypnotic eyes fixed on Mackenzie. “You have a striking face, Detective Price.”

  “Sorry?”

  “You have an aquiline nose.” His long fingers drummed the arms of the chair. “A prominent bridge and slightly curved. What laymen call a Roman nose. My mentor back in medical school told me that it was the best kind of nose to be born with. It combines elegance and power.”

  “We were hoping you could give us some information,” Mackenzie cleared her throat and passed him the picture of Jane Doe Two’s face.

  Preston picked up the pictures and studied them curiously. His eyes narrowed into slits. “Interesting.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Becky said that this woman was made to look like someone else?”

  “Yes.” Mackenzie hesitated but showed him a picture of Katy on her phone. “Her.”

  Preston’s eyes bounced between the two. “Yes. You can see some natural similarities between them.”

  “Like what?” Nick asked.

  “The mental protuberance is similar.” He traced Jane Doe’s chin. “Both have a wide zygomatic arch and the same mandible angle. Complexion falls close on the spectrum.”

  “But these surgical enhancements were made to increase her likeness to Katy?”

  Preston nodded. “That’s right, Detective Blackwood, but this technique is outdated. Crude, even.”

  “What do you mean?” Mackenzie asked.

  “Do you see this big incision along her hairline?” He pointed at it. “She got coronal brow lifts. They were popular in the eighties and the early nineties. Since then endoscopic lifts have taken over—they’re far less invasive.”

  “Why would anyone use an old technique?”

  “I don’t know. It’s frankly a little offensive—a touch unethical, even. I have to give it to this doctor, though.” He cracked a hazy smile. “He’s definitely skilled, just working with old knowledge. These alterations would make her look more like the subject. Do you see the differences in their eyebrow region?”

  Katy’s were higher and tighter. They nodded.

  “The brow lift is a trick to make the patient’s supra-orbital notches—in other words their eyebrow region—match.”

  “Was there any other work done?” Nick asked.

  “There’s a good chance that lip fillers were injected, since the thickness of their lips look exactly the same, which is very rare. I can’t tell that from a picture. I’d have to look at the body for that. Their noses match too—both have a ‘pinched tip’ and nasal bridge of the same length. Highly unlikely for two people to have such similar features.”

  “But you can’t tell just from looking if rhinoplasty was performed?”

  “Oh, no. This was done well, that’s why. Like I said, his technique is flawless, but he’s using some old procedures. I’m speaking on the balance of probability, based on seeing the similarities side by side.”

  “But the coronal brow lift is obvious because of the scar?”

  “Yes, yes. Those take time to fade away. It was likely the last procedure conducted on her.”

  “There were multiple?”

  He smiled. “Oh, yes. Spanning months, I’d predict.”

  Nick showed him pictures of the suicide victim, Jane Doe Three, and Carrie Breslow. “Sorry, this is really old so the quality isn’t good. But she also had work done to her face to make her look like this woman.”

  Preston frowned and spent no more than a minute assessing them. “Good effort, but careless. He’s removed too much cartilage during rhinoplasty, which is why their noses still look noticeably different.”

  “Do you think they were conducted by the same person?” Mackenzie asked.

  “I honestly can’t say.”

  They asked some routine questions and verified that none of the women were clients of the practice.

  Outside the clinic, Nick took a cigarette case from his pocket and played with it absentmindedly. It had been a gift from Mackenzie a few years ago. “Either this doctor doesn’t know better or he didn’t get access to what he needed.”

  “These endoscopic brow lifts started coming in in the nineties. The suicide happened in 2003. The timeline makes sense. I can believe some surgeons take time to adopt new techniques,” Mackenzie said.

  “If we can find this doctor, we can find out who is taking these women to him.”

  “And like Preston said, it could be different surgeons.”

  “What I don’t get is the sixteen-year gap in between. Chances are that it’s the same person, right?”

  “Could be. What if there isn’t a sixteen-year gap?”

  Nick nodded, understanding what Mackenzie meant. What if there were others out there? Scores of women who had been surgically enhanced to look like someone else? It wasn’t just the cold air that made Mackenzie shiver as they walked back to the car.

  Twelve

  A starless night fell over Lakemore. The black sky felt like rock above, trapping the town in a cave. As Mackenzie’s feet pounded the gravel and she pushed her body forward, puffs of gray rose around her. Slivers of moonlight leaked through the cracks in the thick soot-like clouds suspended above the sky.

  Mackenzie looked ahead at the empty street. The concrete glistened under the streetlights. A spooky, ominous chill enveloped her.

  Usually, she went for runs in the mornings. There was always some activity around her. If not a garbage truck then at least the birds chirping. Now, Lakemore stood still and claustrophobic under an opaque sky that seemed to hang lower than usual. Like it was trying to crush the diminishing town.

  Mackenzie’s thighs burned. She took a different route—away from Hidden Lake. Far away. She didn’t know whose bones were buried there. She didn’t want to know.

  Eight years after he “disappeared,” Melody had filed a petition with the county court to declare Robert dead. The petition was approved. Robert Price had been missing for eight years. He hadn’t contacted any family or friends. The police were unable to locate him. Now that he had shown up, it would lead to a lot of paperwork, with insurance companies getting involved. It could open up an investigation with the police. If Melody had received any social security benefits then the FBI could get involved, too. Companies might even choose to sue Robert.

  Mackenzie had no clue what had happened to Robert’s assets. She didn’t know if he’d had any. She didn’t even know who their estate lawyer was. She had only been twelve years old, completely oblivious to how complicated the adult world was. Melody had taken care of everything. The house was sold off three years after Robert “died.” When Mackenzie turned eighteen, she was able to access a trust fund set up for her. It had been enough money for her to never worry about college. Not that she needed to—she had a full scholarship. She used that money to pay for her share of the down payment for the house. Growing up, she was acutely aware of their limited means and humble lifestyle. It had struck her as odd that she had come into a fairly large amount of money.

  In short, Robert being back would lead to a mess. Mackenzie wasn’t even sure what the exact procedure would be like. She had never dealt with someone returning from the dead. But she knew it would lead to questions.

  She stopped abruptly. How much more could she lie? How long before the truth came out? She had been checking Robert’s phone activity religiously. Still nothing suspicious. He read a lot and rented a lot of movies. The only person he contacte
d was her.

  Do you want to meet today? It’s Thanksgiving.

  Busy. Tomorrow.

  Mackenzie had considered looking into who had died that night. She knew where to start. She could look up the people who went missing in Lakemore twenty years ago—assuming that the man on her kitchen floor was from Lakemore. Then she could follow up on those cases; her unit was in charge of cold cases as well. But, contrary to popular belief, it wasn’t easy for police officers and detectives to access old records. They had to have a solid reason and official permission—like she’d had for the Jane Doe Three records that morning. They weren’t allowed to search through databases out of curiosity. If Mackenzie went down that road, she’d have to come clean, lose her reputation and potentially even her job.

  Even if there was some way to cut through the red tape—call in a favor or lie—was she ready to find out the truth about that night? What if she found out the identity of that man? What if he had a family? What if they were still waiting for him to come home?

  Her throat tightened. Her breath came out in painful hiccups. A force tugged at her ribcage, pulling it inward into her heart. She dropped to her knees. She hadn’t felt like this in a while. She looked around her. The emptiness of her surroundings inflated a sense of doom. She was alone in this.

  She didn’t have the strength to run back. Her tongue was dry and heavy in her mouth. A sudden wave of fatigue overcame her. Home was too far away. Realizing she was only a five-minute walk from Nick’s place, she decided to stop by to catch her breath.

  Her skin was flushed and matted with sweat by the time she was knocking on his door.

  Nick opened the door and frowned. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  “I-I ran,” she panted.

  “I can tell. That’s why I asked.”

  “Can I come in?”

  He moved aside to let her in. She went straight to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. As she guzzled the liquid, she felt his eyes on her back.