Chapter 1
Chapter One
Detective Brisa Dashiell arrived at the Langford Police Department twenty minutes late and mildly irritated.
The fault lay with a faded blue Ford that had long since exhausted whatever patience existed between owner and machine. It had refused to start outside her apartment building, then again at the traffic light on Riverside Avenue. The first time, Brisa sat patiently behind the wheel and tried again. By the fifth time, she considered abandoning the vehicle where it stood and walking the remaining three miles to work.
The Ford finally surrendered on the sixth attempt with a reluctant growl. By that time, Brisa had exhausted a vocabulary that would have earned her a reprimand if spoken within department walls.
The station occupied a three-storey brick building overlooking the courthouse square. Its façade was unremarkable, which suited Langford well enough. The town had never cared much for appearances. It preferred things that worked.
Most days, so did Brisa.
The heavy glass doors caught her reflection as she approached them.
Brisa had long since abandoned any serious effort to look fashionable at work. Her dark hair was gathered into a practical knot at the back of her head, a few loose strands already escaping despite the early hour. Sharp brown eyes regarded the world with a habitual skepticism that had deepened during her years as a detective. She was of average height and build, neither imposing nor particularly noticeable in a crowd, which suited her just fine.
She crossed the lobby, passing a pair of patrol officers discussing a bar fight from the previous night. The smell of coffee drifted from the break room.
"Dashiell."
Brisa glanced up.
Captain Roland Mercer stood near the reception desk with a folder tucked beneath one arm. He was a broad-shouldered man whose grey hair and measured voice lent him an air of permanent patience.
"Morning, Captain."
His eyes moved briefly toward the rain-speckled windows overlooking the parking lot.
"The Ford again?"
Brisa nodded.
Mercer sighed resignedly.
"I'll have a few files sent to your desk."
"Anything interesting?"
"If it were interesting, I'd be keeping it for myself."
A faint smile touched Brisa's face.
"Try to be on time tomorrow," he added.
"I'll relay the message to the vehicle."
The captain shook his head and disappeared through the revolving doors.
Brisa took the stairs to the second floor.
The Major Crimes Unit occupied a large office at the eastern end of the second floor. Four desks faced one another in the centre of the room. Filing cabinets lined one wall. A bank of windows overlooked Main Street. Through the windows she could see pedestrians moving between shops and cafés, beginning another ordinary weekday in Langford.
Ordinary days rarely made their way to her desk.
Three detectives were already at work.
Detective Noah Hart sat opposite Brisa's desk, reviewing witness statements with a mug of coffee close at hand.
To his right, Detective Ruth Alvarez was speaking on the telephone while making notes in a battered notebook she carried everywhere.
At the far end of the room, Detective Caleb Finch was studying photographs pinned to a notice board.
No one looked particularly happy to be there.
Noah glanced up as Brisa entered.
"Twenty minutes."
"The car."
"You know there are newer models available."
"So I’ve heard."
"You should investigate."
Brisa dropped her handbag beside her desk.
At thirty-four, she had spent more than a decade in law enforcement and nearly six years in Major Crimes. She had earned a reputation for persistence and an unfortunate tendency to keep working long after everyone else had decided a question no longer mattered.
Neither quality had made her especially popular.
Both had made her good at her job.
Her desk reflected the same practicality.
A computer monitor occupied one corner. Case files were stacked in neat piles. A desk phone sat beside a notebook filled with observations, names, dates and reminders written in her narrow handwriting.
Near the window stood a small potted plant that appeared to be losing a prolonged battle with existence.
She settled into her chair and switched on her computer.
Overnight reports were already waiting in her inbox. A burglary. Two assaults. A domestic disturbance that would likely consume far more paperwork than the incident itself warranted.
A little after midday, Brisa was halfway through a witness statement when someone dropped a small stack of correspondence onto her desk.
"Mail."
She looked up.
Noah was already moving away.
"Your dedication to duty is inspiring," she said.
"I try."
He returned to his desk without looking back.
Brisa glanced at the pile.
A utility bill addressed to the department. A circular from the district attorney's office. Two internal memoranda and a plain brown envelope.
No return address.
No postage.
No markings of any kind.
She picked it up and turned it over once.
Perhaps it had been hand-delivered.
Perhaps someone in administration had forgotten to stamp it.
Neither possibility seemed particularly interesting.
Brisa slid a finger beneath the flap and opened it.
Several papers slipped onto her desk.
She caught them before they fell.
First came a wrinkled handwritten sheet.
Then an old worn photograph of a girl with blonde hair, wide aqua-green eyes, and faint red freckles scattered across her cheeks.
Brisa frowned.
Beneath the photograph lay two A4 papers secured with a paper clip.
Attached behind them was a single yellow page.
She lifted the documents and began to read.
The first page contained what appeared to be personal information.
The second looked remarkably similar to a missing-person report.
A detail near the top caught her attention.
Lettie Austin.
Female.
Seven years old.
Brisa reached for the photograph again.
The same child.
A pulse of unease moved through her.
She turned to the yellow page.
Unlike the other documents, it contained very little information.
At the top was a date. Five days ahead.
Most of the page was blank.
Brisa stared at it.
Then checked it again.
Below it was a single line.
"She will be found in water, but water will not be the reason she is gone."
Nothing else.
No signature.
No explanation.
No indication of who had assembled the file or why it had been sent to her.
Brisa sat back in her chair.
This was a sick prank.
A file describing a missing child who had not been reported missing?
And a death that had not happened?
Brisa read the yellow page again.
Then a third time.
The words made no more sense than they had the first.
She leaned closer to her computer and opened the database. She typed in the details.
No matches found.
She searched for any case file. Reports.
Nothing still.
Brisa frowned and looked up toward Noah's desk.
"Who brought this in?" she asked.
Noah glanced over from where he was sorting through a tray of paperwork. "What, the mail?"
"This envelope."
He straightened and looked at the yellow packet in her hand. "Oh. Those were all in the mailbox when I went down there. I just sorted out the ones with your name on them and brought them up."
Brisa looked back at the envelope.
"No one handed this to you?" Her voice was layered with emphasis.
"No. Why?"
She hesitated, then shook her head. "Nothing."
Noah studied her for a moment. "Is there an issue?"
"None at all," she said without missing a beat.
"Thanks."
He nodded once and turned back to his desk.
Brisa sat there a moment longer, the envelope still in her hand.
Then she pushed it aside into the growing pile of other correspondence.
She would see to that later.
For now, the assault witness case was paramount.
