Good Girls Lie(66)

Tony is laconic and acerbic and loves that they have so much in common, the two misfits who stepped outside of the Wood family tradition of producing country doctors to be cops, instead. They talk regularly, and she wishes she could see him more, but she’s been ridiculously busy since she made detective, and he’s running the entire county under his office.

The visit has been good for them both. They’ve had some beers, told some war stories—crime scenes discovered, bodies in strange places, crazy methods of death—the kind of dark humor people outside of law enforcement find wildly offensive, but to her and him, it’s life. You laugh, or you cry. It’s the way of things.

He hasn’t pushed her. He’s been a sane sounding board. He’s assured her all will be well. And now, she’s stumbled into a case.

Not your case, Kate.

She drags her attention back to Goode. Nothing about the broken body of the teenager adds up. And the family slaps them all in the face by insisting on the body being posted up in DC? It’s rather pointless, Virginia’s OCME is an exemplary system of medical examiners all tied together under one umbrella, supporting one another throughout the state. But Tony had agreed without a fuss. The death is a sensitive one.

Another sensitive case.

So, Kate finds herself driving north toward the autopsy, singing a creepy-ass song by a wildly successful teenager with a clear talent for tapping into the emotional issues of her peers.

Kate isn’t here to close the case, it’s not hers, it’s Tony’s, and she’s on suspension. She offered to go because if she’s on-site, she can hear the results right away and can share them with Tony. And make sure they’re all getting the same story, are all on the same page.

It’s not like she has anything better to do. And she likes to drive. It helps her think.

Ash Carlisle—Ashlyn Elizabeth Carr, her real name. Five feet eleven inches, 130 pounds, blue on blond. Pretty. Intelligent. Cultured. Rich as sin. Parents dead. Roommate dead. Hiding something. Kate is sure of it.

The tear in the girl’s shirt notwithstanding, her eyes had been glassy like she was on something, and her breath smelled overwhelmingly of Altoids. Deduction based on Kate’s own teenage foibles: the kid had been drinking, and so had her girlfriend, the all-star senior. Funny, they look something alike, are of a similar height and build, but the senior is tougher, you can see it in the aggressive way she defended her younger compatriot.

Secret societies. What a ridiculous thing to allow in a high school. Granted, Goode is not your normal high school, nor your normal boarding school. The girls are treated as if they are much older, almost as if they are in college instead of high school. Self-reliance, independence, agency. All vital aspects for any young woman in the world. But how young is too young for such responsibility? Why can’t kids be kids anymore?

Break it down, Kate.

Okay. A bunch of rich girls, smart, capable, rich girls, with access to drugs and alcohol, hold a secret society meeting and haze one of their own until she feels compelled to throw herself off a bell tower.

Boom goes the dynamite. Occam’s razor. It’s the first rule of investigation—the most obvious answer is your first path.

That the girl was bullied and killed herself is not an intuitive leap by any means. Rich, smart, determined, or otherwise, they’re dealing with teenage girls. Kate remembers her own time in high school. Granted, she went to good old Orange County (go Hornets!), down in the trenches with the farmers’ kids, but there was still money—horse farms and wineries—and those kids were always the ringleaders when there was hell to be delivered.

A whole school of them, all girls, to boot?

Camille Shannon might have been bullied into suicide, or felt left out and depressed. Add in the abortion, possibly an indifferent or ex-boyfriend, and there was a recipe for disaster.

Tony mentioned the mother is threatening a wrongful death lawsuit, and she probably has a case. Bad publicity is never good but isn’t insurmountable. Goode is self-endowed and run by an old Virginia family with very deep pockets, but still, bad press on top of the murder a decade ago could at least affect them. Affect enrollment. Future endowments.

She takes the exit off Highway 29 into Manassas, her mind touching again on Becca Curtis. She’s also curious about the senator’s daughter. She’s in this up to her delicate, pearl-studded ears. Put that girl in a crown and she fits the bill perfectly—a regal leader. The chosen one.

Add in this Ash Carlisle... Kate can’t shake the feeling the two of them know something. But what?

Not your case, Kate, she reminds herself for the twentieth time. You’re doing Tony a favor, relaying the autopsy report to make sure he’s getting all the facts right away, that’s all.

But when she pulls into the parking lot of the Manassas District OCME office, she impulsively sends a quick email to a friend she knows who can take a glance into the overseas aspect of this. It’s a short email.

What’s the deal with Sir Damien Carr’s death?
She’s surprised when her phone rings immediately, the number on the screen the +44 UK prefix.

“Hello?”

“Kate Wood, what in the dickens are you doing emailing me at midnight?”

“What are you doing looking at your email at midnight, Oliver?”

“Notifications from VIPs.”

“Ah, I’m a VIP, am I?”