Sweet After Death Read online

  Also by Valentina Giambanco

  The Gift of Darkness

  The Dark

  Blood and Bone

  New York • London

  © 2017 by Valentina Giambanco

  Design © www.blacksheep-uk.com

  Front cover photographs © Trigger Image/Alamy (landscape) Ingram Publishing/Superstock (barn) and Blacksheep (figure)

  First published in the United States by Quercus in 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of the same without the permission of the publisher is prohibited.

  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use or anthology should send inquiries to [email protected].

  eISBN 978-1-63506-063-8

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Giambanco, V. M., author.

  Title: Sweet after death / Valentina Giambanco.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Quercus, 2018. | Series: A Detective Alice Madison novel ; 4

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017047344 (print) | LCCN 2017057231 (ebook) | ISBN 9781635060638 (ebook) | ISBN 9781635060645 (library ebook edition) | ISBN 9781635060614 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781635060621 (softcover)

  Subjects: LCSH: Women detectives–Fiction. | Policewomen–Fiction. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction. | Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PR6107.I22 (ebook) | LCC PR6107.I22 S94 2018 (print) | DDC 823/.92—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017047344

  Distributed in the United States and Canada by

  Hachette Book Group

  1290 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10104

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  www.quercus.com

  For my mother

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  The woods pressed into the town from all sides. The bite of land that had been scooped out of the wilderness by the original residents was barely visible from above during the day, and at night—when the only lights were a few scattered street lamps—it was all but gone.

  The deer raised its nose, sniffed the cold night air, and took a couple of steps. It paused by the line of trees and waited.

  Somewhere much higher up on the mountain the winds howled and shook the firs for what they were worth, but in the hollow of the valley the town of Ludlow lay silent and still.

  The deer ambled into the middle of the empty road, and three others followed it out of the shadows. They made no sound as they padded on the veil of snow and their reflections crossed the windows of the shuttered stores on Main Street.

  The town stirred in its sleep but did not wake: a dog barked from inside a house, a porch light—triggered by a faulty motion sensor—came on and went off in one of the timber-frame homes, and one of the town’s three traffic lights ticked and flickered from red to green to marshal the nonexistent 3 a.m. traffic. And yet, tucked away in an alley, a thin shadow tracked the progress of the deer and matched them step for step. They didn’t pick up its scent because it smelled of forest and dead leaves, and they didn’t hear any footsteps because it made no sound as it wove between the houses.

  The deer followed a familiar route that would lead them to the woods at the other end of Main Street, and it wasn’t until they had almost reached their destination that they caught the ugly scent. It was a few hundred yards away, yet sharp enough to startle them. For an instant they froze, and then, one after another, they bounded out of sight. The acrid smoke spread through Main Street, reaching into the alleys and the backstreets, under the doors and into the gaps of the old window frames. But the car burning bright by the crossroads would not be discovered until morning, and by then the thin shadow was long gone.

  A few miles away Samuel shifted his weight on the thin mattress and listened for birdsong: he couldn’t hear any, and it could only mean that it was still pitch black outside. He sighed and tried to grasp the tail of a half-remembered dream. Something had woken him up, though, and it took him a moment for the notion to sink small, keen teeth into his mind—dulled as it was by sleep and the warm cocoon of his blankets. Then a rough hand grabbed his shoulder and Samuel flinched and understood. He sat up without a sound, eyes peering through the gloom.

  The bedroom—such as it was—was plain, with pallets for beds and a wooden stove in the corner. Embers from last night’s fire lit the bundles of blankets lying on the other pallets, and a cold draft found Samuel as soon as he threw off the covers.

  He didn’t have much time and he knew it. His heart had begun to race and his mouth was a tight line as he pulled on his boots and snatched his satchel from the side of the bed. The tip of the boy’s finger brushed against his good-luck charm, hidden in the folds of the satchel, and he felt a crackle of pleasure.

  Two minutes later, Samuel walked out into the night and the door closed softly behind him. He looked up: the sky was low with heavy clouds, and he could almost taste the snow that was about to fall. He ran across the clearing and straight into the forest. He knew each tree and boulder and rock, and the dusting of white on the ground showed him the way.

  They had always called him “Mouse” because he was small for his age—fifteen years old the previous November—small and fast. He needed all the speed and cunning he could muster now.

  Speed, cunning, and the spirit of the mountain on his side.

  He was three hundred yards away when the bell clanged and shattered the silence. They would be waking up then, rushing and scrambling after their things, and when the door opened to the night
they would fall out and come after him. And God forbid they should catch him. The black raven feather in the boy’s satchel would have to work hard to keep him safe.

  Chapter 1

  The small plane flew into a cloud and for a moment there was nothing but hazy gray. Then, faster than it would seem possible, they came out on the other side and sudden rain streaked the windows and blurred the view of the Cascade Mountains way down below.

  The pilot had not spoken since his last attempt at conversation had been met by a polite but economical response, and after that, turbulence had demanded his complete attention while the three passengers had kept to themselves.

  George Goyer had held his license for nineteen years and flown the red Cessna U260A for the last seven. He carried supplies in the winter and tourists in the summer, and he knew this unscheduled journey on a chilly February morning was not about cargo or recreation.

  It was still early and the sun was barely a smudge on the horizon. On the tarmac of Boeing Field, George had removed two seats from the lineup to make more room and had helped the passengers load and secure their luggage inside the cabin—three smallish bags and some surprisingly heavy boxes—while making calculations about gross weight, fuel, and distance. Although there had been formal introductions, by the time he had shaken their hands George had promptly forgotten his passengers’ names. When they were all strapped in and cleared by the tower for departure, the Cessna had taken off and George had allowed himself one wide, smooth turn over the flat, glassy waters of Elliott Bay and the shimmering skyscrapers of downtown Seattle before he had curved east toward the mountains. The way he saw it, they might as well begin the flight with something pretty since they were heading straight for some moderate to heavy chop.

  “It’ll be short and sweet,” he had said through the headset, trying to sound reassuring.

  “The shorter, the better,” the man behind him had replied. He was in his early fifties, with red hair turning silver, and sat in his leather seat as if he’d rather be somewhere else—anywhere else.

  The two women seemed to fare better: the redhead in her forties sitting next to the man had closed her eyes and possibly already fallen asleep. She had been particularly fastidious about the loading and securing of the cases, but George didn’t mind being told what to do by a pretty lady who knew her mind. The other woman was the only one of the three wearing a mountain jacket and hiking boots that looked like they had seen actual hiking—George was quick to spot and scorn brand-new gear bought by city folk who wouldn’t know a moose from a whip snake. The woman, younger than her companions, had helped him load their cargo and barely said a word. The rain had stopped and he caught himself watching her as she gazed at the landscape rolling and changing and at the dark mountains drawing near. The towns had disappeared and the plains had become forests: an expanse of deep green that covered valleys and peaks, except for stretches of bare rock and occasional snow. Slivers of lakes reflected the clouds above, and most roads—where there were roads—were hidden under the canopy. It was relentlessly beautiful and it never got old. After that brief moment the clouds had closed in and the rain had started again, harder than before. George glanced at the woman. She hadn’t asked him silly questions and had known not to spoil the moment. He liked her already.

  The Cessna bumped through a hard crosswind, and George spoke into the headset.

  “I know we’re getting slapped around some, but don’t you worry, I see this and worse every day.” He added a little chuckle for good measure.

  None of the passengers ventured a reply. Though he didn’t remember their names, George Goyer knew who they were and why the call the previous day had come from Chief Sangster himself. Maybe, he thought, they could have done with a little more of the pretty at the beginning of the trip because, Lord knows, where they were going there was going to be nothing but ugly.

  Chapter 2

  Twenty-four hours earlier, in downtown Seattle, the weather had been overcast with a chance of aggravated assault. Alice Madison’s feet hit the ground hard and slipped as she felt the crunch of glass. She swore under her breath. Bottles, perhaps shards from the broken windows in the alley. Maybe so, but she didn’t have time to care. The figure ahead of her flying toward the mouth of the alley was going at full tilt and Madison was going to catch up and grab the runner if it was the last thing she ever did. She righted herself and kept going. Behind her she heard someone scramble over the same chain-link fence she had just climbed.

  “Watch the glass!” she yelled over her shoulder. She heard Andy Dunne land heavily, slip in the glass, and swear under his breath, then a moment later his steps were thundering behind hers.

  Ten minutes ago they were on their lunch break, sitting at the Grand Central Bakery in Occidental Square, talking about mortgages and the Seahawks. Then the call came in, the worst call possible: one officer down, another in need of assistance, two attackers on the run.

  Detective Alice Madison and her partner, Detective Sergeant Kevin Brown, were in the car and driving in less than thirty seconds; Detectives Andy Dunne and his partner, Kyle Spencer, were close behind them. They were all Homicide, but that was the kind of call that got everybody to come running.

  The radio in their car squawked and crackled with the back-and-forth between dispatch and the different responding units, while every officer in the area converged on the same place, wondering about one thing: Who had been hurt and how badly?

  The International District sat a stone’s throw away from the more picturesque Pioneer Square area with its new art galleries and expensive restaurants, but it held none of the charm: boxy concrete warehouses followed grocery stores and shuttered businesses under the shadow of the interstate.

  They saw him streak out of the back of a Chinese store and they gave chase. The kid—how old could he be?—was white, skinny, wore jeans and a black hoodie, and probably right about then had realized the magnitude of the trouble he was in. His partner was already sitting in a patrol car with a bloody nose because he had had the good sense to stop when four uniformed officers with their weapons out had told him to. He had dropped the metal pipe and stretched out on the ground in the middle of the road. The nosebleed was courtesy of the small envelope of white powder in his back pocket.

  “Let me out here,” Madison had urged Brown. The alley was too narrow for a car, anyway—never mind the chain-link fence—so Madison and Dunne had continued on foot while Brown and Spencer tried to cut off the attacker from the other side.

  Madison ran almost every day; however, the guy was fast. She wondered briefly what kind of drugs he was on, and what had happened with the officer who had been hurt, and then she pushed the thought away. She could run and catch the guy, or she could examine the intricacies of the drug war in downtown Seattle, but she really could not do both at the same time.

  The alley was covered in litter, and the two buildings on either side were tall enough to cut out most of the sky except for a strip of gray above them. Madison tried to avoid the flattened cardboard boxes and the empty food cartons and worked through a mental checklist. Is he armed? Is he injured? Is he on drugs? How far does he want to take this? She could see his hands, and there was no weapon there—just clenched fists and arms pumping to get speed.

  The alley opened into a street and the runner rushed across the sudden glare, ignoring the horns from the cars driving in both directions. Madison blinked. The man dived into another alley and disappeared. Madison crossed the road and followed as Brown and Spencer’s cars shrieked to a halt beside her, five seconds too late.

  The alley was as narrow as the previous one and just as long and, Madison noticed, completely empty. She stopped abruptly and Dunne almost bumped into her back.

  “He couldn’t have made it to the end. He was out of my sight for no more than a few seconds. He’s still here.” A part of her was pleased that she could speak almost normally.

  Dunne, gulping air, nodded. Somewhere in the background sirens were approaching
.

  They each took a side and proceeded slowly. There was a dumpster at the other end, but aside from that there was nothing but fire escapes and boarded windows. Madison’s heartbeat was slowing down after the run and the adrenaline was already kicking in: there were no hiding places before them, which could only mean that the runner had managed to break into one of the buildings. Soft steps behind her told her that Brown and Spencer had joined them.

  A dank, earthy smell permeated the alley and occasionally a puff of white steam was released by a grid a few feet above their heads—somewhere on the other side of the building a Chinese restaurant was serving lunch, and the air was thick with garlic and spices.

  They were about a third of the way up the alley when they saw it: a broken pane on a door, big enough for a person to squeeze through.

  “What is this place?” Spencer whispered.

  “Warehouse,” Brown replied. “Been empty for years.”

  Well, Madison thought, at least he didn’t run into the restaurant. She bent and looked into the darkness behind the broken pane: nothing but a murky glow.

  “No time like the present,” Brown said, then unholstered his weapon and edged himself into the opening.

  Brown and Madison had worked together in the Homicide Unit for just over two years, since she had joined it, and he had never lost the chance to be on point—one of those times, early in their partnership, it had almost cost him his life. She reached out to stop him and go first, but he was already inside.

  The small room was dim, with paint coming off the walls, and it stank of dead rat. The only light came from narrow horizontal windows way up near the ceiling. Whatever had been stored here was long gone and the place had been taken over by the gods of dust. Even the sounds from the street only a few yards away didn’t seem to reach it.

  An open door in the corner led to a cavernous space, and in the distance, somewhere in the heart of the building, metal clanked against metal. As the detectives went deeper into the warehouse four thin beams from their flashlights crossed and parted on the concrete.