Bad Roads (E&M Investigations, Book 2) Read online

  Bad Roads

  E&M Investigations | Book Two

  Lena Bourne

  A Handy Names and Places Pronunciation Guide

  To make reading this book easier, I've put together a short guide to help you pronounce the Slovenian words and names that appear in it. I know some of them can seem like real tongue twisters, but they’re really not once you know a few simple rules.

  Let's start with Ljubljana, the name of the capital city. My advice here is to just ignore all the 'j's'. That way it becomes Lublana . And that is exactly how the locals pronounce it.

  Now for the letters č, š, ž (and also ć)…

  The little mark above these letters is a caron (or ‘strešica’ in Slovenian, which translates as ‘little roof’). Whenever you see a caron over a letter, just pretend there's an ‘h’ following it.

  So:

  - ‘č’ or ‘ć’ become ‘ch’:

  Example: Čokolada – chocolate.

  - ‘š’ becomes ‘sh’:

  Example: Šerpa – sherpa.

  - As for ‘ž’, the sound is pronounced like the 's' in the words exposure or closure.

  The letter 'c' is ALWAYS pronounced like ‘zz’ in pizza, with no exceptions.

  By the same token, the letter ‘j’ is ALWAYS pronounced as a ‘y’ like in the words yoyo or yet. (Bonus tip: You can also apply this rule to the word Ljubljana.)

  I hope this helps, and I hope you enjoy the story!

  - Lena Bourne

  1

  Ten Years Ago

  Love. My grandma warned me that love would be the death of me. She just knew. I’d be running around with my boyfriend, skinny dipping in the river, sneaking out through my bedroom window to spend the night with him under the canopy of trees in the magical nearby forest, and staying out until sunrise.

  Grandma would always wait for me when I got back at dawn, asking where I’d been and with who.

  “I’m in love,” I’d tell her. And she’d shake her head and tell me love would be the death of me.

  I never imagined she was right. But she was.

  “Esma, stay with me,” he wails pain thick in his voice.

  We found our love late. Found it buried under years of pretending, denying, and looking the other way. Found it only after another tried to take me away.

  Found it too late.

  I try to tell him it will all be all right. That I always knew I would end like this. That my grandma warned me years ago.

  He’s crying. The man I’ve never seen shed a tear before is weeping over me.

  I try to speak. Try to soothe his pain. Try to ask for one last kiss.

  But no sound comes from my lips.

  He seems to hear me despite that, leans down, and plants his soft, tear-wetted lips on mine.

  He is the best kisser I’ve ever known. And this kiss is the best kiss I’ve ever had.

  My last.

  Eva

  I’m not often up at dawn, because morning is not my best time of day, never was, never will be. But in Mark’s cottage, I don’t mind waking up with the hens, as they say. The wraparound windows in the living room are showing me the long narrow valley covered with rows of grapevines, which are just starting to grow fresh leaves. The sky above the hill rising above them is shaded red, yellow, purple, and pink, the colors flowing into each other and casting a copper-red sheen on the world. I’ve never seen this shade of sunrise before, but then again, I haven’t seen many sunrises, so that could be why.

  I woke up about half an hour ago, but I’m still not fully awake. I’m only up this early because I have an article due in two days, and I barely started writing it.

  It’s been years since I worked as an investigative journalist. For the last three, I’ve been writing true crime books, or more precisely, in-depth biographies and psychological profiles of notorious serial killers.

  But my good friend from university and editor at the Guardian asked me to write a series of articles, outlining the major points from my books. My publisher agreed it was a good promotion, so here I am, writing for newspapers again. At first, it sounded like a good way to take a break from writing books. But now, with the first article due and none of them written, I’m having some serious second thoughts.

  Though my sluggishness at getting to work is probably due to Mark and me enjoying something very close to a honeymoon since we moved in here a few months ago. To his cottage, the one he worked on restoring for a year while we were not speaking, is a dream home in more ways than one. It’s located in the village of Sveto, in the windy seaside region of Slovenia, where wine is plentiful, people are friendly and nice, and life is just slow and easy. I’ve never lived in a small town, let alone a village and I never thought I’d like it. I really do.

  I also didn’t even know just how much baggage I’ve been carrying from the years I spent buried in researching psychos and killers, starting with the Fairytale Killer. The one that made me famous. The one that shattered my relationship with Mark.

  More followed. Ten of them that I wrote books on, and about ten more that I just interviewed with a view of understanding the psychology better. There’s no understanding the psychology, not really.

  And now there’s the eleventh. The one Mark and I, with the help of the special Europol task force, caught just a few months ago. I went into the case intending to write a book about him. I haven’t even started it.

  He was the killer that brought Mark and me back together and honestly, I’ve just felt too good getting to know Mark again after the three years we spent apart, that I just didn’t want to invite any darkness into it.

  But we did take some time to create the perfect little writing room for me in the cottage. I’m heading to it as soon as the fog of sleep clears from my mind. It’s just off the living room, only big enough for a long desk, chair, comfy armchair, and a set of shelves that are all neat now but won’t be once I really start using the room. The window behind the desk overlooks this same valley.

  I always wanted my own writing room, but never had one, not in any of the apartments I lived in. I lived a transient life since I moved away from home at eighteen to go study journalism in London twenty years ago. The last three years have been especially harsh in that regard. I didn’t even rent an apartment anywhere. I just moved from hotel room to hotel room as needed.

  In this cottage is the first time I’ve felt like I’m home since I left my childhood home. I haven’t told Mark that yet because I don’t want to jinx anything. It’s too early. I shouldn’t even be thinking about it for the same reason.

  I take a sip of my coffee and just stare at the sunrise for a while, wishing Mark was sitting next to me. But he’s asleep and I didn’t want to wake him if I’m going to work on my article anyway.

  The coffee is too strong and too black but does have a very pleasant aftertaste. That’s because we got the good Italian stuff while we were in Trieste getting furniture for my new writing room. I still haven’t gotten the hang of the new espresso machine we also got, but I’m working on it. Not that I’m not a lover of good coffee, but I always just drank instant at home. This will be much better. As soon as I learn how to make a good cup.

  The sky is glowing a pale reddish-gold as the rising sun finally crests the distant hill.

  I get up with a sigh. Enough wasting time. The sooner I finish the article the sooner I get to spend all my time with Mark again.

  Mark

  My phone’s ringing in the living room, echoing off the wall and unnecessarily loud. It’s the job, it has to be, since no one else calls me these days. And if Eva was still in bed with me, I wouldn’t be gett
ing up to answer it right away.

  But she’s not.

  She’s been talking about the article she needs to write for the last week and finally decided last night that today is the day. I’m glad she’s writing again. She loves it, and I’m getting kind of sick of her complaining that she’s going to miss her deadline. I’m also glad she’s not writing the book on the psycho we unearthed over the winter.

  I stumble into the living room, bumping into everything I can bump into on the way, starting with the low, dark oak doorframe of the bedroom. It’s only after I stub my toe on one of the steel sofa legs that I open my eyes fully. And then just stare out at the sunrise for a couple of minutes, hardly hearing the ringing phone in my hand. The sky is reddish-orange and glowing as though a fire is burning just behind the low rolling hills in the distance. I doubt it’s a fire, but it’s definitely the most interesting sunrise I’ve seen since moving here. It’s also just like the sunrises over the desert in Afghanistan, some of which were caused by fires and explosions. I buried my memories of one and a half tours of duty I served there deep, but this one comes to the surface easily. Too easily.

  My career as a Special Investigator for the US Army Criminal Investigations Department started at the tail end of the second tour, and they all call me one of the top investigators around now, fifteen years later, but I know the truth. I’m only forty years old, or going to be soon, but I’m over the hill and sliding down the other side fast. I was comfortably retired just a couple of months ago.

  But then, I signed a one-year contract with the Europol Violent Crimes Task Force and I don’t back out of my commitments. Besides, if all the future cases that come our way are as desperately in need of professional investigating as the one we just wrapped up, then even my failing skills could still be useful.

  The phone stops ringing by the time I finally remember to answer it.

  Good.

  I can smell coffee, Eva is smiling at me from the doorway of her new writing room and it will be another beautiful day today. Under her old purple and grey cardigan, she’s wearing her new, floor-length off-white, satin nightgown, with a dangerously low-cut v-neck trimmed in lace. I can make out every curve of her body under the thin fabric. And that’s a good start to a great day if ever I saw one.

  Simon and the task force can wait. Everything can wait.

  I walk over to her and she meets me halfway. The reddish light outside colors her face and her long blonde hair a faded bronze and reflects in her otherwise bright blue eyes. They’re so good at catching the light, I love it.

  Her cardigan makes my neck itch and burn as she drapes her arms around my shoulders, but her softness as she presses against me more than makes up for it. Plus, she always wore this cardigan around the house back when we started going out—almost five years ago now—and it’s a nice link back to those happy days. A gulf of three years of not speaking to each other separates us from it, but we’ve done a lot to close that up since we’ve been living here. In fact, I’d say this kiss pretty much says there’s no more gulf.

  So I am a total idiot for even noticing that the phone I’m still holding is ringing again, and an even bigger one for pulling away from her to begin the process of answering it.

  But that’s muscle memory for you. The phone rings and I answer. It’s always a new case, a new assignment to work on, rarely anything pleasant or mundane. It’s how I lived my life as a US Military Special Investigator for over fifteen years. It wasn’t until I met Eva that I even thought much about settling down. But I think that wish is finally coming true too.

  Especially as she smiles when I show her the flashing phone.

  “Answer it. I’ll get you some coffee,” she says and glides to the kitchen.

  “Yes, Simon?” I say into the phone, more interested in watching Eva pour my coffee than anything Simon has to say.

  “There’s a new development in one of the cases we’ve been looking at,” he says. “And a live crime scene. I’ve cleared you and Brina to attend.”

  He’s talking fast and kind of breathlessly, like maybe he’s walking. Or jogging. He does a lot of that. “A live crime scene? In which case?”

  The task force hasn’t officially taken on a new case since we wrapped up the last one, but we’ve reviewed quite a few of them. We’ve even managed to make some real headway in a number of them where the problem was mostly non-centralized evidence trails.

  “The sex worker. Anita Rajić,” he says and I groan.

  “The one Brina is working on?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he says. “It’s a delicate case, with political ties.”

  “And running from here to Austria via Bosnia,” I add. “A political and jurisdictional nightmare, in other words.”

  “I’ll handle the bureaucracy, you handle the investigation,” he says.

  “Sounds like a plan,” I say.

  “Now get to the scene as fast as you can. I’ll text you the address.”

  “What am I going to find there?” I ask. Hopefully not a dead illegal stripper/prostitute. I don’t want to think it, let alone say it.

  As much as I’ve been enjoying the quiet life in the country with Eva these last couple of months, I have to say that the cases we’ve been reviewing have been calling to me. This one especially.

  I have a special and strong dislike for men in power importing and exploiting young women who have no choice and no say in the matter. This case fits the bill. The two victims we’ve connected to it were both barely eighteen years old. They’d been trafficked at fifteen. I’m sure there are other victims we just haven’t found yet.

  Even if I catch whoever is behind these murders, I’ll never stop it from happening. This kind of thing is as old as time. But I will do what I can to put a dent in it.

  “Alright, I’ll be there,” I say and hang up.

  Eva approaches me with a cup of coffee, a very weird look on her face. It’s something between curiosity and dread, that’s the best I can describe it.

  “A new case?” she asks.

  I nod and take a sip of the coffee, which is too strong, but I tell her it’s great anyway. It’s the little white lies that make a relationship work, was one of my mother’s favorite sayings after she met and married my step-father. Their relationship held, but the one between me and my mom went downhill fast after she married him. And I can’t believe I’m thinking about that crap now.

  “It’s not, Mark,” she says and grins. “But I’ll get the hang of it eventually.”

  “I have no doubt,” I say and grin back.

  “So what’s the case?” she says.

  “The stripper murder,” I say. “The one found mutilated under the Dragon Bridge.”

  Hands and feet cut off, teeth knocked out, face so badly beaten she was unrecognizable. A classic old-school mafia murder. So old school they clearly never even heard of DNA. That’s how Anita Rajić was identified. She’d been missing for years before she was found.

  Three more illegal strippers/prostitutes were found in the year following Anita’s murder, but they weren’t mutilated as she had been. But they were all beaten to death. The cases all stank of mafia involvement and were never officially tied together. But Brina Turk, one of the detectives on the task force, thinks they should be. She was one of the officers assigned to Anita’s case when her body was first found and it has haunted her ever since. I gave her free reign on it despite the lack of leads and potential bureaucratic and jurisdictional challenges.

  “And there’s been a new development?” she asks. “Sorry, Simon talks really loud on the phone. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but I heard it all.”

  “There has and I have to go view it,” I say and hand her back my empty cup. “You’ll be fine here without the car?”

  She nods. “I have a ton of work left to do on the article.”

  The only good thing about this case being the next one the task force tackles is that it’s most definitely not a serial killer case. Meaning Eva won’t have
to be a part of it. On the last one, she was brought in as an outside expert/profiler and she’s staying on in that capacity for the time being. I wish she wouldn’t.

  I feel guilty just thinking that, but a part of me still wants to protect her from the darkness of gruesome murders and psychotic killers. She’d be so pissed off if she knew I was thinking that right now and I hope she doesn’t read it on my face.

  Just in case she can, since she usually can, I kiss her again.

  I’ll never stop wanting to protect her and keep her out of harm’s way. But I’ll do my best to let her do whatever she wants despite that. We’ve had a few conversations about that. They were productive, and I made promises regarding that. I plan to keep them.

  To be completely honest, her reckless way and the wild-abandon with which she goes after everything in life is one of the main reasons I fell in love with her in the first place. My need to keep her safe drove us apart the first time and I’m not about to make the same mistake now that we finally have our second chance.

  3

  Mark

  The sun rose a normal bright yellow by the time I finished getting dressed and left the house. Almost the whole way to the crime scene, the blinding brightness was showing off the newly budding trees in the forests lining most of the highways in this country. But as soon as I got within ten kilometers of the capital of Ljubljana, grey clouds took over the sky.

  I’m not actually heading to the capital. The crime scene is just outside the town of Vrhnika and even though I’m following the GPS coordinates Simon sent exactly, I’m still afraid I took a wrong turn somewhere. The narrow road I’m on keeps winding up and up. Lush green trees and shrubs line it on both sides, there’s no sidewalk to speak of, let alone a shoulder to pull up on, and no end in sight. I’m just about to call Simon again to recheck the information he sent when a bend in the road finally reveals a clearing. And about ten service vehicles of all sorts—police, fire, ambulance, forensics. The sirens are all off, but the lights on most of the cars are flashing.