The Forgotten Girls Read online

  the forgotten girls

  (A Bella DeFranco Mystery)

  Book #1 in the Suburban Murder Series

  Alexa Steele

  About Alexa Steele

  Alexa Steele is an attorney, practicing in New York City, where she lives with her family, and a lifelong mystery reader. THE FORGOTTEN GIRLS is her debut work of fiction. Alexa loves to hear from you, so please visit www.alexasteele.com to join the email list, receive a free book, receive free giveaways, get the latest exclusive news, connect on Facebook and Twitter, and stay in touch!

  Books by Alexa Steele

  SUBURBAN MURDER

  THE FORGOTTEN GIRLS (BOOK #1)

  THE LOST GIRLS (BOOK #2)

  Copyright © 2014 by Alexa Steele

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Jacket image ©iStock.com/Casarsa

  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

  PROLOGUE

  Joslyn Freed had always been terrified of water. Tonight, as she made her way down to the shore on the jagged, uneven path alone, in darkness, she felt a rising sensation to turn and run as fast as she could. She didn’t, of course. She had said she would be there and she would.

  Carefully and slowly she navigated the trail, her shimmering, sky-high stilettos faltering under the pressure to support her. They gave way on a pile of loose rocks when she slipped and fell, catching herself as she landed on her side.

  Shaken, she lifted herself, brushed dirt off her dress and continued, unsteadily, down to the yacht she had promised she would go.

  Joslyn had regretted agreeing to this meeting before she even snuck outside and now, as she approached the dock, she felt queasy, gagging from the smell of salt water and fish.

  She bent over and vomited.

  Miserable, she straightened herself and looked back up the hill at the well-lit club, the faraway sound of voices and laughter eerily distant.

  She turned. The gate to the marina stood before her, hanging loosely off its hinges, tempting her. Swirling, agitated water slapped against the side of the pier. She felt queasy and turned away.

  Joslyn had never liked the sea, found it way too unpredictable. Even as a young girl she could never relax when in its grip. On her family vacations, her father would hold her hand and walk her out, deep into the water, to a spot where they could dunk under the gigantic waves that crashed for them, one after another. She would hold her breath even after she came up for air and beg him to let her go back to shore. He would just laugh.

  Joslyn stood frozen, staring at the churning, deep water, and wished she hadn’t allowed herself to be talked into coming down here. She needed to learn to say no, to not worry so much about others’ feelings. That was her problem; she was too kind. After tonight, she decided, it was time to make some changes.

  For starters, she would get out of Greenvale this summer to spend time with her sister back home. The years had passed without her having shared with her daughters the simplicity of her childhood in rural Wisconsin—so different from the life they knew here. She would plan a surprise girls’ trip in honor of Carly, her oldest, off to college this Fall. A pang of sadness tore through her as she thought of the double suicide of two high school senior girls in town, both of whom Carly knew. Now, instead of sending their girls off to college, their mothers had just finished burying them. What was wrong with this town?

  Leaving for a while wouldn’t be enough, though, and she knew it. She was going to have to end the toxic relationships that permeated her life, starting with this one, the worst of them all. Really, what was left to say? Their differences were glaring, and this last-ditch attempt to revive something was a waste of time. This would be the last time she would engage, she promised herself. Ending this relationship was way overdue.

  Joslyn forced herself forward, through the gate, out onto the dock and toward the yachts, lined up like sardines. Her instructions were clear: walk to the very end. Paradise Found would be on her left.

  She hadn’t been on a yacht in years, though she had been invited many times. As she walked past them, she had forgotten how imposing they looked up close, each one grander than the next. They screamed money and leisure like nothing else. She thought of the gala that evening, how it too broadcast the same message: a self-congratulatory air for being rich, privileged, and fabulous.

  Suddenly it dawned on her. It wasn’t the wealth in her town that bothered her—she liked beauty and luxury as much as the next person. It was the way everyone around her idolized it. It was the way they all strived to project an image of perfection, especially through their kids; succeeding at all costs, at any cost, had become everyone’s number one goal.

  She was sick of all the affect, the self-absorption, the constant preoccupation with themselves and their children. No one she knew had saved the world last time she checked, or found a cure for cancer or worked as a firefighter and saved a life. She was disgusted with it all quite frankly, and with herself, for having become so fully lost in it. Somewhere along the line, her life had morphed into a bubble of money, privilege, status, and inordinate self-obsession. She was suffocating in it; she had to get out.

  It was eerily still as Joslyn meandered down the rickety, wooden dock, an invisible force pushing her along. Two lampposts at either end cast a shrouded light, and a few errant stars hung in the sky, defying the quickly-moving cloud cover. The yachts groaned angrily, struggling against their tethering ropes.

  After a few more reluctant steps, Joslyn reached the 54-foot Alden Ketch, nestled proudly into a side slip at the very end. A small white note was taped to the piling, its words barely legible in the dim light:

  “Come inside.”

  Joslyn looked down the gangway and saw the cabin, lit.

  Trying to be cute, she thought.

  As she unstrapped her heels she heard a door slam on the yacht and looked up.

  No one was there. Where was Fred? He always worked the marina
during parties, but she’d noticed he hadn’t been in his chair near the entrance.

  Leaving her shoes on the deck, Joslyn gripped her clutch and the gangway rails and gently made her way down the plank. She felt like an intruder as she stood, barefoot, on the rocking teak deck, steadying herself.

  The cabin door stood slightly ajar and a warm, comforting light glowed inside like a refuge from the elements, from the churning sea. Tentatively, she made her way toward it.

  As she reached for the door, Joslyn suddenly had an awful premonition; before she could understand what it was, she sensed motion and saw a face, contorted in rage, and rushing for her at full speed. She was confused as she saw hands, wearing gloves despite the warm weather, rushing up for her mouth—and the last thing she saw, as they clamped her mouth, was the teak deck of this million dollar yacht, rushing up to meet her.

  CHAPTER 1

  Billy knew, as soon as he hung up the phone, a familiar knot in his stomach, that Isabella was the only detective to call for a case like this. As the smartest detective in his Special Victims Unit, Isabella’s edge was her skill in handling women. As a woman herself she had an advantage, but she had taken that edge and honed it by handling the unit’s most sensitive scenarios. That skill would come in handy here—country club set, tony town, mother of two daughters—a lot of women to handle.

  At thirty-seven, Isabella was one of the youngest female detectives in the country. A twelve-year member of the police force, she had made a name for herself participating in one sting after another. With her stunning Irish looks—long, wavy strawberry blond hair, big green eyes, freckles dotting her small, delicate nose, and a killer body to boot—she looked like anything but a detective. The Master’s in Forensic Psychology she earned from John Jay at night hadn’t hurt her career either. So when his precinct opened a dedicated unit for special victims—the first of its kind in the country for women and children sexually attacked and/or killed—one of the first names Billy thought of was Isabella.

  Billy had met her once before and knew her reputation when he contacted her. Three months later her transfer was complete. As with most others, her beauty blinded him a bit. His only worry was whether the guys in his place could work with her. He hoped her track record would give her the credibility she would need with them, and made sure they all knew her reputation and her latest achievement when she arrived—solving the murder of a city councilman’s daughter, a girl found dead in a crack house in East Harlem.

  “She’s too good-looking to ever be taken for a cop, and she knows how to use it to advantage,” Billy confided to his superiors. “A lethal combination.”

  In the five years since she had joined the unit he had grown to love her like a daughter. She had come into his precinct willing to do whatever was needed. She worked harder than most of his guys, spending hours poring over endless paperwork. She could read and interpret a psych report, knew forensics, interrogated like a pit bull, and could work both sides, aggressive with a suspect, sensitive and solicitous with a victim. She went home later than everyone, didn’t need to take credit, and took on whatever assignment was thrown at her. He didn’t know what drove her, but driven she was. It was hard not to love her.

  He had wanted to partner her up and tried out a few guys but, as most were single, divorced, or going through a breakup, it inevitably turned incendiary, on their end, not hers. Hell, even he—happily married for thirty years—would be hard pressed to concentrate with her in the car. So she worked alone most of the time. Something she didn’t seem to mind.

  This case was different though—she was not going to have the luxury of time here. There would be eyes all over it, everyone breathing down her neck. It could spiral down fast and bring his buddy Dennis’s career with it.

  Billy picked up the phone and called her. She answered on the first ring.

  “This better be good,” she greeted him sleepily.

  “It’s better than good. I need you down here right away.”

  “Or else?”

  “No joke, Bella. Wife of a hedge fund guy. Mother of two. Sexually assaulted and killed. In Greenvale. I’ll explain the rest when you get here. Just get your ass in the car and get over here. Now.”

  Billy hung up the phone and thought about sending Bella up to Greenvale. He needed to give her a partner on this one. The only issue was who to give her. Menendez had popped into his mind. A bit tricky maybe, but his gut told him it just might work. After pondering its wisdom a few moments, he picked up the phone and dialed a number from memory. Leaning back in his chair he swiveled around to glance at the rain pouring down. Only 4:20 in the fucking morning. A real dreary day. A real dreary life. He heard Mack’s voice on the other end.

  “Rise and shine, sunshine, it’s your morning glory.”

  Billy broke into a grin.

  “Well, that’s about to change, my friend. Get your ass in the car and get down to the precinct. Now. Right now. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  CHAPTER 2

  4:30 a.m. flashed in neon blue on the digital clock as Isabella DeFranco’s cell vibrated relentlessly on the bedside table. Reaching over, she knew it was a follow up text from Billy. She was already awake from her phone call with him..

  “Shit,” she said to herself, as she buried her head in her soft down pillow and pulled the silk-lined duvet tightly around her shoulders. She listened to the morning rain tapping against the windows and lay still, peeking out at the steady stream of cars moving across the bridge in the distance, little specks of light traveling, one after another, all on their way to somewhere.

  Their conversation still rang in her head: wife of a hedge fund guy, mother of two, sexually assaulted and murdered in Greenvale.

  Greenvale?

  Bella sat up in her bed. She had heard of the place but it was way out of her jurisdiction—about an hour north deep into Westchester County, land of the rich, beautiful, and carefree. Why the hell was he calling her in on this?

  She hauled herself out of bed reluctantly and went into the bathroom. With eyes half opened, she looked in the mirror at her long, wavy auburn hair and began to brush it out of its unruly mess into a sleek ponytail. She brushed her teeth, still half asleep, sprayed on perfume, put some eye cream under her big, green eyes, and dabbed Vaseline on her pouty lips, the extent of her morning beauty routine. Back in her bedroom she slid into tight jeans, black leather ankle boots, and a black tight-fitting button-down. She contemplated making her bed but decided it wasn’t worth the time—not like anyone was coming to visit.

  Bella pondered Billy’s call as she drove to the precinct. She was not thrilled at the thought of being sent into a suburb. She had never spent time in small-town America—not that Greenvale was going to look or feel anything like the rest of country—and she had no particular desire to do so now. She had seen enough to know the rich and powerful lived differently than the rest of humanity: holed up in expensive digs, maybe to avoid lesser beings who were different or, God forbid, poor, they seemed to be a breed unto themselves. She remembered a conversation she and Ryan, her ex-boyfriend, once had when he suggested they buy a house in the burbs so she could switch gears. That idea had gone nowhere fast.

  Bella kept her eyes on the dreary roads of the Bronx, squinting through the pouring rain. It would be another day in paradise.

  *

  Bella arrived at the precinct and walked into Billy’s office carrying two cups of steaming hot Dunkin’, but was surprised to see he was not alone. In a corner stood a hulking man of 6’3’’, 280 pounds, long, dark, wavy hair graying at the sides, a chiseled face with strong cheekbones, and a jawline covered in gray stubble. He wore a black T-shirt, black jeans, and black combat boots, like her. He looked to be in his mid-fifties and didn’t crack a smile or fawn over her like most guys. His expression remained constant as she entered the room and Billy greeted her. It was an expression of boredom.

  “Bella, Bella,” Billy said, his face brightening when she walked in. “C
ome in. Is this coffee for me?” he asked, noticing two cups in her hand. Without waiting for an answer he took a cup, opened the lid, sipped, and sat back in his chair with a contented look on his weathered, crinkled, lovable face.

  “How did you know this is just what I needed, darling?” Billy asked.

  “It’s five thirty in the morning and you’re sitting here in this crappy office. It wasn’t much of a stretch,” Bella answered.

  He grinned, took a few more sips, and said:

  “I have someone I want you to meet. This is Detective Jimmy Menendez. We call him Mack.”

  “Who’s we?” Bella asked, her eyes meeting Mack’s.

  Mack looked amused and extended his hand to shake hers, exposing a large tattoo splayed across his right forearm, a woman wrapped around a snake, with the name Mary underneath. His hands were big and rough and his grip was strong.

  “Morning,” was all he said.

  Mack looked like a grisly version of Benicio del Toro, Bella thought.

  “Mack, this is Detective Isabella de Franco—we call her Bella,” said Billy.

  “Gotta love the pet names,” was all Mack said.

  “Sit down, you two,” Billy instructed.

  Neither Mack nor Bella looked at the other as they sat.

  “So is this how we’re getting started?” Billy chided when he saw the mutual lack of enthusiasm. “Come on, kiddies, act like the adults you are and get over whatever the hell it is that’s grabbed you. This day is just getting started and it’s going to be a long one.”

  Of all people to load on her Billy had called Jimmy fucking Menendez. It wasn’t enough he was sending her out to some purebred, snooty suburb, but it appeared he was making her go with an old-timer whose drinking problem was lore in the precinct, having become so bad it had interrupted his career. She had heard his name referred to and had heard the rumors—he was a hero to some and a waste of a life to others.