Framed: A Psychological Thriller (Boston's Crimes of Passion Book 2) Read online

  Easing out of bed, she whirled around to the door. Nervously, she glanced around for any sign of an intruder. The shadows of the night had dissipated with the early morning sun, but she saw nothing.

  She couldn’t take a chance and dialed 911 with her cell phone. Almost immediately, a blood-curdling cry emerged from the kitchen.

  A voice called out from her phone, asking what type of emergency there was, but there wasn’t time to wait for help. She dropped the phone.

  She’d be damned if she let someone waltz in and kill her without a fight. With Bailey cowering behind her, Riley held her gun outright and crept from her bedroom, down the stairs, through the foyer to the kitchen. She halted in the doorway.

  Surveying the room, she saw the scope of damage: the door broken; the floor littered in broken glass and blood. Fresh red blood.

  Her eyes fixed upon the intruder. He stood by the sink, running water over his cut hand. Red liquid poured out of his wound.

  Freddy!

  “Oh, my God! Freddy, what have you done?”

  Straightaway, she lowered her gun and placed it on the counter. Reaching for a dishcloth, she moved to Freddy’s side. Shutting the water off, she wrapped his hand, but the blood seeped through even before she finished.

  Taking another cloth, she pushed it over his hand. “Press against it, for heaven’s sake!” She looked into his whitened face and commanded, “Sit down. I will be right back. Don’t move. Do you hear me?”

  “Sweet Riley. I came back. I had to see you.”

  “Yes…okay, but I have to get you help. You’re hurt.”

  He gripped her hand, sliding down to the floor. His eyes glassed over, his lips drawn.

  “Don’t go…I have to talk to you…tell you…”

  His words slurred together. He fell back against the cabinets. Riley gently withdrew her hand.

  “You can. Just let me run upstairs.”

  She hesitated; his eyes closed and his head tilted to the side. Her blood turned cold. He was high as a kite.

  What the hell was he doing here? How did he get out of the lockdown unit?

  Grabbing her gun, she spun and ran back up the stairs. Instinctively, she hid her weapon—the one she didn’t have a permit for—by sliding it under her mattress, and picked up her cell.

  A faraway voice called out. “Hello…hello….”

  Putting it to her ears, Riley said quickly, “Yes, I’m here. Please send an ambulance. My cousin has been injured.”

  “Ma’am, are you okay? Don’t hang up.”

  Riley didn’t answer and clicked off, realizing help should already be on its way. She had to get to her cousin.

  She paused in the doorway. Her heartbeat pounded so rapidly it felt as though would it burst through her chest. Freddy looked dead.

  She took a deep breath and swept down to his side. He had a pulse…he was alive.

  Wiping back his sweaty hair, Riley wrapped her arms around him. “Hang on, Freddy. Help is coming.”

  “Riley, I didn’t do it…I didn’t go get a fix…they shot me up.” Freddy grasped hold of her arm tightly; his wild eyes opened. “I begged them not to…”

  “It’s okay, Freddy. You’re going to be fine.”

  “No!” he cried in terror. His fingernails clawed into her skin. “They will find me. I barely escaped this time, Riley. Don’t send me back…” he uttered in a ragged voice. His chest labored with each breath. With effort, he spoke. “I came to tell you…you have to know…run, Riley…run.”

  His eyes closed and he groaned under his breath. He was making no sense, but what sense could you make out of a drug-induced paranoia? But something in his voice sent a chill through her.

  “Riley…” he whispered.

  She couldn’t make out what he said. She leaned closer. “Tell me again, Freddy.”

  He opened his eyes wide and met her gaze with obvious panic and fear. “They are coming…Riley…they are coming to kill you.”

  No sooner than the words were uttered, his eyes rolled back in his head. Unconscious, he lay his head on her shoulder.

  There she sat until the sirens and red lights filled the morning air.

  * * * *

  Uniforms swarmed the kitchen. Officers with small notepads looked around, talked, and made notes. Flashing lights from the fire engines reflected off the patrol cars, which lined the driveway and street.

  Riley sat in the nook with her head in her hands, riddled with frustration. The officers refused to allow her to accompany Freddy.

  There were questions to be answered. The officers kept hammering at her.

  “Did he intend you harm?”

  “No,” she insisted for the fifteenth time. Taking a deep breath, she tried one last time to make them understand. “I told you he was confused. He was worried about me. That’s all. He’s sick. Can’t you understand that? He was supposed to be in the hospital…the lockdown unit. Tell me…tell me how he got out.”

  “Good question.”

  The voice caused her to look up to find a plainclothes officer in front of her. He took a seat.

  She had seen the man before. Staring at the man’s badge clipped to his sports coat pocket, she tried to place him. Where? Then it came to her—he had been at Helen’s.

  “Detective John Brophy—you might remember me.”

  “I do,” she acknowledged. “If I remember correctly, you’re a Boston cop. This is Dedham.”

  “Funny thing about that. They are the ones who called me. I’m not here about the break-in.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I asked them to keep an eye on you,” he said bluntly. “I believe you know why I’m here.”

  Riley shook her head. “I’m not up for games, Detective. What do you want from me?”

  “I’ll tell you what: you answer my questions and then I’ll answer yours.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “From the looks of things around here, I think it will be in your best interest.”

  For a moment, she considered asking for a lawyer. Ellis had made the police disappear after Helen’s death. Now, though, she hesitated.

  Chin up, shoulders back, she said, “I want to go to the hospital. I’m concerned about Freddy.”

  “You can go anywhere you want. No one is keeping you here.”

  Riley cocked her head to the side. “I was kept from going with him.”

  “Until I could get here,” he answered her honestly. “Let’s start off with what happened.”

  She considered him for a moment. “I told the officer. I woke to the sound of breaking glass. When I got down here, I found Freddy unconscious on the floor and called 911.”

  “Are you sure about that? Because the tape I listened to sounded like you called 911 and then disappeared for seven minutes before coming back on the line and hanging up.”

  “Maybe I called before I ran down here,” she said sharply. “I don’t remember. I was a little upset.”

  “Because your cousin felt the need to break into your house, high as a kite?”

  “Yes…yes.”

  “You didn’t have an idea that your cousin was released from the hospital?”

  “No.”

  “Weren’t you aware he was released last night?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “According to the hospital staff, he was signed out by your uncle, to be transferred to another facility. Mount Pleasant out in Springfield. Frederick Ashcroft never made it.”

  “No, I just…” Her words faltered. Her mind raced. What the hell had happened to Freddy?

  Detective Brophy showed no mercy. He pressed on. “Why would your cousin come here? Why would he break in?”

  “I don’t know!” she snapped, suddenly pissed off. “I haven’t seen him for days. Haven’t heard a word about him. Then I wake up to find my cousin bleeding on my kitchen floor. What do you want from me?”

  “Answers.” Brophy changed tactics. “The last we met, your lawyer kept
you from talking with me. Look, Miss Ashcroft, I’m searching for a killer. Why were you going to see Helen Barlow the day she was murdered? Why was your cousin with you?”

  “It seems so long ago now.” She sighed and repeated what Ellis had told her. “Freddy was a recovering addict. He wanted to make amends with Helen. It’s what they do on their road to recovery. I only went for moral support. I know nothing of the murders.”

  “I believe you can help me, whether you know it or not.”

  “I don’t see how. I don’t know anything…”

  His eyes squinted; his lips pressed together. He shook his head slightly. “I think you and I both know that isn’t true.”

  “I don’t,” she stated soundly. “Now, if you will excuse me.”

  She attempted to stand. He caught her hand.

  “You received a certified package from Mrs. Barlow. What was it?’

  “How does everyone know about the package? For God’s sake, it was only old pictures from my past she thought I would want!”

  “It was certified.” Brophy answered her question. “I found the receipt in her car. Who else knew about the package?”

  She looked at him for a long time, but gave him no answer. She wanted to, but she hesitated. Why did she feel as if she were betraying the family if she answered?

  Brophy went to the next question. “Your cousin talked about you in the hospital. A lot. He was worried about you. Why, Miss Ashcroft? Why did he feel the need to come here this morning? One of your neighbors said that he ran into him and he was incoherently mumbling that you were in danger.”

  “He was high on whatever he had taken,” Riley insisted. “Delusional.”

  Brophy ignored her reply. “Do you know any Stanfords?”

  She hesitated. Where had she heard the name? She shook her head. “No. Now, please let me go. I have a headache.”

  “Where, Miss Ashcroft? Are you going to stay here? Your door is in shambles. I understand your houseguests have all moved out. Are you going to feel safe in that big house by yourself? You are afraid, aren’t you?”

  “Afraid? You think I’m afraid.” She stared at him incredulously. “You don’t know me at all, Detective. I have been on my own since I was fourteen. There isn’t much I’m afraid of…I can take care of myself.”

  “My instincts tell me different. You don’t know what you are up against.”

  “You’re wrong. I know exactly what I’m up against. Now we are done.”

  She jerked her hand out of his and rose.

  “Before you go, take my card. Call me if you remember anything…or need me.”

  Riley took it and walked out of the kitchen.

  * * * *

  Going over emails, Kincaid sat at his desk with the morning broadcast filtered through his computer. He clicked on one from Malcolm Bryant, the assistant district attorney of the Charleston County District Attorney’s office, who sent an attachment. He kept going back to this one while doing his research.

  Although the trial was public record, Cruz had reached out to an old colleague at the FBI, who had help procure a copy of the file of evidence against Harrison—a mountain of evidence, physical and eyewitnesses.

  Though no one directly saw Harrison shoot the officer, they saw the aftereffects. The scene lent to only one conclusion—that Harrison Taylor killed Officer Steiger.

  Kincaid had gone over the evidence at least ten times. The only thing that seemed odd was the drug screen that was done at the hospital when Harrison Taylor was admitted the night of the shooting. He had been positive for benzodiazepine, along with cocaine.

  But the report didn’t state what the benzodiazepine was.

  Interesting. Jack Ashcroft had requested an independent lab to analyze the blood, but Kincaid couldn’t for the life of him find the results.

  He needed to see the defense’s files.

  His phone rang. Reaching over, he saw the ID. Cruz.

  “Hello.”

  Kincaid dropped everything— a patrol car had been dispatched to Riley’s address.

  The house was nestled in a quiet residential area of Dedham, not far from Fox27 studio. Driving as fast as he could, he made good time, but it seemed most of the Dedham police department had already responded.

  He pulled in behind one of the patrol cars and approached the yellow taped-off area. His heart raced when he saw the ambulance.

  Pulling out his credentials, he hung them around his neck. He hadn’t brought his crew with him, but used his usual approach—sound intelligent in a commanding way—with the cops guarding the entrance.

  “Officer,” Kincaid addressed the uniformed officer at the entrance. “I need to get through.”

  “Sorry. Orders to keep everyone back.”

  “It’s personal, sir. My girlfriend, Riley Ashcroft, lives here.” Kincaid spoke the words without hesitation, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “I need to know that she is okay. She’s not answering her phone.”

  The officer gave Kincaid a hard look, not sure whether to believe him or not. “Wait here.”

  Kincaid watched the officer converse with another for a few minutes. He walked back to Kincaid and shook his head.

  “Can’t let you in, Mr. Kincaid, but I can tell you that Miss Ashcroft is fine. I will let you know when it’s clear for you to enter.”

  Thanking the officer, Kincaid stepped back. He expected the response. At least Riley was safe. But it did little to ease his frustration.

  Exasperated, he watched the ambulance drive out of the driveway. Who the hell broke into her house? Who was in the ambulance?

  “I saw him earlier this morning,” the voice said behind Kincaid. “He was stumbling down the street. I was putting the garbage out and asked him if he needed help. He fell. When I reached down to help him up, he pushed me off. I knew then he was in trouble.”

  Kincaid turned to see a short, gray-haired man walk up beside him. “You know him?”

  The man nodded. “Yeah, it’s Riley’s cousin. Think his name is…Jimmy…no…Freddy.”

  Taped-off areas served as a magnet for curiosity seekers, much like when cars slowed down to see a car accident on the opposite side of the road. Most observers came to see what was going on; a few had a need to connect themselves to the scene.

  “So you must know the family.”

  “Yes, I’ve known the Ashcrofts for years. Been here for forty. We have the only houses that haven’t changed hands during that time.” He pointed to his house across the street. “I’m Howard Hillman. That’s my house. My daughter, Amanda, is a friend of Riley’s. Riley boards her dog at Amanda’s kennel time to time. I’ve met her cousin a few times, but I’ve never seen him like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “His clothes were dirty…ragged. He was always so immaculate, clean-cut. He seemed… confused…perplexed. Mumbled something like he didn’t need help. Riley did. He had to find her…to protect her. I swear he said someone was trying to murder Riley.

  “He wasn’t making sense…I think he was high.”

  “Could be,” Kincaid answered absently and looked back over his shoulder. “I wonder where he came from. Did you see?”

  “Come to think of it.” Hillman looked back with Kincaid and pointed to the street sign. “It was strange. He was dropped off at the corner.”

  “By whom?”

  Hillman shook his head. “Didn’t have my glasses on. Black car is about all I can tell you.”

  “Did you see who was driving?”

  “Afraid not.” Hillman paused, as if remembering he was talking to a virtual stranger. “Did I catch your name?”

  Kincaid smiled and extended his hand. “Josh Kincaid. I’m dating Riley. I came as soon as I heard. Obviously, I’m concerned about what has happened, but the officers told me I had to wait until the scene had been cleared.”

  “I saw her briefly walking around the kitchen when I was talking to one of the officers in the driveway. She seemed upset, but unharmed.
Shame. Nice girl.” Hillman went on before he eyed Kincaid closer. “Do I know you…?”

  Holding his hand up, Kincaid paused Hillman’s thought. “Pardon me, but I see someone I need to talk to.”

  He watched as Brophy exited the guesthouse and ducked under the tape. Looking none too pleased, the detective stepped toward his car.

  Kincaid didn’t waste any time. He called to Brophy as the man opened his car door. “Detective! A moment!”

  Brophy got in his car. For a moment, Kincaid thought the detective was going to drive off, but the passenger window slowly slid down.

  Kincaid leaned against the car’s side. “What happened? How is Riley?”

  Brophy thinned his lips, his fingers ready to turn the key. “On the record or off?”

  “Off. I don’t even have my crew with me,” Kincaid stated firmly. “Who went out on the ambulance? Her cousin?”

  “You don’t know? Come on, Kincaid. I know you better than that.”

  Kincaid nodded. “Okay. I heard it was Freddy Ashcroft and was told he was muttering about Riley being in danger.”

  “Got that from the neighbor, did you?” Brophy cocked his head to the side. “What about you, Kincaid? What do you know about this?”

  “Nothing.”

  Brophy considered him for more than a minute. Finally, he asked, “Do you know anything about a package that might have been delivered to Miss Ashcroft from Helen Barlow?”

  Now it was Kincaid’s turn to take a moment. “Pictures. She said Mrs. Barlow sent her pictures.”

  “Pictures…” Brophy said the word slowly, as if he didn’t believe it.

  “You think it’s connected? Do you think it was the reason the woman was killed?”

  “All I’ll say is that your girlfriend isn’t being cooperative. Talk some sense into her. I think she’s way over her head and it’s going to get her killed.”

  * * * *

  From her window, Riley waited until the last vehicle left. She went around the house to check that everyone had left and cleaned up the kitchen, sweeping up the broken glass and washing away the blood.

  The back door…there wasn’t much she could do for it at the moment but push a chair against it. The frame had been busted.

  She would have to take care of it tomorrow. She had other things that needed her immediate attention. First, though, she had to take a shower…with her gun within reach.