The Little Deaths

Perfect families don't exist. Perfect murders do.

In the Venice Canals, Detective Harri Harper walks into a blood-soaked nightmare. The Osborne family—wife and two children—are found butchered in their home, the crime scene so savage it turns seasoned cops' stomachs. Blood spatters tell a story of terror and desperation that ended in brutal execution.

But Abraham Osborne, the old-money film producer and devoted father, has vanished without a trace. Did he flee in terror, or did he orchestrate the nightmare himself? As Harri and Detective Tom Bards peel back the family's polished veneer, they uncover a web of lies so twisted that neighbors become suspects and friends become enemies.

The deeper they dig into the community's dirty secrets, the more twisted the truth becomes. Behind closed doors and fake smiles lurks something far more dangerous than a family annihilator—a killer who's been using respectability as cover while perfecting his craft on the innocent.

In Venice's tight-knit community, everyone's got blood on their hands. But some stains run deeper than others, and the missing husband holds the key to stopping a predator who's developed a taste for family destruction.
When paradise becomes a hunting ground, no one is safe.

Detective Harriet ‘Harri’ Harper parked her car under the no-parking tow-away sign behind two sheriff’s department vehicles and a black SUV. To her right was their crime scene, a desolate outcropping of a burned-out landscape. To her left was Point Dume and the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean. The crime scene was centered between two leafless, blackened trees on a lot that was mostly dirt. Low shrubs bordered the lot, framing the scene with the only greenery in sight. The marine layer was thick this afternoon and the gray light made Harri involuntarily shiver. The air was filled with mist and the scent of salt. 


While Harri worked on her last LAPD case, Jake Tepesky, her boyfriend, and a former FBI profiler had been working on a mysterious sound file delivered to their home. When they played the .wav file found on the thumb drive, they heard an ambient noise that niggled at them both. It reminded Harri of a random butt dial and the sounds of the caller making their way through their day, unaware they are recording everything on someone’s voicemail. Both Harri and Jake believed Jerome Wexler, the man responsible for the deaths of her sister and numerous children up in the Oregon forest, had sent them the sound file.


Jake discovered the sounds were a sort of map to a piece of land on the edge of a peninsula in Malibu. The neighborhood surrounding the crime scene boasted properties well into the tens of millions of dollars and rising. It was the playground for some of the wealthiest people in Southern California. The neighborhood was perched above Point Dume National State Park and the Pacific Ocean surrounded it on three sides. The land was on a road leading down to the Point Dume State Beach. A fire burned through the area years ago and no one had rebuilt anything on the property yet, which was odd given its location and proximity to the neighborhood. Harri wondered if it was tied up in an insurance claim or tax situation.


When Jake had deciphered the sound map, it led him to this location. He almost immediately found three areas of disturbed earth that could be gravesites. Jake called in the Los Angeles Sheriff's Department, Malibu Division. 


Within hours of Jake’s arrival, the detectives from the Lost Hills station had discovered the first body. Because the sound file was connected to the Oregon case and the FBI had taken charge of that one, a battle ensued over who would be investigating the graves. 


As in most things, the FBI won. No one at the Sheriff's Department was happy about that, and there had been lots of political calls going back and forth over the last few days. Harri had been busy looking for a missing person the week before, so she was unaware of all the tension Jake was facing. When she’d finally arrived home, he’d updated her on the ongoing saga of the investigation’s turf war, putting an end to her hope of a vacation and sending her to the gravesites where she spent the next twenty-four hours working the scene. Jake finally pulled her away at around eight that morning, insisting they had to get breakfast to keep going. They ate at a nearby beach café. 

The food had been a mistake because they’d missed the arrival of the FBI agents at the crime scene. They hadn’t staked the crime scene as their own and now the FBI had taken it over.


“We have a problem,” Jake said from the passenger seat as Harri pulled into the parking space. He pointed to the men standing near the second excavation site. Jake knew all the players since he had dealt with the various interagency squabbles since discovering the bodies.


“What's wrong?” she asked him.


“The special agents have finally arrived. I know that one and he loves to hand out headaches,” he said.


“What kind of headaches?” Harri asked.


“He doesn't play nicely with others. Especially non-FBI others,” Jake said.


“So my being an LAPD detective won’t impress?” Harri asked. 


Harri was part of the prestigious Robbery-Homicide Division of the LAPD, a division that tackled high-profile crimes, including multiple murders. She’d talked to her lieutenant about taking on the Point Dume case, but the FBI was too fast. She was told to be there in an observation-only role until the agents officially took over. Which appeared to be now. Multiple bodies found in Malibu would normally be an RHD case in collaboration with the Malibu Sheriff’s Department, but the feds took whatever they wanted and there wasn’t much she could do about it. 


“Special Agent Asher Levinson will not allow you near this crime scene,” Jake said.


“That sounds definite,” Harri said. “My lieutenant said we need to keep eyes on this case. So, I’m not leaving.”
Her voice hardened. 


“Won’t help if you come out swinging, Harri. Give me a minute. Let me see if I can somehow make this work.”
Harri looked over at Jake.

“If anyone can do that, it’s you.”


“I can be a smooth talker,” Jake said with a grin.


Harri smiled back at him but wasn’t convinced. Jake had been an FBI agent himself, so she was sure he’d be able to stay on, but the FBI closed ranks on letting outsiders anywhere near their investigations.


He squeezed her hand and stepped out of the car, waving at the agents. Harri stayed behind the wheel, working hard on not rolling her eyes.