Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
Dance With The Devil - Breaking Benjamin
There’s a rustling of papers, and then Sir Ellington knocks the music off my piano.
“Elli!” I jump over to help, but my bearded dragon is fine. His tail just caught the papers wrong as he crawled to his favorite spot. He stares at me, unbothered.
I move to pick up the music, mouth tripping over the word my brain knows so clearly, “S-s-scared me, dude.” He always lays in that spot on the piano, on the key cover. Like he wants me to play again. He always enjoyed it, preferring to sit on the top of the piano and soak in the music with his eyes closed.
A pang of regret runs through me, followed quickly by annoyance. “I can’t, bud. No time.” Moving back to the kitchen, I grab the frozen meal from my microwave. I’m on lunch break, and they always let me go home, so I stop by to let Ellington out of his tank every day.
I have no business owning a beardie, but I found him a few years ago out on the curb in a dirty, ten-gallon tank marked as “free.” I couldn’t let him die, so I took him in. I got the biggest tank I could find, researched the kind of lights he needed, bedding, and food, and he’s been with me ever since.
I rip the top off my lunch, checking my messages. I’ve been talking with this girl on Tinder. I don’t really want to, but I have a wedding coming up, and I need a date. My parents will be expecting a respectable woman on my arm. They hate that I’m thirty-two without a wife or even a girlfriend.
I always blame it on my stutter. No one wants to be with the guy who can’t have a normal conversation. But that’s not true. Somehow, I seem to get even more women. Like they think they can fix me or some bullshit. Well, that and I’ve always been called pretty. Not handsome. Pretty . My jawline and cheekbones are cut sharply, thanks to my mom, and I got clear skin and a smattering of freckles across my cheeks and nose from my dad. There’s not a hint of facial hair in sight, and my eyelids hang over my eyes just enough so I look like I’m always smoldering.
It sucks.
You know what also sucks? Working a job where your coworkers won’t take you seriously because they think you’re a dumb pretty boy. That and you can’t talk without tripping over all your words.
I see on my phone that the girl I’m talking to answered. She wants to know if I’m a catfish. They always do. And she wants to go out.
I let out a deep sigh and try to shake the heavy feeling in my chest. She’s pretty enough. So what’s my problem?
Suddenly, my phone rings and I panic. She’s calling me . It takes me a second to realize it’s my work phone and not the girl on Tinder. I don’t recognize the number, so I let it go to voicemail.
Why can’t people just text?
A voicemail pops up, and I hit play as I eat my frozen lasagna.
“Hey, it’s Detective Clark from Savannah PD. I heard you were working the Summerman case. I have some information about a possible suspect, so call me back when you have a chance?”
Immediately, I focus. Civilians call with tips often enough, but other agencies? There seem to be two different kinds of cops in my area. The hardcore old-school cops who bulldoze every policy, make their own rules, and somehow get away with it. And the oblivious, rule-abiding schmucks who are just here to get their paycheck and go home. The first kind are always iffy to deal with. I haven’t quite figured out how they get away with what they do, but I don’t want to get wrapped up in an internal affairs investigation, which always seems to happen if you fuck with them and you’re not in their circle or whatever it is.
I hit redial.
She answers, “Clark.”
I say the words in my head before speaking, “Hey, it’s Dakota.” I don’t say my last name: Stewart. Unfortunately, it starts with an S and always trips me up. Because the universe has a cruel sense of humor.
“Oh, hey! Sorry if this isn’t a good time. You’re working the Summerman case?”
“Yeah.”
“Hey, I don’t mean to bother you, but I noticed something about that case.”
“Yeah?” I’m curious what kind of information she has. Is this some secret circle society thing? Or is she actually trying to help?
“So we’ve had a string of people go missing over here. Not dead—that we know of—but no one knows where they are. And they all have something in common, including your guy Summerman.”
Okay, I’m slightly interested.
“They’re all sex offenders that we investigated at one time or another.”
I put my fork down.
“I don’t want to place any blame because this is just a hunch, and it’s…you know. I’m not sure how to say this...”
I let her find her words. I never rush people. I hate when they rush me.
“We had this guy who used to work for us. He did most of the sex cases. He was…I don’t know. He was weird, dude. He kinda lost it before he left. Said a lot of concerning things about offing pedophiles, giving them what they deserve, you know. You know, the kind of guy who, like…fuck how do I say this without sounding awful? Like if anyone was gonna come back to the PD and shoot it up, it’d be him.”
I blink. Is she…implying that a cop killed these people?
“It’s just a hunch,” Clark hurries out. “It sounds stupid to call you about it, but your guy sounds fucking smart. The kind of smart that erases evidence. The kind of smart you get from working the job. Plus, Ronan always drove the kind of car y’all lifted the tire prints from.”
What world am I living in that we’re now accusing cops of becoming serial killers? I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“So, uh…yeah. I was going to talk to Ronan about the missing people from our county. I just wanted to call to invite you to come with me in case you wanted to talk to him, too.”
“Yeah.” Yeah, I want to go. But also, no, I don’t want to go. I don’t want to talk to another cop about killing pedophiles. Fuck, how would that conversation even go? Hey dude, you offing people in your spare time? He probably won’t even talk to us. He shouldn’t talk to us. Even if he didn’t do anything.
When I hang up, I suddenly have no interest in my food. This is the weirdest case I’ve ever worked, but how tragic if true?
No. It’s not true. I’ve grown up around cops. My dad was a cop, I’m a cop, and all my friends are cops. This would throw the biggest shit stain on all of us, regardless of who we worked for. Another bad apple, come to make the public hate us for things we didn’t do.
I toss my food in the trash. Ellington just watches me, calm as ever, from his spot on the instrument.
“Not today, Elli.” I grab him and put him back in his tank. “I don’t have fucking time.” Because the world doesn’t stop fucking things up, no matter how hard you try to keep it in line.