20. Jude
20
JUDE
B eing back in L.A. is a shock to the system and every person I meet with their plastic surgery and painful fakeness reminds me why I left this town. I know not everyone in L.A. is like that but it’s all I saw growing up. The circles my parents run in, so rigid with their expectations and judgement, are not made for the neurodiverse of this world.
Oz nudges my arm with his elbow, and I drag my wandering mind back to Mary-Louise’s next-door neighbor as she leans against her front door frame.
“I can save you some time Mr. FBI, her husband did it.” She places a lit cigarette between her lips and tightens the cord on her pink, silk dressing gown.
I keep my face blank as cigarette smoke fills the porch. “What makes you say that?”
She lifts a shoulder. “Well, it’s always the husband, isn’t it?” She purses her lips, the pink lipstick half rubbed off on the tip of the cigarette. “And I just got a feeling, you know? Too much makeup round the eyes, walking like her ribs hurt, that sort of thing.”
My spine goes rigid. River filled us in on Freya’s theory on the way here and this goes a long way to prove it.
I’m marginally surprised that we haven’t seen any evidence of abuse on the previous victims but statistically it’s not impossible. Most domestic abuse situations go unnoticed because abusers know how to inflict pain without causing lasting damage. The question is, how is Maxwell identifying women that are being abused?
We ask Ms. Demaris, the neighbor, the rest of our questions before leaving her to her cigarettes and the handbag dogs yapping around her heels.
Oz drives us back to my parents’ house because my hyperfocus has kicked in and I’m busy rebuilding the crime scene in my mind and organizing all the facts of the case.
My brain works like a three-dimensional map. The engine purrs as we roll down the smooth L.A. suburbia roads but instead of the street ahead, I see Mary-Louise’s bedroom.
I can walk around the space, rearranging items and inserting figures as I calculate the angles and blood splatter to envisage how the kill played out. My breathing shallows as I watch the knife cut through her throat. Maxwell dips his fingers into the wound, the blood dripping on the white sheets and wooden floor as he walks to the wall and finger paints his threat.
I pause the scene, snippets of conversations and facts that exist in my mind flitting into the virtual room. I reach up with my hand, rearranging them into a pattern that makes sense.
The distance between L.A. and Nashville—1776.38 miles.
The time between the last two kills—less than twenty-four hours.
‘Too much makeup round the eyes.’
‘My dad used to say he saved her.’
By the time we get back to my parents’ place and join the others in the pool house, I’m 98% certain of my profile.
“The threat to Eli’s father is a bluff,” I say as we enter the living area where River, Eli, and Freya are waiting, case files spread out on the coffee table.
Freya looks up from where she’s sat in the chair by my old chessboard, her knees drawn up to her chest. “Are you sure?” She fiddles with the top of her socks. I know seeing the crime scene earlier rattled her but hope flitters in her voice.
“Eli’s father is so far from his victim type I don’t think he’d have the capacity to stray from it. The only time he’s ever veered from his MO is when your sister was choosing the victims.” I tick my points off on my fingers as I go. “Other than killing near where our families live, he hasn’t yet attacked anyone we know, I think he’s taunting you more than anything else.
“The chaotic nature of his past three kills suggests he’s devolving. It would take him a day to get to Nashville, where Eli’s dad lives and honestly, I don’t think he’s going to be able to go that long without killing again.” I finish my spiel and Freya lets out a breath, her shoulders dropping.
She glances at Eli, but he doesn’t look her way. I get that he’s going through shit right now but I kind of want to punch him. Or just flick an elastic band his way. Maybe one of Freya’s hair ties.
Freya sets her gaze on the crime scene photos on the coffee table, but I see her eyes glaze over as she loses focus, her mind taking her some place dark.
I cross the space between us and pick her up before taking her seat and resettling her across my lap. I bring my lips to her ear. “The dark and scary place has got nothing on me, Angel. I’ll burn it the hell down and fuck you in the ashes.”
My words shock her out of it and Freya blinks up at me, her lips parted.
I run my thumb over the inked cuffs on her wrist. A subtle reminder that Eli may be a dick at times but we’re not letting her go.
Freya sits up straighter and I work hard to ignore the effect her wriggling has on my dick.
“If he’s likely to kill again soon, then we need to figure out how he’s finding his victims,” she says.
Yes, Jude, focus on the case. Clearly distracting Freya also means distracting myself.
“When I was younger, he’d spend weeks choosing a victim and then weeks stalking them, so finding someone who was being abused would just be a matter of waiting and watching. He doesn’t have that time anymore. Young blonde mothers aren’t exactly hard to come by but how is he finding women who are being abused?”
“Hospital records?” Oz muses. “If he’s had connections with a vet and a coroner in the past, he might have a contact at the hospital.”
“Two different hospitals?” Freya shakes her head. “Healthcare records are confidential, a doctor from a hospital in L.A. wouldn’t be able to access records from one in San Francisco without reason.”
“So, who else?” River asks, sitting forward on the couch.
“Police records,” Oz says. “We could be dealing with a mole.”
Freya looks up at me, an idea lighting her eyes. “What about helplines?”
Oz slips his laptop out of his backpack and taps away. “There’s only one domestic violence helpline that operates across the whole of California, the others are more localized.”
River stands up. “I’ll get a warrant to see their records. Oz, call our contact at LAPD and ask for them to send over any DV cases from the last six months. If we’re right about this, we might be able to figure out who Maxwell’s targeting next.”
Hope is a dangerous thing, and Freya grips my hand like she can cling to it. “What if he kills again before we can stop him?”
I cup her face and draw her gaze to me. I can’t promise her no one else will die but I feel good about our odds. “We’ve never been this close before,” I say. “We’ll get him.”
Her cloudy green eyes gaze up at me. “Is that Jude the genius talking or Jude the sweet, gentle guy who doesn’t want me to worry?”
I smirk. “I’m always a genius, Angel, can’t turn it off.”
She snorts and shoves my shoulder.
I let her up so we can get to work but I hope to god my words won’t make me a liar.