Chapter 7
After his brief conversation with John, Mitch went to his desk and made himself look busy catching up on paperwork. Obviously John and Dylan Reede hadn’t conferred yet because John hadn’t confronted him about it. But it was only a matter of time. Something to look forward to.
Meanwhile, he was interested in learning more about the crime scene where two unidentified bodies had been discovered in the bayou. Like an itch he couldn’t scratch, it had been bugging him since Nix and Lear had told him about it.
It was almost four o’clock before the two of them returned, and by then that unreachable itch was driving him mad. They were making their way toward John’s office when Mitch rolled his chair from beneath his desk right into their path and stood up to face them. “What happened out there?”
The instant John saw them, he came out of his office and started toward them. Lear cast him a cautious glance, but Nix showed no such restraint as she replied to Mitch. “It was grim, and that’s an understatement.”
John, who’d reached them, asked, “How’d they die?”
“Strangulation,” Lear said.
Nix added, “With what the coroner guesses was a sharp garrote, possibly a wire. The young woman was almost decapitated.”
Hearing that, a sizzling reaction like a lightning strike shot through Mitch from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. He cut a glance at John, who either didn’t see it or pretended not to.
John asked the detectives if the time of death had been estimated. Nix said, “Coroner broadly guesses within the last twelve to eighteen hours. There wasn’t enough blood at the scene for them to have been killed there. The bodies were dumped, but they hadn’t been in the water all that long.”
“Have they been identified?”
Nix shook her head. “And until they are, it’s hard to determine a motive.”
“Retribution.” Mitch had mumbled the word, but it got the attention of the other three, who turned to him for elaboration.
“This doesn’t sound like a crime of passion, swiftly carried out in a fit of rage.
Not like shooting two people. Bam, bam, and it’s done.
” He shook his head. “Whoever did this was making a point, sending a message, wouldn’t you say? ”
Nobody said anything until Lear spoke up. “We weren’t much help. Darcy thanked us and sent us back. He and the SO’s crime scene unit are on it.”
Mitch looked at John and asked hopefully, “Want me to check in with him, offer to go out there, take a look around?”
John shook his head and addressed the other two detectives. “Follow the progress of the investigation, but from a respectful distance. If Darcy wants more help from us, he’s not too proud to ask for it.”
Lear nodded, then turned and headed for his desk. Barbara Nix looked reluctant to leave the conversation on that awkward note, but she said, “Yes, sir,” then walked away.
Mitch’s temples were pulsing. He rolled his chair back to his desk, sat down in front of his computer, and stared at his screen saver—a picture of Andrew with a slobbery smile that showed off two rows of perfect baby teeth. Angela hadn’t lived to see that smile.
After a few moments, sensing that John was hovering, he tilted his head back and looked up at him. “What?”
“You all right?” John asked, speaking in an undertone.
“Don’t I look all right?”
John didn’t answer, which probably meant that, no, he didn’t look all right. This man who knew him all too well had sensed his reaction when those killings were described. John would know that he was desperate to be in the thick of the investigation.
“So you’re good?” John asked.
Through clenched teeth, he said, “I’m good.”
Still, John lingered.
“Something else?” Mitch asked.
“I spoke with Dr. Reede.”
“Ah.” Mitch planted his booted foot on the corner of his desk and swiveled his chair back and forth. “Good one, John. You get extra points for pulling a fast one.”
“Fast one?”
Mitch snuffled. “Don’t play dumb.”
John raised his hands at his sides, palms up. “You’ve got me.”
“I understand that you had a virtual meeting with Dr. Reede.”
“I had a virtual meeting with all of them.”
“Um-huh. But wasn’t she a standout, different from the others? Distinctively, overwhelmingly, obviously different?”
He saw the instant it dawned on John what he was leading to. “You chose her, Mitch, not me.”
“Yeah, sight unseen.” He wagged his index finger. “Admit it. You winked to yourself when I texted to let you know she was my random choice. You could have given me some warning, or at least a hint of what I was walking into.”
“You make it sound like the lion’s den. She came across very well in our interview, or I would have struck her from consideration. What didn’t you like about her?”
“Are you kidding? What’s not to like?” he said expansively. “She’s a treasure. So earnest. ‘I want to help you, Mitch.’”
At his mocking tone, John gave a look around. “This isn’t the place,” he said under his breath. “Let’s go get a cup of coffee.”
Mitch swiveled around to take in all the eyes and ears homed in on them.
“It’s okay, John. It’s hardly a secret that you forced this therapy on me.
Just like my parents did when I was eight years old and my puppy got run over by a car.
I didn’t want to bawl my eyes out in front of a stranger, so I suppressed my emotions.
The therapy was more traumatic than watching Rascal bleed out in the middle of the street. ”
John, knowing damn well there had been no such incident, looked ready to throttle him. As it was, he only glared through slitted eyes. “What happened with Dr. Reede?”
Mitch kept his expression blankly innocent. “Pardon?”
“What did you do, Mitch?”
Unable to hold back any longer, he grinned.
John’s jaw turned to granite, as it was wont to do when he was furious. “What did you do?”
“You talked to her. What did she say about our session?”
“As befits her profession, she didn’t offer much. She was very reserved.”
Mitch laughed out loud. “I’ll bet she was.”
“Really, all she said was that she’ll see you again on Thursday.”
Mitch abruptly stopped laughing. His boot slid off the desk and hit the floor as he bounded out of the chair. “She said what?”
“Ten a.m.” John then turned his back and went into his office.
Mitch watched him go, but when John shut the door decisively, Mitch spun around, kicked his chair, and shouted, “Fucking hell!”
Then, realizing that all eyes were still on him, he collected himself, squared up the chair beneath his desk, shut down his computer, and said, “Coffee sounds good after all,” and strode out.
He avoided the coffee shop around the corner, where most PD personnel took their breaks. Instead, he walked the several blocks to Gus’s bar. Too early for happy hour to get into full swing, the place was occupied mostly by vacant-eyed souls day-drinking alone. He’d been there.
Mitch was relieved to see that Gus himself was tending bar and not the guy he’d threatened with the broken bottle. He gave Gus a sheepish smile. “I came to ask how much I owe you.”
“I’m still getting estimates.”
“Estimates? For a mirror and a few busted chairs?”
“Simmer down. I’ll take the lowest bid. Bowie given you the boot yet?”
“No, but the day ain’t over.”
Gus frowned. “Mitch, he won’t like knowing you’re drinking.”
“Coffee, please. Iced, but black and strong.”
“Then it’s on the house.”
“You’re all heart.”
Mitch carried the coffee to a corner booth, took out his phone, and scrolled through his contacts until he found the number of a DEA buddy. Amid a lot of background noise, his call was answered by a man who sounded short on time, breath, and patience. “Tucker.”
“Jim, Mitch Haskell.”
Tucker expelled a profanity. “You didn’t waste any time.”
“You expected to hear from me?”
“As soon as you got wind of that double murder.”
“So y’all are on it?”
“Yeah.”
“What brought you in?”
“Two of our undercovers separately identified the male vic.”
“No shit,” Mitch murmured. “Talk to me.”
“Mitch, I—”
“Please.”
Tucker was an office agent, but from his desk he moved field agents around like a master chess player. He was well liked, highly respected, and known for his liberal use of blue language, which he utilized now before sighing with resignation. “Hold on.”
Mitch heard him tell someone that he needed to take the call but that he would be right back. The background noise receded. On the phone again, he cut to the chase. “How much do you already know?”
“Table scraps. Only that the discovery wasn’t pretty.”
“Pretty fucking gruesome,” Tucker said.
“It’s the SO’s jurisdiction, but Darcy called our department seeking help to identify the bodies. Bowie dispatched two detectives. They came back and gave us the skinny as they knew it, which was precious little.”
“Well, the male vic was one Paul Adler. Our agents recognized him by photos from the scene.”
“Your guys recognized him by a photo alone?”
“Wasn’t a challenge. He was well known to them. Sneaky as a sewer rat and twice as filthy.”
“What about the female?”
“No name yet. Young. Sixteen, seventeen. Probably a runaway. Their landlady said she’d been shacking with Adler for a couple of months.”
Mitch glanced around. Gus was at the tap drawing beers for a pair of tired-looking construction-worker types who’d come in. The day-drinkers were nursing their neat drinks, seemingly oblivious to Mitch, to everything.
Even so, he spoke in an undertone. “Jim, was this Paul Adler one of Oz’s?”
“You know I can’t divulge—”
“Of course you can. It’s me.”
After a brief pause, Tucker said under his breath, “Likely one of Oz’s. But a no-class street hustler like Adler would’ve been near to or at the bottom of Oz’s chain.”
Mitch said, “But he ranked high enough to warrant Roland Malone taking care of him.” Tucker was too smart to take the bait. He didn’t respond; Mitch had to goose him. “A garrote? Probably wire? Come on, Jim. Remember you’re the one who first tipped me to this asshole Malone.”