Chapter 17
Chapter
Seventeen
Franklin
This day was going to shit. I stared at the ME’s report. She’d gotten me an ID on the junkie shooting victim. Definitely not suicide. There was no way Lucas Davies, a seventeen-year-old kid, could have killed himself given the trajectory of the bullet. It would have been physically impossible for him to get into position with the type of gun that had been used. The kid—human—didn’t have the arm reach.
As expected, Davies had been high as a kite when the murder happened. No drugs were found on his person, but a shit ton of heroin was found inside his person, running through his blood. The body had been rummaged through postmortem. No money, drugs, or ID. Dr. Stowe had been able to identify him after looking through missing persons and comparing dental records. Davies’s family had cared enough to report the kid missing seven months ago. As of yet, his father didn’t know his son had been murdered. According to records, Davies’s mother died when he was nine. Lucas Davies had an older sister and a younger brother. From what I could tell, the younger brother still lived with the father. The sister also lived in the house. She already had two children, and she was barely nineteen years old.
I needed to head out soon and give the notification. I also needed to question the family. If Lucas Davies had been missing for the past seven months, they might not know anything, but it never hurt to ask. Maybe I’d get lucky.
Grabbing my coat and keys, I headed out of the precinct. Becks gave me a knowing, commiserating grimace as I walked by. I’d no more reached my SUV when my phone rang. Checking it as I slid into the driver’s seat, I noticed the number had a Louisiana area code and quickly answered. “This is Detective O’Hare.”
“Cardoza,” Detective Cardoza answered. “I’ve got an update on the vehicle that ran Necromancer Boone off the road yesterday. Is this a good time?”
“As good as any. What have you got?” I dug through the middle console until I found a small pad of paper and pen.
“The SUV was found ditched in a field. I doubt we would have found it so quickly if it weren’t winter with the weeds and foliage died back. The front bumper is crumpled, and a cursory examination of the paint chips scuffed into the damage matches Boone’s car. The plates are Louisiana and start with the letter S. It’s also, in Boone’s words, ‘a big-ass, black, SUV.’”
“Who do the plates belong to?” I asked, eager for a name.
“Rental company.”
Fuck, I mentally cursed. “Did you get a name from the company?”
Cardoza grunted. “Fake. When we tracked down the credit card used it came back to a man in Vermont. The card was stolen.”
“Are you certain there’s no connection?”
“Not unless you think a ninety-five-year-old man in hospice is responsible for running Boone off the road.”
I closed my eyes and smacked my head three times against the head rest. “Prints?”
“Going through them now, but it will take some time. It was a rental and there are a lot to go through. Plus, according to Necromancer Boone, his assailant wore gloves. The chances of the fingerprints we want being found are slim.”
Tapping my pen against the pad of paper, I wracked my brain and finally asked, “Any video footage inside the rental company?”
“Interesting question and possibly a spot of luck. There are cameras and we have footage of the person signing the documents. It’s not great. The person wore a baseball cap throughout. Could be a wig, but they had long, brown hair with a bit of curl to it. Figure appears to be female but can’t say for certain. Once we get a suspect, I can compare the video and see if there’s a match.”
“Can you send me a copy of the video?” I asked. “This could be one of Boone’s clients. There’s a chance he might be able to recognize the individual.”
“I already sent it to the e-mail address you provided yesterday.”
“Thanks. I’ll look at it later. I’ve got a death notification to give.”
It was all I needed to tell Cardoza. “I understand. Those can’t wait. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry you have to do that today.”
“Me too.”
“Murder, accident, or suicide?” Cardoza asked.
“Murder. Teenager reported missing about seven months ago.”
“Shit. Kids are always the worst. Again, you’ve got my sympathies.”
“Appreciated.” My voice was gruff, but I didn’t think Cardoza would hold it against me.
“How’s Necromancer Boone doing?” Cardoza surprised me by asking.
I silently cringed while remembering how stoic Boone was this morning. He desperately tried to hide his level of pain. I saw through the act. If he was still hurting that badly when I got home tonight, I’d have to insist he go to the hospital. I’d stick to him like glue and God help anyone who treated him with disrespect.
“Worse than he’s letting on,” I finally answered.
“Sorry to hear that.” Cardoza sounded sincere.
“Me too. Thanks again for the update. I’ll have Officer Becks go over the video too. She’s a whiz when it comes to the tech stuff.”
“Several sets of eyes are always better than one. Let me know if Boone recognizes the person in the video or if Officer Becks finds anything we missed.”
I liked Detective Cardoza. He wasn’t so arrogant to believe something couldn’t have slipped by him. The man was more interested in solving the case than pandering to his ego. “Will do,” I answered. We shared a quick goodbye before the call ended.
A quick check of my work e-mail was all it took to find the video. I forwarded it to Becks, along with a quick and dirty message explaining what it was. I got a thumbs-up emoji and knew Becks was on the job. I considered forwarding the video to Boone as well but decided against it. He needed rest and watching that video wouldn’t be conducive to that. I’d show him tonight when I got back home.
I started my vehicle and was pulling out of the police parking lot when what just went through my head fully dawned on me. Home. Such a simple, four-letter word, and yet it meant everything. I had to think back to the last time I’d stepped foot in my house. I used to call it home, but that name no longer fit. The answer was simple, my house wasn’t where Boone lived.
D eath notifications were never easy. It was one of the parts of the job that couldn’t be taught. You learned as you went. Lucas Davies’s family wasn’t wealthy. They weren’t even middle class. First impressions told me they were just scraping by.
Mr. Clinton Davies welcomed me into his home, the grim look on his face told me he knew why I’d knocked on his door. I wish I could have proven him wrong. Mr. Davies sat in a worn-out recliner, the faux leather cracked and worn. A piece of duct tape wrapped around one of the corners. A toddler, maybe two at oldest, tottered around until he sat the little girl on his lap. I could only assume this was his youngest grandchild. Mr. Davies held the child tight as he listened to me tell him about the death of his middle child. There were no tears. I wasn’t fool enough to think that didn’t mean the man wasn’t hurting. You could see the pain in the pinch of his weary eyes and grooves of his weathered skin. His fingers shook as they shifted his granddaughter, moving her into different positions as she uncomprehendingly listened to me describe how an uncle she’d never remember died.
As expected, Mr. Davies hadn’t had any leads he could offer. According to Lucas’s father, Lucas had gotten involved with the “wrong crowd” and spiraled. Drugs had become a constant in their life and house. The tipping point was when Mr. Davies found Lucas’s drugs hidden in his grandchildren’s shoes. While he hadn’t directly kicked Lucas out of the house, he’d laid down the law and made certain Lucas understood how unacceptable that was. According to Mr. Davies, that was the last night he saw his son.
I sat there, engine idling outside the Davies’s home. My shoulders were hunched from fatigue. I felt emotionally drained from the last hour. It was amazing how much more exhausting emotional depletion was than physical.
My fingers were lax against the steering wheel. My brain felt just as limp. I’d left my card with Mr. Davies and he’d promised to speak with his remaining son and daughter. Mr. Davies didn’t think his daughter would know anything, but he said Lucas had been close with his younger brother. I wasn’t about to hold my breath, but I wouldn’t rule out the possibility. Stranger things had happened.
My phone pinged with a missed text message. Opening it, I heavily sighed when I saw the name Holland attached to it. I didn’t think I had it in me to speak with Boone’s father. At least, not right now. It was a simple message, just two words: call me . I considered doing so and dropped my phone onto the passenger’s seat. I needed a shit ton of caffeine before I attempted that phone call.
Finally pulling away from the curb, I headed back to the precinct but when I came to a stop, I turned left instead of right. I needed to set eyes on Boone. My concern was a constant niggle at the back of my brain. My trip back home wasn’t completely altruistic. I needed an emotional pick-me-up and that wasn’t something a quick stop through a drive-thru could accomplish. I needed an Erasmus Boone fix, and I needed it now.