Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
Franklin
I played the message again, this time to officer Ebony Becks. Hearing it for the twentieth time didn’t make the message any less rage-inducing.
“Is this guy for real?” she asked, her deep-brown eyes wide, the brilliant whites of her sclerae bright. “Smart criminals don’t leave this kind of evidence. Talk about low-hanging fruit.” She shook her head. “I swear, the state of the criminal mind is sometimes terribly discouraging.” She shot me a mischievous grin.
Given my feelings for Boone, I struggled to find the humor.
“Oh, come on, O’Hare.” She slapped my shoulder before interlacing her fingers and cracking her knuckles. “Give me some time and I’ll find out all the nitty-gritty on this dirtbag. Don’t worry, we’ll dig up all his nasty secrets and find some ammunition to go after this asshole with.”
Now that was what I wanted to hear. “Thanks, Becks.”
“No worries.” She waved me off. “You know I enjoy a deep background dive. I should be thanking you .” For some reason, Becks’s accompanying wink didn’t so much as make my heart flutter, not like Boone’s twitchy eyes. “I’ll let you know when I’ve got something.”
I thanked her again. At least I had a name to go with this perpetrator, which was a hell of a lot more than I had to go on with the Mosely and Noland cases.
Heading back to my desk, I picked up Phineas Noland’s final autopsy results. Heart failure . The damn thing was basically Rebecca Mosley’s report, nearly verbatim. It was like all Dr. McCallister did was change the name, gender, species, and date of death.
I tossed it onto my desk. I had half a mind to storm back down to the morgue and grill Dr. McCallister until he gave me more. But that would be futile, and in the end, would sour relations. Besides, there was a good chance there really wasn’t anything more to find. Toxicology was still pending on both cases, or at least some of the tox screening. We’d gotten the preliminary back and it wasn’t any more helpful.
I twisted my chair, turning it until I faced the wall. I didn’t have a board there, nothing but scuffed, off-white paint that had seen better days. Despite that, I needed the blankness. I’d spoken with Captain Cicely. She’d taken over interviewing Rebecca Mosely’s coven sisters. She hadn’t come back with much. So far, there didn’t appear to be a connection between our two victims. With one exception, neither one of them led lives where they’d be immediately missed.
Rebecca Mosely was a witch, but she wasn’t a very active coven member. Her abilities could barely be considered common, and she didn’t have a lot of interest in expanding her horizons. Mosely had joined a local coven for occasional comradery but wasn’t very involved. It wasn’t unusual for her to go weeks in between coven meetings. Her coven hadn’t even known she was missing, let alone that she was deceased.
If possible, I believe Captain Cicely was more upset than me. She’d held out hope that something would come from her interviews. But it wasn’t a total waste. While our two victims were different species, they shared a common connection in that they were fringe presences on the edge of their communities. Whoever our killer was, they hunted their prey with intention. It was highly doubtful our victims were random.
Both of our victims appeared to be dead ends. However, Noland had a thread. It was weak, but given how little I had to go on, I thought it was worth pulling.
With that in mind, I sucked in a deep breath, pulled on my big boy pants, and texted Boone’s father. I was setting my phone down when it rang.
“Shit,” I cursed. I hadn’t expected an actual call. My hand barely quivered when I picked up the phone and answered, “O’Hare.”
“Detective.” Warlocks usually had the deepest voices of any of the species, and Nikodemus Holland fit that stereotype perfectly.
“Warlock Holland,” I answered in kind.
“For now,” he cryptically answered. “What is it you require?”
Holland’s tone was clipped but not mean. It was maybe a little impatient, but I suspected he was a busy individual.
“I spoke with Boone. He—”
“How is my son? Well, I hope.” The way he asked made it clear that if Boone wasn’t well, heads would roll. I had no doubt mine would be first on the chopping block.
I debated how to answer. Lying felt like a poor life choice, and so I answered, “He is physically well enough. However, I do have concerns.”
“I would be troubled if you did not. I believe we can both agree that it is not wise to trouble me.”
“Easily,” I answered.
“Hmm… Against my better judgement, you seem tolerable for a human. That is fortunate. For you. Now, how may I be of assistance?”
Christ. I wiped the sweat from my brow. I should have downed another cup of coffee before having this conversation. I made a mental note never to speak with Holland if I wasn’t at my mental finest.
“Boone said you looked into Phineas Noland’s background.”
Holland huffed. “What little there was to find.” Sadness softened the frustration in his tone.
“I appreciate you taking responsibility for his remains.” I truly was appreciative.
“It was no less than should be done. Now, is that all you wished to tell me? If so, future conversations will be unnecessary.”
My eyelids slid closed as I dredged my well of patience. “No. Boone also told me that Noland’s father had children who were necromancers.”
There was a slight pause before Holland answered. “He did. I am unaware what happened to them. Given necromancers’s human lifespans, they are most likely deceased.” Holland’s tone was flat and emotionless. I was familiar with the tactic. This was a painful topic and one he most likely didn’t like to consider given his relationship with his own necromancer son.
“Boone told me that as well. Is there some record of their mothers’s names?”
“There is. Warlocks do not often list the names of their necromancer children, but their mothers are kept on file. No one would want to breed with a human female that produced a necromancer child.”
I inhaled, tamping down my disgust. This was a part of their culture I didn’t understand and, quite frankly, didn’t want to understand.
“Why do you wish to know?”
Why did I? It was a good question, one I wasn’t certain I had an answer to. “I’m not entirely sure. I’ll be honest, I’m searching for leads. Noland’s relatives will most likely be another dead end, but I’d rather exhaust all leads than leave a dangling thread.”
Seconds passed in silence until Holland finally answered. “I will obtain the names, although I am unsure if doing so will lead anywhere. It is doubtful you will understand, but Phineas Noland would not have considered his necromancer siblings relatives .”
“You’re right. I don’t understand. Given your acceptance of your own son, I doubt you do either.” It was a bold statement, yet I couldn’t dismiss its truth.
“You are mistaken, Detective O’Hare.” Sadness filled Holland’s words. “I understand all too well. It is simply not a choice I could live with.”
I swallowed hard, struggling for words.
“Your human nature and beliefs place me on a pedestal where Erasmus is concerned. That altar is misplaced. My love for Erasmus is not a measure of my strength, Detective. It is the glaring proof of my weakness.”
Before I could contradict him, Warlock Holland ended the call with, “I will send you the names you seek. Good day.”
I stared at my phone, the screen shifting to black. Holland was right—I didn’t understand. Was it truly my human nature that gave me a different perspective? Maybe. Given that I’d been born human, I had no choice but to view Holland’s actions through my mortal lens.
“How can love ever be viewed as a weakness?” My darkened phone didn’t have an answer. I would have been more disturbed if it did.
“You got a minute, O’Hare?” A note of happy anticipation filled Officer Becks’s voice.
Shaking off the melancholy of my latest discussion with Boone’s father, I answered, “For you, always.”
Becks grinned while shaking her head. “Sweet, but doubtful. Regardless, I’ve got some information I think you’ll be interested in.” Ebony Becks pulled up a nearby chair and slapped a file onto my desk. “I’ll send you a more detailed e-mail later, but I wanted to give you the highlights in person. Bartholomew Livingston is a piece of work. That guy deserves a clothing downgrade. The sooner he’s decked out in orange, the better off the world will be.”
Setting my phone aside, I gave Becks my full attention. “What have you found?”
“Nothing good.” Becks grimaced. “I’m not sure how or why Boone’s involved with this guy, but whatever the reason, he needs to dis-involve himself pronto.”
“Trust me, it’s not a relationship Boone wishes to explore.”
“Good to hear. I’m just sorry he’s got this asshole’s attention.” Becks flipped open the file. “First off, Bartholomew Livingston is shit with money. His mother left him a decent inheritance, but he blew through it in less than two years.”
“His mother is deceased?” I asked. If she was, it would make sense why Livingston was after his grandfather’s money.
“Sarah Livingston Monterey. Sarah’s father was one Antony Livingston—recently deceased. Sarah died seven years before her father. Her mother passed seventeen years ago and her husband, Donald Monterey, passed six years before Sarah. They had three children. Interestingly, Bartholomew is the youngest, but seems to be the most outspoken. None of Sarah’s children are what you’d consider productive members of society. However, Bart appears to be the worst of the lot.”
So far, everything Becks mentioned jived with what little I’d found out from Boone. “How so?” I asked.
Becks shrugged. “The other two are just kind of floating through life, living off their inheritance. It’s not much when you consider the true net worth of the Livingston fortune when Antony passed, but they’ve managed to eke out a life of leisure. There was some squabbling over Antony Livingston’s will, but Bart was the loudest voice and the instigator of all the legal filings I can find. I get the feeling the other two wouldn’t have put up much of a fuss if it weren’t for their baby brother.”
“And how much of a fuss did Bart Livingston instigate?”
Becks waved a hand at the file. “A lot of bark, but not much bite. Antony Livingston used his money to hire a great attorney. There’s no wiggle room. Bart didn’t get the windfall he was expecting when his grandfather died. He’s not going to get it either.” Becks gave me a pointed look. “Trust me, he’s tried.” She grimaced. “Although he didn’t get any of his grandfather’s money, I can tell you that one of the charitable organizations Antony left money to has had two rather suspicious disappearances among their staff, and one confirmed death.”
My blood ran cold. “You suspect Bart Livingston?”
“I can’t find anything solid, but he made threats. Follow-up investigations haven’t been able to pin anything on him.”
“But he’s still a suspect.”
“A very top suspect.” Becks pulled some photos from the file. “Do any of these guys look familiar to you?”
I stared. There were three photos total, and only one appeared faintly familiar. “Maybe this one.”
She grabbed the one I’d picked up from my hand. “Understandable. You’re in homicide, not narcotics.”
“Shit.”
Becks nodded. “That about sums it up. Bartholomew Livingston is suspected of having a hand in running just about anything illegal you can think of. Drugs, weapons, exotic animals…humans.” Becks glanced up, her deep-brown eyes wide with worry. “I’m telling you, O’Hare, this guy is very bad news. He’s also deeply in debt, and I don’t have to tell you that makes the situation more volatile. I wouldn’t want to owe the kind of people he’s in hock to. That’s not a recipe for a long life.”
No. No, it wasn’t.
“I know it’s not my business, but how is Erasmus Boone even on this guy’s radar? I’ve met him a couple of times. For a necromancer, he’s not that bad. Not that I’ve met a lot of necromancers before.” Becks’s eyes scrunched while she considered that statement. “In fact, he’s probably the only one. I guess I’m going by stereotypical reputation.” Her cadence made me think she was disappointed in herself. “Anyway, I just can’t see how he’d be involved.”
“Livingston hired Boone to bring his grandfather’s soul back,” I answered.
Becks cringed. “He’s desperate for money. I take it Erasmus didn’t come through.”
I smirked. “No, he didn’t.” I didn’t elaborate and tell Becks the details of Boone’s wise deception. “Bart Livingston threatened Boone, but I believe Boone’s father’s reputation tempered his ire. Things got stirred up again when Boone took another case that tracks back to Bart Livingston. You’re right, the man’s desperate for money. Boone’s latest client was Bart Livingston’s fiancée—a fiancée who Mr. Livingston was pressuring to elope and sign an exorbitant life insurance policy. One guess what was on Bart Livingston’s mind.”
“Fucking hell.” Becks leaned back and blew out a heavy breath. “Please tell me this woman’s not still engaged to Bart.”
“She’s not. To her credit, the woman in question followed her gut. That gut led her to a much-needed conversation with her deceased father. That’s how Boone got involved. After hearing what her father knew, she called off the engagement.”
“And just like that, Erasmus cut off another monetary windfall.” Becks shook her head. “I can see why Bart’s angry. Well, I mean, it probably makes sense in his mind.” Becks shrugged before a shiver wracked her body. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried. Like I said, Erasmus seems okay to me. Probably better than okay, after learning what you just told me. It might be a good time for him to take a vacation, if you know what I mean.”
I did, and I didn’t disagree. However, I already knew that wasn’t Boone’s style. “His father’s tried. Boone’s either stubborn or brave.” Time would tell which word described him best.
“His warlock father?” Becks grew ashen.
“Nikodemus Holland lives in California.”
Pushing out of her seat, Becks stood and tapped the folder lying on my desk. “As promised, I’ll e-mail you the complete file. None of it’s pretty and all of it’s disturbing. Like I said before, the sooner this guy is outfitted in an orange jumpsuit, the better the world will be. Good luck, O’Hare. Let me know if there are any other creepy-crawly humans you want me to track down.” Becks threw me a wink before she walked away, leaving me alone with a falsely innocuous-looking manila folder and the urge to punch a hole through the nearest wall.