Chapter 9
9
I nara
“You just can’t catch a break,” Burgess says. He’s nursing a Styrofoam cup of coffee, but I don’t need to see his face to know he’s gloating. “Last night, then today.”
“It was a fluke.”
“Maybe the attack last night. But this morning?” Burgess turns and makes a show of scanning the walk up, hidden from the street by a thick hedge. “You live here?”
“I like the privacy.” Or I did. Now, there are grunts all over the lawn, and a crowd of gawking neighbors gather at the bright yellow crime scene tape. Even if it isn’t a murder scene, the fact that Burgess knows where I live now is enough to make me want to move.
“So what do you think?” Burgess asks as the grunts move the body. “Killed somewhere else and moved here?”
“Definitely killed somewhere else.”
I remember the feeling I had when I woke up that there was someone in the house. Another feeling of being watched. I suppress a shiver. I’ll be damned if I show Burgess how unsettled I am.
“You figure?” Burgess continues. He’s definitely trying to rile me up.
“He was stabbed multiple times, but there’s no blood around the body when there should be buckets of it.” I point to the stoop. Other than the chalk outline, there’s no sign that a dead body was there.
“Stabbed?” The idiot is talking loudly enough for the onlookers to hear. I clench my teeth. He saw the wounds himself.
I turn and walk toward the units. There are twice as many cop cars as necessary. I called dispatch as soon as I found the body, knowing it’d be a circus, but this was bad.
So much for laying low. If there was a chance that no one would know about the attack last night, it’s gone now. The gossip has probably spread past New Jersey. I wouldn’t be surprised if I start getting calls from cops on the West Coast, checking on me.
“Detective Ramos?” A tall woman in a knee-length pea coat ducks under the crime tape and heads my way. Another woman falls into step behind her.
“Yes?”
“I’m Detective Jacobs. This is my partner, Detective Diaz.” Both women have flint-hard faces. “This is your residence?”
“Yes.”
“And you discovered the body?”
“About fifteen minutes after I woke up.”
Diaz squints at me. “Did you hear anything before then?”
I shake my head. “I was asleep.”
Both Diaz and Jacobs lean back and exchange knowing looks. I’m going to have a hell of a time convincing them I didn’t kill the man left on my doorstep. The fact that I have no alibi—other than that I was sleeping—has put me in their crosshairs as a suspect.
“We’ll need to speak to you further.”
Burgess steps up beside me. “I’ll take her to the station.”
And now, I have a police escort. Perfect.
“Crime’s up since you got into town,” he jokes. “Gotta make sure you get there safely.”
This fucking day.
* * *
I end up in an interrogation room, facing the two detectives, for the better part of the afternoon.
“Just to be clear,” Diaz says, sitting across from me with a Styrofoam cup between her hands. “You were sleeping in your townhouse the whole time. You didn’t hear anything.”
I had a feeling someone else was in the room. But how can I explain that?
“Yes, that’s correct.” I don’t let myself wince at how ridiculous this all sounds.
“And your doors were locked?” Jacobs asks. She’s leaning against the wall behind her partner, pretending to be bored with this line of questioning. Even though I’ve memorized the whole good cop/bad cop routine and seen it at work a thousand times, it’s still unnerving. Especially knowing how often it does work.
“I always lock my doors and windows and set my alarm.”
“Are you normally a deep sleeper?” Jacobs presses.
I fight the urge to rub my hands over my face. Or press on the sore marks on my back to get a wave of pain that will carry me through this. “I had a long night.”
“The assault,” says Jacob. “Right.”
Diaz leans back in her chair to meet her partner’s gaze. They seem to communicate without speaking.
“Let’s take a break.” Jacobs is out the door before she’s done suggesting it.
I want to faceplant on the scuffed and scratched metal table. The sooner I get done with this, the sooner I can do some investigating of my own.
But where to start? It’s so bizarre. Between the scene with the dom last night, the assault, and the unwelcome door package this morning, my brain is fried.
I can’t tell them that I keep having the sense that someone’s watching me sleep. Or that in my dreams I felt safe, like someone was watching over me. The mystery dom with a soft voice I can sink into.
I’m confused. I need more sleep. And this cup of coffee isn’t cutting it. Diaz must have poured me the bitter dregs from the bottom of the pot.
The door swings back open, and Jacobs stomps in. “We’re done here, Ramos. You’re free to go.”
What?
“We’ll contact you when we have more questions. Let us know if you remember anything.”
I rise to my feet to leave before they change their minds. Something’s up.
I walk into the hall and almost trip over Diaz. “Chief wants to see you,” she says. She doesn’t look gleeful, but I’m sure she’s happy about delivering this nasty surprise.
I thank her and head upstairs without giving any reaction. It’s not every day someone gets called up on the carpet.
But for me, these calls come like clockwork.
I pause in the empty stairwell to press on the bruise on my hip, needing the pain to stabilize me. I brace my hands on the ugly concrete wall and close my eyes, summoning the memory of last night. The blissful moments with my mystery dom before everything went to shit.
He’s a stranger to me, and yet I know him. I know his scent and the timbre of his beautiful voice. I used to be able to go to a club, get what I need, and leave it all behind to focus one hundred percent on my job, but now I find myself longing to be in his arms again. The lines are blurring, my lust bleeding into the rest of my day.
I don’t want to, but I need him. He’s the only thing solid in the topsy-turvy world.
I settle my weight on the balls of my feet, pressing into the tender spots. He took care to make these spots as if he knew I would need them to ground me later. Pain zings up my calves. Weakness precedes a surge of strength.
I can do this. I jog the rest of the way to the Chief’s office.
Talks with the brass fall into two categories. The first usually comes at the beginning of the case, and it’s full of bluster, a pseudo-motivational talk that hides a hint of a threat. “We need to solve this quickly,” being the gist.
The second usually comes later, after I’ve solved the case. The tone varies from scolding to blatant discomfort and derision with a hint of disbelief, but the overall message is “WTF?” It usually comes with both an award in service of the department and a dismissal.
This conversation should be a hybrid of both. It’s still early in the Martin case, and they need me to solve it.
The Chief’s HQ is a world apart from the bullpen. Sixteen floors up with sleek and sophisticated decor, it’s nice enough for big wigs and politicians to visit. I’m halfway down the hall when a deep voice rumbling through the walls makes me freeze. It’s the same rich sound I’ve heard when blindfolded in the club and echoing through my dreams.
Is he here?
I burst into the reception area outside the Chief’s office, and the young man behind the desk drops the papers he was filing. “Can I help you?”
The deep voice has disappeared, replaced by the grating Mid-Atlantic accent of the anchorman on TV.
My mystery dom isn’t here.
“I thought I. . . heard something,” I say. The assistant gives me a side-eye, but I ignore him, studying the news broadcast. The chyron at the bottom of the screen reads Billionaire Rex Roy hosts Miss Olympus Pageant .
I’m fooling myself, jumping at shadows. So pathetic, but I’m alert to any breadcrumb that might lead me to him. Just another sign it was a mistake to scene with the same person twice.
The assistant waves me into Chief Jordan’s office. I steady myself and stride in.
Jordan is a fifty-something male who looks twenty years older, and his thick hair is shockingly white against his darker skin.
“Detective Ramos.” He points to one of two chairs set in front of his desk. I sink into one, leaning to the right to see him through the stacks of paperwork. “Welcome. You’ve had a busy few days.”
“Yes, sir. The attack last night and the body—” I stop because I don’t know what to say. “It’s all just a freak coincidence” doesn’t cut it.
How can it be a coincidence?
Someone placed that body on my front doorstep. Someone is watching me.
The blinds on his windows stir, and I get a vision of someone standing there, staring out at the city. Someone large and intimidating.
I blink, and the vision disappears.
“Yes,” the chief is saying, “it’s a messy business, but I’m sure you’ll be clear of it soon. That’s not why I called you in.” He comes around his desk, dropping the stern disciplinarian then and taking on the guise of the wise, vaguely paternal figure. I don’t trust it, not for a second. You don’t get to be chief without playing politics, and anyone who plays politics is a shark.
“The Martin case. I know it hasn’t been long, but Mr. Martin was well respected in the community, and people want answers.”
Meaning: Mr. Martin was very rich and played golf/poker/real-life Monopoly with a number of powerful people who keep me in office. And if I don’t solve his case, those powerful people will fire me and replace me with someone who will.
“I understand, sir.”
“I hear you’ve had a break in the case? You found some footage of the killer?”
I hesitate. I’m not the main detective on the case, and if I give information he doesn’t know yet, I’ll be stepping on Bonds’ toes.
“I spoke to Bonds and Cuccinelli this morning,” Jordan says, solving that for me. There’s no way Bonds would meet with Jordan and not mention the footage. It’s our best lead.
“We did, sir. We’re not sure it’s the killer, but it’s likely.”
“Good, good. I want your full focus on the Martin case. Blinders on, you hear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right.” He picks up some papers and shuffles them. “One more thing. There’s a gala tomorrow night.”
“A gala?”
My mind is jumping like a salmon headed upstream, fighting to keep up.
“Yes, a fundraising thing.” He waves a hand. “Annual. Big deal.”
“Oh.” The brass in L.A. loved to send me to fundraisers. Show off the freak like a shiny toy. Look what we have.
“Yes.” He chuckles, full grandfather now. “I hate these things, too. But they’re necessary. You’ll be there.”
It’s not an invitation; it’s an order.
“Understood, sir.”
“Excellent. It’s black tie.”
Which means I need a fancy dress. I nod to reassure him. “Typical fundraiser attire. Impress the suits.”
“Yes, yes, exactly. I’ll see you there.”
“Yes, sir,” I say and leave. He’s already turned back to his desk, a dismissal.
I keep my chin up as I walk out of his office. Gotta pretend that everything’s fine. Murders to solve, fundraiser to attend. The usual bullshit.
My cell phone buzzes, and I pull it out of my jacket pocket. I’ve got a voicemail from an unknown number with a West Virginia area code. I don’t know anyone from there, but I do know someone obsessed with routing her calls through different area codes, particularly ones with funny town names.
I hit the redial, and someone picks up instantly. “Hey, Mina.”
“Ram, what the fuck is going on?” she squawks loud enough for the grunts in the hall to hear.
“Shhhh,” I say and duck into the stairwell for privacy.
“I get a hit on your name in a bulletin outta New Rome. And then another a few hours later? What the hell are you doing over there?”
“You got a search on my name?”
“I have a search on all my friends’ names. And my enemies.”
I grin. That is so Mina. “Which one am I?”
“Friend, duh. Good friend. I still want you to come back to L.A.”
My breath catches. I don’t have friends. I’ve been so careful not to get close to anyone. “What, so we can get a beer after hours?” Mina and I have never met in person.
She snorts. “No, so we can work cases together.” That’s what I thought. Mina and I always shared a connection, but as far as I know, she never leaves her computer cave. She’s more of a loner than I am, which is just as well. I can’t risk her getting too close. “Come on, you’re the only one who bribes me properly.”
“Gummy bears, the small ones. Your favorite is the pineapple flavor.”
“See? No one sends me those anymore. They just yell at me to do my job. You have to come back.”
“No can do. I’m one of New Rome’s finest now.”
“You’ve certainly had a first-hand seat to the rising crime stats. Is your plan to solve cases by being an eyewitness to as many as possible?”
It’s pretty much what Cuccinelli said, but only Mina’s allowed to give me shit.
“Just a streak of bad luck.”
“No such thing. You know there’s a connection.”
“Yeah, the vic was probably coming to bang on my door when he got ganked.” I repeat the detective’s working theory.
“But why you?”
“Just random.” Even as I say it, the back of my neck prickles. Like Mina, I have the sense that there’s something more going on.
But I don’t tell Mina that. She’s already spinning out on conspiracy theories. “Maybe the brass lured you there to target you so they could solve the crimes?—”
“So the Chief of Police is involved? I hope you’re not on a work phone.”
“Hell, no, who do you think you’re talking to? I routed this call through seven states and a NASA satellite. Good thing, too, because if you’re being targeted?—”
“Mina, it’s a coincidence. Correlation doesn’t equal causation.”
“Oh yes, baby, talk nerdy to me.” She fake moans.
“Oh my god.” I fake disgust even though I’m living for this conversation. It’s been too long since I’ve bantered with her. “I have to go.”
“Hot date?”
I arch my back, stretching in a way that makes my bruises shriek. Mina is the only one I’ve trusted with the knowledge of my kinky side. Mainly because she’s kinkier than a poorly stored garden hose and proud of it. “No. I’ve been ordered to attend a fundraiser with the brass. A gala. Black tie.”
“Ugh.”
“Right? They want to show off their shiny new consultant.”
“At least they’re not sticking you in some basement in a box labeled ‘Freak Show.’”
“Mmm, I just spent the day being questioned about whether I murdered the vic left outside my door.”
Her outraged shout leaves my ears ringing. “Are you serious?”
“Shhh, Mina, it’s okay. It’s procedure. They’ll clear me so they can work the case.”
She sputters, and I think of a way to distract her. “I have a gift for you. One of the detectives here is named Cuccinelli.”
“Oh.” Her chair creaks as she leans back. I can imagine the bliss on her face as she dreamily says, “Christmas has come early.”
“Right? It’s too bad his partner isn’t named Dick.”
“It would be too much. The gods would smite them for being too perfect. No, one is good enough. Please tell me you call him The Cooch.”
“Me? Never. But everyone else. . .”
Mina cackles with pure delight, and a dusty laugh creaks out of me.
My cell vibrates in my hand, and I pull it away from my ear to cancel the alarm that’s going off.
“Mina, I really have to go. The gala’s tomorrow night, and I don’t have a dress.”
“Okay, Cinderella. While you’re training mice to sew or whatever, I’m going to look into your cases. Send me any details you have.”
“Will do.” I asked the detectives who interviewed me for details, and they stonewalled me, but I have another way in.
“And you have fun with The Cooch.”
“If you met him, you’d know how gross that statement is.”
“But—”
“Bye, Mina.” I end the connection.
My face feels tight after talking with her. I touch my cheek and realize I’m smiling. It’s a strange feeling.
My other two voicemails are from a Midwestern number. No name, but I know who it is because I memorized the number. Detective Collins was my mentor. My savior. I cut ties with her years ago but couldn’t bring myself to block her. It’s not fair to her, but life isn’t fair, and of all the people in the world, she can best guess why I ghosted her.
My smile fades. I need to be careful. Even connecting with Mina to get her to help me with my cases is dangerous. I need to cut ties with everyone. It’s the only way they’ll be safe.
I step back into the hall to head to the incident room when a snippet of conversation makes my steps slow.
“The Bondage Killer—” someone is saying. The name knifes through me, the pain so intense it makes me swallow my gasp and stop short before I reach the door.
“The Bondage Killer?” Now Bonds is asking. “I remember him. Terrorized some small town, Alira or something. . .”
“Elyria,” Burgess announces. I can imagine him now, smug at being the one who dug up this dirt on me and holding the attention of the whole room.
“Right,” Bonds says. “Elyria.”
My stomach lurches at the name.
“And he’s the one—” That’s Cuccinelli.
“Yeah. Years ago. Her entire family was just. . . slaughtered.” Even Burgess, proud to share this juicy bit of gossip about his hated new colleague, softens his voice when speaking of the dead family.
My dead family.
“But not her.” Bonds states his question.
“No. Rumor has it they found her covered in blood but not wounded.”
“They caught him, right? A few years later?” Bonds is only pretending to ask questions. He probably read up on the case, too.
“He’s dead. After the fifth killing, they traced him to a warehouse he used as a home base. Pinned him down. Before they could storm the place, it caught fire, and he burned to death.”
“They never found the bones,” someone else mutters, but he’s ignored.
“Horrible way to go,” Bonds remarks. “But better than he deserved.”
There’s a long pause where they’re probably all imagining being on that manhunt, trying to track down a serial killer by studying his heinous crimes. The thick tension that settled over a whole town, the fear in people’s eyes as they rushed to and fro with their heads down.
Or are they imagining what it was like to be a child, ten years old, woken up by a scary sound and crying out for her parents, only to find out those parents would never answer her again?
They can’t imagine what it’s really like. No one can. I’m the one who lives with the knowledge that I didn’t save them. I’m the one who pays the price for it every day.
Down the hall, someone’s brought in a perp who’s screaming about the world’s end. Then slamming doors and laughter from the bullpen.
And I’ve lurked outside the door, staring at a square of dirty linoleum long enough.
Someone starts to ask in a hushed tone, “Did they—” and I sail into the room, not willing to hear what people are wondering about the most horrific night of my life. Or how Burgess will botch the answer.
“Hey, guys. Did I miss anything?” I keep my voice light. Burgess has his back to the door. Both he and Cuccinelli jump. The grunts busy themselves, pretending to shuffle papers or stare at the photos on the wall.
We’ll all just pretend they weren’t gossiping about me.
Burgess recovers quickly. “Ramos,” he says with fake enthusiasm. “Didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”
“Chief wants this case solved. Where else would I be?”
Some of the guys murmur their approval, but more than a few of them study me closely. Looking for signs of my past. Scars.
I don’t bear any scars they can see. But it doesn’t matter. The murders will be the first thing they think about when they look at me now, not my work or who I really am.
“Where we at?” I head to the desk to see what fresh evidence the night has turned up.
I pretend to look over the autopsy file of Gregory Martin. There’s lividity on his arms. A pattern that somehow looks familiar.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I ignore it. It’s probably Collins again. Or another colleague from L.A. calling to check on me.
I can’t allow myself to connect with them.
It hurts, but it has to be this way. I can’t get close to anyone. I’ve learned that lesson over and over again.
A shadow falls over the photographs I’m studying.
“How you holding up?” Bonds murmurs.
There it is. The pity.
“Fine. It’s just a freak coincidence.” I barely trip over the word freak. “I’m fine. Ready to work.”
Bonds narrows his eyes, inspecting me like I’m a suspect in one of his cases. Or worse, the victim.
“I was thinking I’d start door-knocking around the Martin Building.”
“I don’t think you should be on the streets.”
I can feel my jaw spasming. At this rate, I’m going to need to see a dentist sooner than later. “I’ll be fine.”
“You were assaulted last night, and then your assailant was found dead on your doorstep less than twelve hours later.” At least he doesn’t bother beating around the bush. “Maybe you should take the rest of the day.”
I press my lips together and pretend to capitulate. “Fine, sure. See you tomorrow.”
“See ya,” Cuccinelli calls.
I duck out of the station and brace myself against the chill. The air bites my cheeks, and the wind sweeps up the sidewalks, sending crumpled take-out cups and newspapers tumbling into the gutter.
Across the street, a black town car is idling at the curb. I’ve been seeing them everywhere, but now the man behind the wheel looks familiar.
I stride down to the crosswalk and hustle to beat the light. A speeding yellow taxi swerves to avoid me and honks.
By the time I reach the other side of traffic, the black car has pulled away. I bite back a curse. Black town cars, strange feelings of being watched. . . I’m on the brink of something. I just need to pull the threads together.
“Ramos?” Diego Silva walks up from a coffee cart with a fresh cup of what must be his favorite chai. He stops and scans me. “You look like you’ve been through the wringer.”
“Yeah, it’s been a day.”
“Detectives Diaz and Jacobs are good. They’ll do this by the book.” His soothing tone sets my teeth on edge.
“They just finished questioning me.”
“Routine. They’ll clear you.”
I hunch into my jacket. It’s early October, and the weather is considered mild, but to my coastal California-tempered skin, anything below sixty degrees is winter. I’m wrapped in my heaviest coat and still shivering. “They’re shutting me out.”
“You wanna work your own case?”
A jogger trots by, her cheeks flushed from the cold. I wait until she’s out of earshot before saying, “What would you want if it happened to you?”
He curses. I’ve got him. “The vic’s name was Joseph Daniels. Went by Joey. Age twenty-six.”
My age.
“A tweaker,” I say.
“He was on something, yeah. Blood work should come back in a few weeks. Autopsy is scheduled for Monday.”
That’s the difference between my case and a multi-millionaire’s. Money greases the wheels and gets things expedited through the backlogged labs.
“They’re still interviewing the neighbors, but no one saw anything. By lividity, we can guess the vic was killed in the middle of the night and dumped before dawn.”
“And no one saw a thing? What about whoever lives next to me?”
“The unit next to yours is empty.”
“Really?” I could’ve sworn there were lights on at some point. And someone put birdseed in the bird feeder.
Maybe it was the landlord?
“Have you ever seen anyone there?” Silva asks, just like Diaz and Jacobs did in my interview earlier yesterday.
“No. And before I found the body, I was sleeping—totally out of it.” But I woke up with the feeling that someone had been there. A feeling strong enough to make me reach for my gun and clear each room.
Was my subconscious trying to tell me something?
Silva’s gaze is intent on my face, so I say, “I didn’t hear anything.”
“You were sleeping.”
“Yeah.”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah.” Because I was alone and in my bed, I had no alibi for the hours when the man was hunted and killed. “Diaz and Jacobs think it’s a gang thing.”
“Do you?”
No. I mull my answer, which comes from my gut. “It’s possible the gang did him and dumped him. But I get the sense it was one killer.” I feel comfortable sharing my gut feelings with Silva. “The crime feels. . . personal. I just don’t know why the killer left him on my stoop.”
“You got a secret admirer?” It’s the sort of gross joke Burgess would make, but Silva sounds serious.
“You think the killer left him for me ?”
“Girl.” Silva snorts. “He practically gift-wrapped him.”
“He?”
“Or she. But it’d take someone strong to carry a dead body down that walk up.”
The wind tugs at my ponytail, and stray hairs whip my face. I raise my head to the slate-gray sky.
Maybe Silva’s on to something. Burgess, too, as much as I hate to admit it. Someone hunted one of my attackers down and left him on my doorstep. Like a cat dropping a dead mouse at its owner’s feet.
It feels right. My instincts say yes, this way. It’s not a perfectly marked path, just a few breadcrumbs dropped in the woods. I have a sense of the shape of it, but it’s not yet clear. The images in my brain are jumbled.
“Can you get me pictures of the scene?” Something about the position of the body is bothering me.
It’s Silva’s turn to stop and turn his face to the tree branches overhead as if praying for help. “Ramos. . .”
I swing around to face him. He takes one look at my expression and sighs. “Yeah. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks. I’ll owe you one.” I hunch my shoulders against the wind and walk away. I can sense him wanting to call me back, maybe invite me out to hang at the local watering hole or whatever, but he doesn’t, and I’m grateful. I need to be alone.
For the second time in my life, a murderer is hunting me.
* * *
Darling Swallow,
I stood in the shadow of the oaks and watched you in the park. Fall is coming, and the birds are restless.
I’d hoped you would turn and see me, but you were preoccupied. You spoke with that man again.
Don’t let him get close to you. I won’t tolerate anyone else in your life. You belong with me and me alone, and I’ll kill anyone who stands in my way.
BK