CHAPTER TWENTY
The penthouse smelled of copper and ozone.
Bartholomew Yang’s desk was a slab of polished wood, slick with blood. Yang himself was nailed to it, one hand pinned through the wrist, the other through the palm, his head sagging forward as if in prayer.
Marcus stood with his hands in his coat pockets, jaw tight. “Same pattern of cuts as Brennan and Kellerman,” he said. “But no cipher this time.”
Kate watched the blood seeping into the pale grain of the blotter. “He’s evolving. Or improvising.”
“Maybe both.” Marcus pointed to the body. “Look.”
Yang’s t-shirt—pure white cotton, expensive—now bore a single letter drawn in blood.
A capital H. Like a road sign.
And on the blotter in front of him, scrawled in the same finger-painted red: Jephtha.
Marcus frowned. “Old Testament?”
“From Judges,” Kate replied. “A very sad, creepy tale. Guy vows to God that if he wins the battle, he’ll sacrifice the first thing he sees when he gets home. He gets home, and his daughter comes out, wearing her best dress, doing a dance she’s made up.”
“That sounds like a real story,” Marcus said, with a shudder.
“I know, right? I mean – it’s what little girls do.”
Kate thought of other things, but did not say them.
Her father, in a moment of self-absorption, not recognising the signs any doctor surely ought to.
And losing his first daughter as a result.
She sensed things settling in her mind; settling and clarifying.
This was more of Cox’s creepy show and tell.
See what I know. See how I wrap up fresh tragedy in your history. It wasn’t even subtle.
Marcus glanced at his watch. “Killed on a Friday night. That’s new.”
“The Jewish Sabbath,” Kate said automatically. Then: “But Yang wasn’t Jewish.”
“Maybe Cox is getting impatient. Or just multi-cultural.”
She shook her head. “He knew we’d be expecting another Sunday killing. He probably had it all mapped out in advance, like a chess player. The question is: why didn’t we?”
“Or, Cox worked-out-slash-found-out that Friday had squealed on him and decided to bring his plans forward.”
Kate shrugged. There was just no way of knowing.
A flash went off behind them, bleaching the room white for an instant. Kate blinked it away, studying the sprawl of Yang’s limbs, the perfect geometry of his pose. There was artistry, even in the brutality. Cox’s signature.
She turned. “What do we know about him?”
Marcus flipped open his notebook. “Bartholomew Yang. Forty-three. Hedge-fund analyst. Made his first million day-trading while at college. Which was Beaufort Community College, by the way, no Ivy League start for Bart. Known for sleeping at the office, or more accurately, not sleeping anywhere if there was money to be made. Fired his PA last year because she refused to work Sundays—she sued, lost. Judge said she would’ve understood the terrain when she took the job.
Or should’ve. His neighbors here say the lights never go out. ”
“A seven-day-weeker,” Kate said softly. “He made the shortlist himself.”
“They also say his car alarm was going off this evening.”
“Classic Cox. It’s either setting off the car alarm or intercepting the delivery driver.”
“Don’t you think that’s odd?” Marcus asked. “He portrays himself as this evil genius, but he sticks to the same two modes of entry.”
Kate popped a mint, thoughtfully. “He sticks with them because they work, I guess. And he’s not interested in the entrance; that’s just admin, as far as he’s concerned. He wants to get to the show.”
She lingered by the window, looking down four stories to the city’s empty arteries. “Bartholomew Yang,” she said, half to herself. “Unusual name. Memorable.”
“Yeah. So?”
“So back at the church,” she said slowly, “Rodrigues made a whole performance out of suddenly remembering it. ‘Oh, that was on the tip of my tongue…oh, if only I’d recalled it in time.’ What’s the name of those awards they give out? Like the Oscars but for really bad acting?”
Marcus shot her a look. “The Razzies. What’s your thinking? He was bluffing? You think we should go back and put the thumbscrews on Tommy?”
“In the morning,” Kate replied, distractedly. “There’s nothing more we can achieve right now.”
Marcus looked at her closely. “You okay, Vee?”
“Just… I’m just beat, that’s all. Out of options.”
“I know. But tomorrow’s another day. Well…”
She smiled faintly. “You mean, a few hours of patchy, interrupted sleep later and it will seem like another day.”
“Something like that. Listen, Vee, I can wrap up here. Why don’t you get a ride back with the PD? I’ll wake you at, what, seven?”
She nodded, gratefully. Outside, in the sterile marble corridor, she took out her phone.
There was something she badly needed to ask her mom.
But calling her at this hour would only frighten her.
And then, her sluggish, over-stimulated brain seemed to stir a little, and she realised she didn’t need to bother her mother at all.
A quick google search would tell her what she needed to know.
After completing it, she stood on the empty street, phone still in her hand, the silence pressing in. All this time they’d been chasing churches—crosses, altars, pews and pulpits. And Cox had been telling them, over and over, exactly where to look.
That H on Yang’s shirt had nothing to do with holiness.
Hardly subtle, but she couldn’t blame him for that. They’d just taken a ridiculously long time to realise what Cox was spelling out in blood. And now, at last, not long before dawn, it had dawned on her.