Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Riley stuck his head around the door, and one glance at his face was enough.
Gary’s heart plummeted. “He didn’t wait five months this time, did he?”
His pained expression was answer enough. “I spoke with Rob Michaels. He’s already at the scene, and the medical examiner is en route. An apartment in Jamaica Plain. And yeah, it looks like our guy’s handiwork.”
Gary grabbed his jacket. “Where’s Lewis?”
“He’s at the car.”
They hurried through the building, neither of them speaking. Gary’s mind raced, however. Ten days. Ten freaking days since the last one. Jesus.
Lewis was already behind the wheel and didn’t waste time talking once they’d clambered in. The oppressive silence in the car wound itself around Gary’s chest, tightening like a boa constrictor, gripping him until he fought to breathe.
“Why?” he murmured at last. “Why so little time between killings?”
“The last one made it into the media before we could blink. Maybe he gets off on seeing his work in print, in the news.” Riley stared out of the window as they hit Riverway. “I thought we had more time.”
“So did I.” One thought occurred to Gary, and he was reluctant to give voice to it for fear the act would somehow talk it into existence.
“What’s on your mind?” Riley’s quietly uttered question was yet another indication that more often than not they were on the same wavelength.
“What if he’s got a taste for it?”
Lewis snorted. “I think five bodies already told us the answer to that question.”
“Yes, but five murders spaced far apart. Now this.”
The low evening sun glinted on the calm waters of Jamaica Pond on their right, and it felt wrong that what promised to be a beautiful evening was about to be ruined with an unlawful death.
Lewis turned left onto Pond Street, then a couple more lefts, until they pulled up outside two square red brick buildings, a path between them leading to a white portico.
Two squad cars and the medical examiner’s car were already parked on the street, together with an ambulance.
A police officer hovered by the entrance, and they strode over to him.
“Third floor, Detectives. We’ve sealed off access, and we’re interviewing the residents.”
Gary glanced at his badge. “Thanks, Dietrich.” He led the way into the building. They took the stairs in a hurry, and when they reached the third floor, yellow tape barred their way.
Officer Knox let them through. “On the right, guys.” Beyond the door was another officer, talking quietly with a man seated on a chair, dressed in shorts and a tee, his head in his hands.
“He found the body,” Knox told them. “He works with the deceased. Guy didn’t show up for work this morning, didn’t call to say he wasn’t coming in.
His boss tried to call but got no reply.
That was totally out of character, so the boss got worried and sent this guy to check.
When there was no answer at the door, he called the building supervisor, who let him in.
” The officer’s face was pale. “He said his boss wouldn’t usually do something like that, but with another murder last week and knowing this guy was gay… .”
“He thought he’d make sure everything was okay,” Gary surmised. They walked to the door, which was ajar, more tape across it.
“Evening, guys.” Rob Michaels met them as they entered the apartment’s narrow hallway. “The body’s through here.” He indicated the door directly in front of them.
As soon as Gary stepped into the living room, he froze. “Oh God.”
“What is it?” Riley was at his side.
Gary couldn’t breathe. Facing them was a bookcase, its shelves filled with books, framed photos, and ornaments. No. No. It can’t be. He walked over to the shelves, unable to take his eyes off the photo in its brightly colored frame.
“The deceased’s name is Cory—” Rob started.
“Peterson,” Gary croaked. Numbness stole over him, and pain speared through his chest.
“How did you know that?” Rob asked.
“Oh dear Lord,” Riley whispered. He peered at the photo. “That’s… that’s you.”
“Disney. Florida. 2001. We went there to celebrate my birthday.” Fuck, he was cold. He turned to face Rob, who swallowed, his eyes filled with compassion. “I want to see him.”
“That’s not a good idea,” Lewis muttered.
Gary gaped at him. “I want to see him.”
Riley touched his arm. “Okay, okay.” His voice was soothing.
“Didn’t you recognize the address?” Lewis asked.
Gary shook his head. “He’d recently changed apartments.” It felt as if a razor blade had lodged in his throat. “Last Sunday he was complaining I hadn’t visited him yet.” Well, I finally got here, only, I was a little too late.
Rob pointed to a door. “He’s in there,” he uttered in a hushed, respectful tone.
Moving as if in a dream, Gary followed Riley into the bedroom. Del stood beside the bed, gazing at the figure lying facedown, his face to one side, naked but for the pale blue sheet covering his ass and lower back.
The blood stood out against the pastel shade.
Dull eyes stared at nothing.
“He’s been dead at least eighteen hours, but less than twenty-four at a guess,” Del observed. “The muscles haven’t released yet from rigor. I’d say he died last night.”
“Del, for Christ’s sake, hush,” Riley ground out. Del blinked, his eyebrows arched, and Riley indicated Gary with a slight tilt of his head. “He’s Gary’s friend.”
“Jesus.” Del paled. “Gary, I’m so sorry.” Then he frowned. “Should you be in here?”
“No, he shouldn’t,” Lewis gritted out. “And he’s leaving right now.”
Gary ignored him. “Another letter?” When Del didn’t respond, Gary shuddered out a breath. “Was there another letter?”
Del nodded. “A P this time.”
“There goes my theory,” Riley murmured.
“Any signs of forced entry?” Gary demanded. He strove to put a lid on his emotions. His stomach clenched, and he fought the nausea that threatened.
“Gary….” Lewis’s voice was uncharacteristically soft. “Dude, you can’t be here.”
He wasn’t looking at Lewis or Riley or the nightstand or anything else. All he could see was Cory’s face.
Riley tugged on his arm. “Come on.”
Gary allowed himself to be led from the room, Lewis following them. Lewis grabbed one of the police officers. “Take Detective Mitchell home.”
His words pierced the fog. “I’m not going home.”
“Then back to the precinct. Anywhere but here. Riley and I will stay. Okay?”
Riley’s eyes were kind. “He’s right.”
“I’m not leaving.” Gary’s jaw was tight.
“Yes, you are.” Lewis locked gazes with him. “You have a personal connection to the victim. And you’re not thinking straight.” He addressed the officer. “Lomax, take him back to the precinct. I’ll inform Lieutenant Travers of what’s going on.”
There was nothing to do but leave.
Gary walked out of the apartment, not hearing a word Lomax was saying.
His foot slipped on a step and he stumbled, but Lomax grabbed his arm and held on to him.
By the time they were outside, he couldn’t fight the nausea a second longer.
His stomach heaved, and he threw up onto the grass, retching, bent over until all he could taste was bile. His stomach muscles ached.
“Detective?”
Gary straightened, and Lomax held out a paper tissue. He took it without a word and wiped his lips. “Thank you,” he croaked.
“I’ve got a bottle of water in the squad car.”
Gary followed him to the car and waited as the officer opened the passenger door for him. He got in, still so fucking numb. Lomax handed him a bottle, and he drank a few mouthfuls.
“You keep that.” The officer waited, and when they didn’t move, Gary glanced at him. He pointed to Gary’s waist. “Your seat belt.”
The ache in Gary’s throat hadn’t eased. He fastened the belt with a click, and the car engine burst into life. They pulled away from the curb.
Gary leaned against the headrest and closed his eyes, grateful for the silence that fell. Cory. Cory. You told me you played safe.
Not safe enough.
His body and mind wanted to shut down, but he fought them, fought the emotional numbness that settled on him, a stifling blanket he wanted to throw off but lacked the energy for.
Did he know his killer?
Did he trust his killer?
Then such questions were shoved aside, and all he could think of was Cory standing beside him at Brad’s graveside, Cory’s hand wrapped around his, Cory at the prom, looking fucking edible in a tux, so breathtakingly handsome that the sight of him robbed Gary of speech.
Cory and him bowling. Cory and him in college, drinking long into the night, putting the world to rights.
Cory flirting with every cute guy who crossed his path. Cory flexing. Cory swimming.
Cory—dead.
He wanted to cry, but he’d be damned if he was going to do that in a squad car with an officer he’d just met.
A hand nudged his arm. “We’re here.”
Gary thanked him, got out of the car, and headed for the elevator that led up to Homicide. The doors slid open, and Lieutenant Travers stood there, arms by his side, his face grave.
“Let’s go to my office,” he said in a low voice.
Gary knew better than to argue. He followed Travers to his corner office and waited while Travers closed the door. He pointed to a chair, and Gary sank into it. Travers went over to the filing cabinet. “You like bourbon, I recall.”
Gary managed a nod.
Travers reached into the top drawer and removed a bottle and two glasses. He poured about two fingers into each glass, then walked around the desk to hold one out to Gary.
“Drinking on duty?” Gary murmured.
“You’re not on duty, not anymore. When we’ve finished talking, you’re going straight home.”
Gary didn’t argue. He’d expected as much.
Travers sat in his big chair, his glass in his hand. “I’m so sorry, Gary.”
“Not as sorry as I am.”
“Tell me about him.”
He gazed at Travers with widened eyes. “Really?”
Travers nodded. “Bottling it up doesn’t help, so let it out. How long had you and Cory been friends?”
“Since high school.”
“Lewis said he was your best friend.”