Chapter 7
They walked up the stairs to the homicide floor. The door to Medlin's office was open, as it most often was, and Isaac was by his desk--not in the room they'd dedicated to the rug killer.
"Sunny." He shot to his feet, ignoring Nikolai as he walked toward them.
Was he fascinated? Nikolai had been a little bewildered when Frode had said Saylor was fascinated.
The Frode he knew wasn't full of himself, and he hadn't looked as if he took any joy in it, and yet he'd stated it so matter-of-factly.
As if it were the truth. As if it happened a lot.
Looking at Isaac now, he took note of the glint in his eyes and wanted to snarl.
"Have you agreed to help us?" Isaac was bouncing around like an over-excited puppy.
"No."
Frode's brusque tone brought Isaac up short. "No?" He looked between them.
"No one has explained anything to me, and I'm not agreeing to anything before I know what's going on, what it is you want me to touch, where the item has been before you got hold of it, and so on."
Isaac nodded. "Yes, of course. Shall we take an empty room?"
"Unless you want to tell me here." Frode motioned around, black gloves visible for everyone to see. Maybe no one cared, but now Nikolai had noticed them, he had a hard time looking away.
Isaac shrugged. "We'd like you to touch three rugs."
"What kind of rugs? Where have they been since they were manufactured? Are they hand-knotted rugs?"
"Eh..." Isaac sent Nikolai a look. "Maybe we should sit."
Frode gave a clipped nod and followed Isaac to one of the rooms along the far wall. It was another small conference room, not an interrogation room.
Nikolai hovered as Isaac and Frode sat across from each other.
"We have three murdered women, all of them staged on rugs in the middle of their living rooms." Isaac looked between Frode and Nikolai, and Nikolai walked over and sat by the short end of the oval table.
"What kind of rugs?"
Isaac held up a hand, stood, and hurried out of the room. Nikolai waited for Frode to say something while they waited, but he pretended Nikolai wasn't there.
When Isaac came back, he had three photos in his hand. "These are...graphic." He held them to his chest and met Frode's gaze. Once he got a nod, he lowered them to the table.
Nikolai studied Frode's face as he looked at the photos of the women sprawled on the rugs, blood everywhere, and the original colors drowned in dark rust.
He didn't flinch. Was it normal for a civilian not to be affected by seeing death displayed in this manner?
"Have they owned the rugs for long?" Frode directed the question to Isaac.
"No. They appeared in the apartments only a few weeks, in one case only a few days, before the women were murdered."
Frode nodded. "Bought from where?"
Silence. Then Isaac glanced at Nikolai. "We don't know."
"What?" Frode looked between them. It was the first time he'd acknowledged Nikolai since they entered the room, but the look he gave him wasn't pleased. "You don't know where the rugs were bought?"
"We haven't managed to find any receipts. No online orders."
"Facebook Marketplace? Auctions? Secondhand shops?"
Isaac shook his head. "We haven't been able to find any yet."
"And if they commented on an ad on something like Facebook Marketplace, and it was deleted, you'd be able to see it?"
"Eh..." Isaac grimaced. "We can retrieve comments if we have a court order."
Nikolai breathed in deeply. Was it how they'd gotten the rugs? A serial killer selling them on fucking Facebook. Did people use Facebook these days? Maybe the victims paid cash, no receipt, no transaction to be tracked through their bank statements.
"But you don't know where they've been." Frode's voice was flat.
"No, we don't. I'm not sure we'd be able to get a court order at this stage. Not without having some kind of proof they've been commenting on things on Facebook. Until we know where they bought the rugs, we can't tell you where they've been."
Frode shrugged half-heartedly. "Have they bought other things through Facebook Marketplace, or auctions, thrift shops, or like eBay. What are those secondhand apps called?"
"If they bought the rugs through an online...vendor--" Nikolai grimaced at the word choice, but what should they call them? "--then there would've been receipts and a transaction from their accounts."
"So it's more likely it's something like Facebook Marketplace, where they might have gone to someone's home, picked up the rug, and paid cash."
Nikolai stared at Frode. "Yeah, more likely."
"Hmm, yeah, sorry. No can do." He pushed his chair back and started to stand.
"What?" He hadn't meant to raise his voice the way he did, but what the fuck?
Frode gave him a blank look. "If you'd have told me they'd ordered the rugs from a rug factory and only had them in their living rooms for a month, then sure.
But I clearly state in my contract I don't touch anything that's been in a public place, and you can't promise me these rugs haven't.
You don't know where they come from, where they've been, or how many people have touched them. "
Nikolai did his best to sound calm. "They have been in someone's home. You said so yourself. The victims most likely went to the murderer's home and picked up the rug."
"How would the murderer know where they lived if they went to him?"
Point. "Maybe he delivered them."
"Delivered them and then came back? And the women let him into their home? I find it hard to believe someone would open the door if a guy they'd bought a rug from came knocking."
"Maybe he didn't give them a choice." The killer was most likely male, so he could overpower the women, especially if they weren't expecting an attack.
Frode dipped his head in a maybe-gesture.
"You're gonna run away? There is a serial killer out there, and you're too fucking scared to touch the same rugs he has." Nikolai scowled at him. "Fucking pussy."
The cool look Frode gave him could've given him a frostbite. "Once a bully, always a bully, I see."
The air froze in Nikolai's chest. He wasn't a bully. He'd looked out for Frode in school. Most of the time.
* * * *
Frode calmly turned toward the door. Nikolai fucking Nesterova. Why didn't he ever learn? He'd been in his presence and had been thinking maybe Hjalmar was right. Maybe he was a good guy. Maybe he'd grown up.
And then he'd let his true colors show.
"If we can figure out where the rugs have been, would you do it then?" Elmore sent him a hopeful look.
"If you manage to figure it out, you don't need my help. Then you have the guy, right?"
He looked so dejected; Frode wanted to wince.
"There's no way you'll do it?"
No way. "How old are the rugs?"
He wanted to snarl at himself, but if they were new rugs, then maybe he could do it.
It would be a risk. If the rugs had been in a hallway of a high-traffic building, he'd be screwed.
But maybe being knocked out for a bit would be worth it to catch a killer.
"How sure are you the rugs are the connection? "
Fuck, he didn't want to do this.
"It makes sense. It's the only thing that has changed in the victims' lives. They all got new rugs shortly before they were killed, and they were all sprawled on those rugs." Nikolai motioned at the photos.
Frode breathed in deeply and looked into Elmore's eyes. He must've seen some of Frode's fears because his expression softened. "It'll be all right."
"You can't promise that."
"No, I know. But what are the chances of these rugs having been in a place too busy for you to handle?"
"Relatively small, but I don't like to gamble. If I end up being a vegetable for the rest of my life, I can't come back and kill you for making me do this."
"Dramatic much." Nikolai's mocking tone made Frode want to stomp out of the room and never come back.
Before he could say something in return, Elmore was talking. "You and me. Nesterova doesn't have to be there."
"Hey!" Nikolai's voice was like a whip.
"We'll do it in one of the interview rooms, and he can look at the recording afterward if he's curious."
Frode had never watched a recording of what he looked like when he slipped under. He didn't think much happened, or Hjalmar would've told him. "Okay. Let me call Hjalmar first, just in case. And if my brain melts and leaks out of me, I want it on record that Nesterova bullied me into doing this."
Elmore swallowed audibly. "Sure. I need to check the rug out of evidence anyway, so it'll take some time. Go to room one, and I'll meet you there as soon as I can."
Frode nodded as nausea built at the back of his throat. It was only nerves. He hadn't touched anything yet. The reactions were all in his head. He swallowed hard and hurried out of the room.
Fuck.
Breathing deep, even breaths, he headed toward interview room one. It was one of those sparse rooms fit for a detective show on TV. There were no hoops to fasten cuffs to, but there could've been. There was one of those two-way mirrors, and a camera fastened in the corner near the ceiling.
He hoped no one was watching right now. With trembling hands, he got his phone out of his pocket and called Hjalmar's number.
"Done already?" There were noises in the background.
"No. I...eh...if something happens--"
"What?" The sharp tone made him wince. "What the fuck is going on, Frode?"
"They want me to touch three rugs they don't know where they've been."
"No. Get out of there. I'll call Nikolai. Don't do it."
"The puppy has already gone to fetch the first one from evidence." Frode ran a gloved finger along the edge of the table.
"He can put it back, no harm done."
"If something happens--"
"Frode, for fuck's sake! Your life is worth more than their investigation."
He mustered a small smile. "Nesterova doesn't think so. How likely is it things will end badly?"
Hjalmar snarled, then there was a loud bang. Frode winced and hoped he didn't break anything. "Hey, take it easy."
"Easy? You think I should take it easy?"
Frode didn't speak. He didn't want to do this.
Hjalmar didn't want him to do this. So why was he doing this?
Because of Nikolai fucking Nesterova. But why?
He didn't care what Nikolai thought of him.
Hell, he didn't believe Frode was a psychic, accused him of faking it, so why did he care about Nikolai's opinion?
"It'll most likely be fine. I only wanted to let you know since...well, you'd feed Captain Scratch if I'm away for a bit, right?"
The background sounds were changing, giving him the impression Hjalmar was walking away from his office. "Of course, but you're not going away."
"No, you're right. It'll be fine."
"Yes, it will because you're not going to do it. You're going to walk out of whatever room you're in. Then you're going to go toward the exit, down the stairs, and I'll pick you up outside."
"You're working. You've already missed enough work today."
"I don't fucking care, Frode. I'll be there in ten minutes. Go outside."
He nodded because he wanted to, but Elmore appeared in the doorway with a rolled-up rug covered in plastic.
Cold sweat rolled over Frode. "I'll see you in a bit." His voice was no more than a whisper, and he ended the call right as Hjalmar started saying something.
"Okay." Elmore put the rug on the table. "This is from the first victim."
Frode reached inside his pocket and brought out a box of raisins. He opened it and shook some out on the flap where he easily could pick them up, then he removed the glove from his right hand.
Elmore opened the plastic. "Are you ready?"
"No, but I'm pretty sure Hjalmar is on his way over here, and he's not happy."
Elmore winced. "Maybe we shouldn't."
"We shouldn't. There is no maybe about it." Then he reached out and brushed his fingertips over the rust-colored edge of the rug.
Elmore was the first face to take over his awareness.
Next was a woman he had seen several times before--the evidence lady.
His mind skimmed over her, already having her stored.
Dubose, Saylor, another forensic tech, whose name he didn't know but had seen before.
Saylor again. A man. White, round-faced, which gave him a boyish appearance despite most likely being in his mid-forties, auburn short hair almost tipping toward red, hazel eyes.
He was replaced by a dark-haired Latina woman.
The man again. Another man, dark-skinned, handsome.
A woman, white, chestnut hair and dark eyes.
And on and on it went until he couldn't breathe, until his brain screamed for a break.
* * * *