Sword and Lead (Book 1)

by Rhiley McCabe

  The door opens suddenly, I have to turn around and crane my neck to see who it is.

  “You called, Paige?” a deep baritone rumble fills the room.

  “Clay, Detective Joy, Detective Joy, Clay Adkins of the cybercrime division,” she explains, gesturing between us both.

  “Hello,” he says. His smile is only polite. I nod in response

  “I hope the call didn’t get you at a bad time?”

  “No.”

  Maybe Clay was of stock that strongly believed ‘actions speak louder than words,’ or ‘silence is golden.’

  “A job came up, and I thought about you, but apparently I didn’t need to vouch for you. Senior officer Peyton did,” she explains. “It’s a controversial case; I can assure you we’ll have fun with it. Do you want to be part of it?”

  “I do.”

  Being around him for long would be very unnerving to my person, I just know it.

  “So it’s done then,” Paige continues. “Detective Joy, you have your cybercrime analyst and forensics expert. We’ll go through the case and consult with you.”

  “What am I supposed to do in the meantime?” I ask, thinking how sideways this case could go without me actively overseeing it. It happened once, what’s to say it won’t happen again?

  “Take a break, I guess, be with your family. All of that fun stuff,” she replies, flashing her pearly whites at me.

  Speaking of family, I need to go get the girls from their mother’s place.

  Chapter 3

  Detective Joy

  “Daddy, can I drink your coffee?” Nikki asks, her chubby fingers already reaching out to grab my cup. I swipe it fast, taking it beyond her reach while her outstretched hands try and fail to reclaim it.

  “No, Pip,” I answer, downing the entire cup in one go.

  “Why?” she cries, looking at me with her big green eyes, eyes she inherited from her mother, very unlike mine, lucky her.

  “Coffee is meant for adults,” I say, softening my tone a little, reaching down to tousle her blonde hair. It’s cropped low, like a kid’s version of a pageboy, and true to its name she looks like a boy—an adorable boy, but a boy none the less. I’m going to have to talk to Eleanor about the haircuts.

  “Why?” she repeats, holding the empty cup to her nose before taking a whiff and wrinkling her nose at it. I snatch the cup from her hands, placing it in the sink. I can do the dishes when I get home later.

  “Why? Why? Why?” she continues, in that voice that walks the fine line between being adorable and annoying.

  “Because there’s a bit o’ proper moonshine in it,” Rita answers, announcing her presence.

  “Moonshine? Who even says that?”

  “Would you like me to call it by its real name instead? You’re right, alcohol is much better.”

  “Mommy doesn’t like alcohol,” Nikki offers, looking up at me.

  “I know, Pip. That’s why we don’t live together anymore,” I answer in a strained voice. It’s one of the reasons, at least.

  “It’s barely seven and you’re already drinking. You have no right to judge what I wear,” Rita says, taking a pointed, passive-aggressive bite out of her sandwich.

  Nikki trudges over the couch, a hurt expression on her face. There’s no winning with your family. At all.

  “I can’t believe we’ve had sandwiches for breakfast every day since we came,” Rita murmurs not very discreetly.

  “I’m only good for two things, and cooking isn’t one of them. We’ll order takeout this evening, don’t worry, and you can reheat the leftovers for breakfast tomorrow,” I reply, grabbing my keys off the coffee table and picking Nikki up. She is ecstatic, I am forgiven and once again everything is right in the world.

  “Touché old man, touché,” Rita concedes, giving a ghost of a smile, but before I look again, it’s gone. I’ll take what I can.

  “Come on sandwich face, we don’t want to be late for school,” I call out in my dad’s voice, the one I hardly ever use anymore.

  * * *

  The phone rings only once before I answer it.

  “Detective Joy speaking,” I drone out mechanically.

  “Joy? It’s Peyton. You better come down here. We’ve found her. We’ve found your Verity.”

  I am out of my seat before Peyton’s finished talking. I can’t believe it. They finally found Verity Anne Jones.

  I’m at the precinct in what’s the locals will call ‘two shakes of a leg’ and at the interrogation room even more quickly. She is in a seat inside the interrogation room, quiet, concentrating on the bottle of water placed in front of her.

  “Remember, Miss Jones, you’re here on your own volition. You can leave any time,” the other officer with Peyton says reassuringly, looking like she might reach out across the table and hold Verity’s hand. I can sympathize with the officer’s attitude as I look at Verity sitting in that chair, hunched over herself, worrying her bottom lip in a way that’s not sexy, but which instead provokes pity. Layers of blond wavy hair fall over her tiny heart-shaped face. She looks down at her hands, at the table sometimes, at the bottle of water other times, but never at the two officers in front of her.

  After what seems like forever, she speaks. Her voice isn’t soft or childlike, it’s actually firm and clear, carrying easily through the entire room.

  “I didn’t know any of them were murdered. I… I have a bit of wanderlust. I usually up and go in the middle of relationships. I break hearts, sometimes, I know. But staying in one place for too long can – will – break me,” she explains, moving her head a little as she speaks. The officer nods understandingly. There is a sad quality about Verity, almost melancholic. It makes me wonder just a bit about her life.

  “And you work as a PI, right? Freelance?”

  “Yeah, I got my license a few years back.”

  “Can you be specific? What year?”

  “I don’t know, two, three years ago maybe. Why?”

  “Are you bisexual?”

  “What? What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Almost three years ago a woman was murdered in her home, similar to the men in the other cases, but she was a woman. So, as you can imagine, it piqued our curiosity. Did you date women during that time?”

  “I... I was experimenting, and I didn’t have a place to stay, so she put me up for a while. One thing led to another and well... We weren’t open about it because she hadn’t come out yet to her parents, so...”

  “What happened to make you leave?”

  “I told you, I get tired of being in one place too long. It was just after I’d finally gotten my license, and I’d had some money saved. We got into a big fight, and I moved here.”

  “And you didn’t contact her afterward?”

  “Yeah, no. I threw my phone away and got a new one.”

  “Were any of your partners abusive in any way towards you? Anything to suggest the reason behind this trail. Maybe someone is protecting you. Were they involved in anything shady at all? Or do you yourself have any leftover vengefulness that might cause you to...”

  “No! I’d never hurt any one of them, I’d... I can – I can take a polygraph to prove it!” She starts and stops, sounding flustered. Peyton grabs a box of Kleenex on the table in front of the mirrored window. He stares at the glass, almost like he knows I’m there. To be fair, Paige and Clay are both here too, but I choose to ignore them. “Can I… can I go out for some fresh air? I’ll be back. I just need to clear my head for a little bit, get myself in order.”

  “Of course, Miss Jones, you’re not under arrest. You can leave and come back any time,” the other detective explains, opening the door.

  Verity nods, then immediately gets up and walks out of the room. Peyton nods to the other detective and leaves the room. I walk out too, Paige close on my heels. She ducks into the interview room and grabs the water bottle off the table, bagging it. I peer questioningly at her.

  “We found a partial DNA sample from
the latest case; it’s some sort of fluid. We can’t exactly say where from, and it’s not a lot to go by, but I could run hers against it just to be sure,” she explains before bounding off, an unmistakable spring in her step.

  “You believe her?” I ask, turning to Peyton.

  “There’s nothing in the evidence to prove otherwise. And besides, she doesn’t seem like a calculating killer. But maybe she knows something. In fact I’d bet my mustache she knows something. They always know.”

  Like a weird reverse magic trick, Verity hurries back down the corridor, making a beeline to where we’re both standing.

  “I... I, there’s something,” she says, looking just the tiniest bit harried, beads of perspiration forming across her lip and on her eyebrows. Peyton immediately leads her into the room, giving me a knowing look. Since the other detective isn’t back yet, I’m invited inside in her place, not relegated to the other side of the one-way mirror. Thankfully, I had my coffee Irish and left it at that. Any more and I’d have been useless to everyone here. We all sit down, but nobody says anything. Peyton and I looked at her expectantly. “There’s a guy,” she says, finally looking up, not at Peyton but at me. Directly, almost like she knows who I am, like she can see into my head. It’s unnerving, but I won’t back down, so she finally looks away, speaking again after a lengthy pause. “Angel Stuart,” she says, like we should all know who he is.

  “So, who is this Angel character?”

  “My boyfriend. Ex. It was a long time ago, but I don’t know.”

  She must sense our skepticism, because she leans forward in her seat. “I can describe him,” she assures. Beside me, Peyton shifts ever so slightly in his seat. I know what he’s feeling – it’s excitement. We’re on to something now, finally, after all these years.

  “Why are you so sure he should be a person of interest in this case?”

  “Well, he didn’t take it very lightly when we broke up.”

  “And why did you break up?” I’m not even sure which of us asks that last question.

  “Business and pleasure don’t mix. I worked at a local restaurant his parents owned. I was a waitress. Then he came along. Stuff happened, and I ended up fired, so I called it quits and hopped on the bus out of there a week later. Nothing left for me, I guess.”

  “What’s stuff happened?” I surprise myself by asking.

  “It’s personal,” she says, without hesitation.

  “Was he angry after the breakup?” says Peyton, scribbling in his tattered notepad.

  “Yeah, I guess. What kind of person wouldn’t be? We were young and in love. He’s not very vocal, but I guess he might’ve been.”

  “Might? You’re not sure?”

  “This was almost ten years ago. I was sixteen, so forgive me for not knowing details,” she snaps.

  She rubs at her temple, and opens a new bottle of water, not seeming to notice that the one she had been drinking from was gone, carried off by Paige to the lab.

  “You have a headache?” Peyton asks, arching an eyebrow at her.

  “Yeah. I almost always have these nowadays. I think I need to rest more.”

  She puts the bottle of water back on the table, thinks for a moment, and then goes on with her story.

  “After a while, Angel started calling me, no matter where I moved to. No matter who I was seeing. He didn’t leave anything threatening, so I didn’t think to go to the police. He just asked mundane questions like ‘was I happy now and all that.’ So I didn’t think much of it.”

  “Can you write your phone number and address down for me, Miss Jones?”

  “Why?”

  “Just in case we need to contact you,” I say easily.

  She considers for a moment, and then nods. “Oh, okay.” She accepts the paper Peyton offers her, scribbling in fast strokes, short and stocky like the handwriting behind the books. I’m no analyst, but even I can see we’re on the right track. Peyton and I share a look while her head is bent in concentration. “It’s apartment 2A,” she says, handing the paper to us, before collecting it back and writing that down along with the rest of the address. She waits a moment for us to say something before speaking again. “Is that all? Because I need to get back to my job,” she explains, looking up at both of us.

  Peyton shrugs, I nod. But before she gets the chance to leave Peyton asks: “Would you mind doing a polygraph exam really quick? It’s just to eliminate you as a person of interest is all. You still don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.”

  The next thing she says surprises Peyton. But what even surprises him further is that when she does take the exam, she passes.

  Chapter 4

  Verity

  I love this, the feel of it, my heart fluttering slightly, beads of perspiration clinging to my hair, to the skin on my upper lip. It’s at times like these that I am able to truly focus. When it’s quiet, I can think clearly.

  I flex the toes on my left foot, to stop them going numb. I’ve maintained this crouch position for hours. My craned neck feels stiff and painful, the odors of bird poo and gunk have blocked my sinuses, but this is the best vantage point to catch the lying scumbag.

  The irony of that last statement struck me. Lying, liar! I told a few lies to the detectives today. I didn’t tell them that Angel never sought me out – I did the seeking out. Calling his line, sometimes stalking his house. I’m not entirely sure I remember why I did that, there are spots the size of potholes on my memory, but it did happen, I know for a fact that it did.

  The lights come on and two shapes flutter into the room giggling like maniacs, a little drunk. No, scratch that, very drunk, swaying from side to side. They could pass for sisters with how they’re dressed. This pulls my attention away from my own inner turmoil. I stuff it down. I can worry another time. Right now, it’s time to get to work.

  They look young. If it turns out this ménage à trois is with minors the press will have a field day. Forget whether Mrs. Parks thinks her husband is cheating – there’ll be much more in store for him than a divorce, paying alimony and child support. There might even be a revoking of certain privileges.

  The third figure walks in minutes later. I don’t need to see his feral-looking face and receding black hair to know that it’s him. The protruding belly tells all. He takes off his clothes and begins ordering them around. I can’t say for sure what he his instructions are, but their next actions give me an idea.

  They’re too far away for me to hear their conversation, but I can see them as clear as daylight, and pictures, as always, are worth a thousand words, so I begin taking pictures.

  Setting my camera lens to autofocus, I take a thousand pictures per minute. I can go through and delete the blurry ones later on.

  They begin kissing while he sits on a sofa watching them. Their hands groping and finding each other, lifting and pulling, tugging and searching. Heat fills my face. I should look away, but I need an action shot, so I stay put.

  He throws them on the bed, but since they’re both entangled, they topple each other. This doesn’t seem to disturb them as they continue in earnest before he places himself strategically in between them like jelly in a sandwich. I take my action shot. Perfect.

  Caught in the act, all naked and whatnot. I take the memory card out of the camera and place it in a secure hidden pocket in my bra. You learn tricks like this the hard way – from your mistakes. It’ll be safe there even if I run into unwanted company, which happens more than you’d expect in the private investigation business.

  Packing my gear away quickly, I descend the building through the fire escape, aware I smell like trash, but it’ll be worth it when I get my pay. I’ll develop them tonight just to be safe and mail them in the morning. Looking around and seeing no one suspicious-looking trailing me, I heave a sigh of relief.

  * * *

  I sit in the tub soaking up all the oils and spices. Lavender, rosewater, cinnamon, all of that goodness. I let it push out the grime of this night’s job – no
need to bring work home with me.

  In the quiet of this tiny apartment, I let my mind wander. I have nothing else to do to fill my time. To be honest, I hate this type of quiet. It’s not like the quiet on the roof – that was anticipation. I had something to look forward to. Now, though, it’s only dread. I don’t like what’s whispered in my head in moments like these. I can’t control it, and I hate that. Submerging fully into the tub now, I hope to drown out all the other voices.

  As relaxing as the bath was, I’m not relaxed. I’m on edge, and I can’t really put my finger on it, not because I don’t want to know, but because of what I’m scared of knowing.

  My mind goes unbidden to Angel. There’s the longing. I miss him in more ways than one. But I can’t call him, not with the investigation and what I said today. That implicates me, doesn’t it?

  I’m reasoning with myself, the restlessness growing. I need a release of any sort. Sitting at the edge of the tub, I run my hand between my thighs, feeling myself moisten in anticipation, but a sound from the other side of the bathroom door, from the apartment across the corridor from mine, causes me to stop short.

  “Hello?” A voice says with barely concealed glee... and hunger. I want to recoil in loathing, but I don’t have time for that. Grabbing my robe, I make my way next door.

  I sneak stealthily behind him as he unloads his groceries. I don’t come into the apartment though. I just stand in the threshold stroking the flimsy material I have on.

  “Hello, stranger,” I say in a voice that doesn’t sound like mine. It’s a voice thick with longing, amongst other things.

  He turns around with a start, before realizing it’s me and giving a sheepish smile. That’s all the invitation I need, dropping my robe to the floor, to hell with decorum. I walk towards him, coyly holding his gaze. His eyes roam my body, but he shakes his head all at once, holding his hands up to stop me.

  My pride is stung by his refusal. How dare he? He quickly moves to pick up my discarded loungewear, and I take the time to change tack. Sitting on the edge of his bed, legs wide, stroking the flesh between my thighs in full view, I dare him to refuse me again. Slowly at first, my eyes never leaving his. He doesn’t look away, he’s hooked.