Deadly Guild (Detective Sarah Spillman Mystery Series Book 3)

by Renee Pawlish

Feinstein jotted something down in her notebook. “You say the nightmares are happening less often. Are you feeling fearful?”

  “No.”

  “Do you ever feel like maybe someone is around every corner, waiting to attack you?”

  I shook my head. “No, I’m fine.”

  That word again. Dr. Feinstein raised an eyebrow. She had a habit of doing that.

  “Fine?”

  I was a little jumpy: Harry had noted that. But it was getting easier. I was hypervigilant, more so than usual. However, even if the doctor didn’t believe me, I was getting better. I needed an investigation to fuel me.

  “If you had to do it again,” she said, “if a killer was coming after you, what would you do?”

  I looked her in the eye. “I’d pull the trigger again. It’s a split-second decision, and if my life is in danger, I’ll act. It’s part of the job, part of what I have to do.”

  “Taking another life can’t be easy,” she pressed.

  I gnawed my lip. “No, it’s not. I think about what Welch did to those women, though, how he raped and murdered them, and I feel better about my decision. I didn’t want to do it, but he left me no choice. His actions dictated what happened. I wasn’t in control of that.”

  Feinstein nodded.

  “Did this investigation affect you more than other investigations?”

  “No.”

  “How are things with Ernie and Spats? Would they feel you’re ready to resume field work?”

  “Yes.” Again, a tad too quickly. I noted Dr. Feinstein’s disapproval at my hasty answer and said, “They worry about me; they always have. Both can tell I’m itching to get away from my desk. They know I didn’t do anything wrong.” I didn’t say that although I appreciated my partners’ concern, I was ready for it to stop. That would mean things were back to normal, whatever that was.

  She mulled over that, jotted down something else, and studied me. She chose her words carefully. “You do seem like you’re more at peace with the shooting and the aftermath than the first time I saw you.” Her brow furrowed wisely. “I know you’re not telling me everything; nobody who comes in here for these brief sessions ever does. It takes too long. I know that you want to get back to doing what you do best. My job is to assess your fitness to resume your normal duties.” She put her hands on top of the notepad. “From what I can tell, I think you’re doing okay, so I’m going to clear you to go back into the field. I would agree that it’s what is important for you, what’s going to help you the most.”

  I nodded and held my excitement in check.

  “I want you to know that the door is open to talk to me anytime,” she said. “I know it’s going to take more time, probably more than you even realize. I would encourage you to talk through your feelings more, if not with me, with Harry, with somebody. Don’t bottle things up.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief, partly because she was going to clear me to get back to my job, partly for not having to talk to anyone about the shooting right now. I knew she was right, that I needed to open up about it, but I knew myself. I needed time. Right now I wanted to think about things other than what had happened with Welch.

  “So we’re done here?” I asked.

  She contemplated me one last time. “I’ll clear you to get back to investigations. It may take a day or two for all the paperwork to be filed.” She stood up. “Here.” She took a card from her desk. “I gave you a card before, and I’d be willing to bet you don’t have it.”

  I got up as well and took the card with a small smile. “Thanks for your time.”

  Feinstein stared at me. “I really mean it. Please take more time to talk through everything, with Harry. From what you’ve said, he will listen without any judgment. And I’m always available if you need me.”

  I walked out the door without a reply.

  Chapter Three

  I left Dr. Feinstein’s office and headed back to the station for the community meeting. It was a beautiful September day, the air dry, but with the hint of the coming winter. I stopped at a Subway for a quick bite, and I sat outside with my sandwich and mulled over my session with Feinstein.

  I could compartmentalize things very well. I learned that skill as a kid. I’d lost my Uncle Brad, who I had been particularly close to when I was a kid. I’d never gotten along with my older sister, Diane, and Brad had seen that and had helped me when I thought the rest of my family didn’t understand. I was stunned when he died of a heart attack, and I felt so alone.

  I took a bite of my sandwich and thought about my sister. As I told Feinstein, delving into my relationship with Diane would take a long time. After years of avoiding the issue, I’d recently told Diane about the resentment toward her that I’d harbored for a good part of my life. It all stemmed from an incident in college, when Diane had messed up and done something illegal while she was in med school. I helped her out of the situation, but only by doing something illegal myself. I had desperately wanted my sister’s approval, and I thought that by helping her, I would surely earn it. Not only did that not happen, she totally discounted my actions, even while I worried that what I’d done might cost me a career in law enforcement. Diane didn’t seem to understand that at all, which didn’t help our relationship. I needed to let that all go, but I was stubborn, and it was easier said than done.

  I finished my sandwich without feeling much better. I glanced at my phone and realized I needed to get back to the station for the community meeting.

  I did not want to make an appearance tonight. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to help, it just made me feel as if I couldn’t do what I was cut out to do: investigate homicides. No one trusted me to do that at the moment. I crumpled up my sandwich wrapper and got up, threw it in a trash can, and went to my car. I used the drive time to try to get my mind into a better space. By the time I arrived at the station at Thirteenth and Cherokee, I’d managed to put on my game face. When I walked into the large conference room on the first floor, several people from the community were already there. I also saw Daniel Hackman, who’s another homicide detective, along with a detective I didn’t know from the robbery division, and Chief Duane Follett. Follett’s over six feet tall, stocky, with a full head of gray hair, and a superior attitude that goes beyond his position. He’s also a bit old school, and I get the feeling he thinks I can’t handle my job. I frequently find myself biting my tongue around him. A couple of officers in uniform stood nearby, both rocking nervously on the balls of their feet. Follett nodded at me curtly and went back to a conversation he was having with a man in a business suit.

  I had heard that the meetings had been started by a couple of big names in the community. One, Lawrence Ridley, was a well-known accident lawyer. You couldn’t have the television on for more than a few minutes without seeing him hawking his firm’s services. If you’ve been in an accident, call us. We’re fair, and we get the job done right for you. Uh-huh. I’d never met him, but I’d heard people say that he was extremely nice and extremely smart. The other founding committee member was Ellen Scarsdale, the wife of a prominent local businessman, whose daughter had been beaten and raped. The assailant had never been found. At first Ellen had been extremely angry with the police, and then she decided to channel that anger, as she said, into something good. She felt it would be beneficial for the police to be more transparent in their operations, practices, and procedures. A delicate balance. The meetings were also a way for the police to let the public know what charitable things we did within the community.

  People milled about, and the room buzzed with conversation as I took a seat at a long table in front of the crowd. Daniel looked at me with a grim smile.

  “Don’t worry, it’ll be over soon,” he murmured.

  I smiled back. “How are things going?”

  He shrugged. “You know, same old same old. Working on a tough case now. You?”

  He knew I’d been on desk duty, and I didn’t like the sympathetic look he was giving me. I tipped my head toward t
he audience. “I’m hoping to get back into the field soon.”

  “That’d be a good thing.”

  We tuned out the din of conversation and chit-chatted for a few minutes, and then at seven o’clock, one of the uniforms stood up and went to a lectern set on a long conference table. He raised his hands to shush the crowd, then spoke into the microphone.

  “Thank you all for joining us at this month’s meeting. I’m Officer Rodriguez. It’s nice to see you all.”

  People took their seats and the conversations died down. Rodriguez introduced Daniel and me, then the others at the table, and ended with Chief Follett. Rodriguez paused for a smattering of polite applause, then he launched into an explanation of the meetings. After he spoke for a few minutes about a charity that the police force was working with, he reintroduced Chief Follett. Another tepid round of applause, and Follett got up and spoke for a few minutes and listed some of the concerns that the community had raised in past meetings, and how the department was addressing these. He talked smoothly, with a poised and purposeful manner, and when he finished, he excused himself, saying he had another engagement. I had no idea whether that was true. Regardless, he didn’t sit through the rest of the meeting. After he left, the detective from the robbery division got up and talked in general terms about some of the crimes that had occurred in recent weeks, then raised some concerns about a rise in convenience store robberies in the north part of downtown. Then I was introduced again, and I went to the lectern. I obviously couldn’t discuss any open cases, but I talked briefly about homicides in Denver, referring to some stats I’d pulled up earlier in the day. I’m not a fan of public speaking, and I was glad when I was able to sit down again. Daniel talked for a minute, and I stared in stoic silence above the crowd of faces. The minutes ticked by, and the meeting finally ended. I said goodbye to the people at the conference table, and as I was walking toward the back of the room, I was stopped by a woman and her husband.

  “We saw you on TV.” She smiled with perfect white teeth.

  “The Welch case,” her husband explained.

  I drew in a breath and tried not to look perturbed. I didn’t want to discuss it with them, or anyone else.

  “That must’ve been so scary,” the man intoned.

  “It’s part of the job, unfortunately,” I said.

  “It’s a good thing you found Welch,” he went on. “How many women did he kill?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t comment on open cases,” I said. We knew Welch had killed at least five women, and we were working with other departments in Colorado and Ohio to see if he could be tied to more killings. However, there was no way I could share anything about my investigation with the public.

  “I love to read the serial-killer books,” the woman said. “It’s fascinating to get into the mind of a killer.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I said with a forced smile. I had tried to figure out killers of all kinds. I never thought of it as “fascinating.”

  I thanked the couple for coming and continued toward the back. I was stopped by another woman who I guessed was in her sixties, decked out in an expensive white pantsuit and plenty of gold jewelry. Her long gray hair fell around thin shoulders.

  “Detective,” she said, her voice low. “I enjoyed your talk.”

  “Thank you.”

  She began asking me some questions about homicide investigations. “Are they anything like the television shows?”

  “Not really,” I said.

  “I’ve heard that the forensics shows aren’t accurate.”

  “There’s some truth, some things are fiction. It’s entertainment, though.”

  “I see,” she murmured.

  She asked a few more questions, and I answered them as briefly as I could, looking for the door. I used to work with the juvenile division, crimes against children. I’d also given talks to children at schools. They were an easier crowd than this. I was finally able to break away from her, and was stopped only one more time by another couple. I made it to the door and left before anybody could pepper me with more questions. Overall, the meeting hadn’t been as bad as I’d anticipated, but I hoped that I wouldn’t have to speak at one again.

  Chapter Four

  It was past midnight, and I was lying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. Harry was snoring quietly beside me. It was Wednesday, a week since I’d last met with Dr. Feinstein. I’d finally been cleared yesterday to resume my normal duties, but so far nothing had happened. Harry had been pleased at the news. He knew how much my work meant to me, and yet I could tell he worried. I could lie to the psychologist, tell her that everything was okay, but I couldn’t fool Harry. He could tell that although I was feeling a little bit better, I was still bothered about taking a life, even if it was a rapist and murderer. He had asked me about the nightmares as well, knowing they were still occurring. I told him I’d be okay. His frown told me he wasn’t so sure. I wanted to tell him more, but every time I did, I stopped myself. I didn’t want to relive that night again.

  I lay for a while longer. The silence was deafening. Tired of not sleeping, but also afraid I’d have nightmares if I did, I carefully slipped from under the covers and donned a robe. I took my phone off the charger and slipped it into my robe pocket. I looked at Harry for a moment before tiptoeing out of the room. I went into the kitchen and poured a glass of wine, then padded on bare feet into the living room. It was tempting to turn on some music, but I didn’t want to wake Harry, so I sat down on the couch and picked up a spy thriller by Brad Thor. After a sip of wine, I opened the book, and began reading. The words weren’t sinking in and I finally put the book aside and picked up the wine glass. I slowly twirled the glass by the stem, but didn’t take another drink. I stared at the red liquid and let my mind wander.

  Images of Carson Welch flashed before me, and I shook my head to clear them away. I’d also talked to Diane this evening, and she had been a little cool with me. I wasn’t sure why, but it bothered me. Was it about me not stopping Welch soon enough, or was it that I’d recently confronted her about that long-ago, unresolved situation between us? My phone vibrated in my robe pocket. I quickly set down the glass and answered the call. It was Ernie.

  “Hey there,” I said.

  “You sound wide-awake.” Ernie has a deep voice, one that gets your attention.

  I looked at the clock on the wall over the fireplace. It was after one. I made excuses. “I just got up to go to the bathroom.”

  “Sure, you did.” Ernie let out a wry laugh. I wasn’t able to fool him, either. “You ready to get back to work?” He sounded a bit tired, stifled a yawn.

  “What’s going on?” I tried to keep my voice even, but I was excited.

  “We got a dead body, a woman, found behind a motel on West Colfax,” Ernie said. “She was shot. I don’t have any more details at the moment.”

  “A motel on Colfax? Was she a hooker?” Many of the motels on Colfax were cheap and a draw for drug dealers and prostitutes.

  “I don’t know. I think they were going to give it to Hackman, and I said you should take it. Hackman’s already working another case.”

  “They wanted to give it to someone else?” I sat a little straighter. “How do you know?”

  “I just got off the phone with Rizzo,” Ernie said. “He didn’t sound too happy about you taking this one, something about the team rotation. But don’t quote me on that.”

  Daniel Hackman had told me some about his other case at the community meeting. I didn’t fault his skills, he knows what he’s doing, and he’d be good on any investigation, but I didn’t understand why Commander Rizzo wouldn’t want me on this case.

  “What’s Rizzo’s problem?” I voiced my concerns out loud. “All this time he’s been backing me, saying he wants me back working actual homicides. Now he’s bringing up the rotation?”

  “I don’t know. Anyway, you want to talk politics or you want to get over to the crime scene?” Ernie minced no words.

  I
stood up. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  With that, I ended the call. I tiptoed back into the bedroom, went into the bathroom and splashed water on my face, then cracked the door for light while I got dressed. It didn’t matter. Harry woke up anyway.

  “What’s going on?” he asked with a yawn.

  “I’m sorry I woke you.” I buttoned up a blouse while I talked. “Ernie called, I have to go.” I told him what little I knew about the body found behind the motel.

  Harry sat up and turned on the nightstand lamp. “You sure you’re ready for this?”

  I pulled on jeans, then got my gun from a box in the closet and put it in its belt holster. I finally turned to look at him. “I’m ready.”

  It would be cool at this time of night, so I grabbed a jacket with a DPD logo on it and slipped it on. I moved over to the bed and leaned down. I gave Harry a lingering kiss. “I’ll be fine.”

  He held me close for a moment, then let me go. I stared into his dark eyes and wished I could wash away the apprehension. Before he could say more, I turned and left the room.

  I recognized Ernie’s dark sedan when I parked on West Colfax near the Princeton Motel.

  What a name for a sleazy motel, I thought.

  I got out and glanced up and down the street. Colfax Avenue was once the main highway through Denver, and it got the nickname as the “longest, wickedest Main Street in America” because of stretches with shady motels known for drugs and prostitution. Right now, there was little activity on the street. The Princeton Motel was nothing more than a worn-down L-shaped building with several small rooms. At one time it had probably been a charming little place with a cute name, but as the city grew, it had faded into a dive for secret trysts. I looked toward the front of the motel, where a red neon signed flashed “Office” and didn’t see anyone, so I walked past a few units with dark windows to the back of the building. Two uniformed officers stood at either end of a parking lot. A sole light on a building across from the hotel bathed the area in dim light. A stocky man in an out-of-date brown suit was bent down near a body sprawled near the door to a room. It was still the middle of the night, and besides police personnel, only a young-looking man and woman gawked at the other end of the lot. Other than that, it was quiet.