Brianna chuckled, relaxing into her seat. “Why? It looks so charming there.”
“Shoe leather isn’t my favorite snack,” he said with a chuckle.
She decided not to tease him further. “So, yes, Abby and I both went to MIT and we roomed together. Abby spent most of her years studying, while I flitted by. I managed to get a Bachelor’s in Finance, but I was an honor student in social parties and dates. It drove Abby nuts, that I wouldn’t study, and still get good grades.” She gave a little shrug and paused to take a long drink of the water she’d ordered after the one beer. Since she’d come out of the ordeal and hospital three years ago, she’d made the decision to never have more than one alcoholic drink in a day. She needed to be in control of her life no matter what. “After college we went our separate ways but stayed close. Weekly, if not daily phone calls, emails, social media. I’d lecture her about never going out and taking her government work so seriously. She’d worry and lecture me about dating too many men and putting myself in danger.”
She paused to look around the restaurant, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill over her cheeks. “Turns out she was right.”
“That wasn’t your fault,” he said, once again laying his hand on hers and squeezing it. “Besides, because of you, hundreds of young women were saved from the sex slave market and the ring of rich bastards behind it were all prosecuted.”
She squeezed his hand back and gave him a whisper of a smile—all she could manage past the tears threatening once more. They stayed that way a few moments, holding hands across the table. Then the waiter approached with their bill and they quickly let go of each other.
“That’s the second time Abby saved me. And I finally realized that she’d been right all along. I was selling myself short. Taking the easy way to achieve things by offering up my body, instead of using my brains. Most of the women and girls in that sex ring were there by force or desperation. I was almost in it because of my bad choices.” When he started to argue, she shook her head. “It’s the truth, Aaron. And I promised myself from that day forward I’d respect myself and the men I let into my life by expecting more from both of us. Truth. Respect. Loyalty. Things that matter.”
“I hope you know I do respect you,” he said with the honesty she’d come to appreciate in him.
“I do,” she said, hoping he’d understand that she’d decided to let him into the walls she’d built around herself the day he rescued her from that mansion. But they had things to do first. “We’d better go collect Stanley from the hospital and get on with our job for the night. Nana won’t be happy if we’re too late and she has to take him out.”
Aaron scooted out of his seat and held her coat for her. “I tasted those cookies she brought for Paula and the staff today. I’m pretty sure she could bribe someone to take Stanley outside with those.”
* * *
This one weighed heavier than the last. Probably all the excess water. No matter, once she thawed out that would all be gone.
He squatted down and dropped her with a thud on the ground. Then looked around to make sure no one was near to hear.
Nothing moved. The only sounds were the dull motors of cars and trucks on the road, the wind whipping through the trees and the far-off horn of a freight train.
Gently, he lowered the sack from his right shoulder, careful not to bend the object inside. Opening the top of the bag, he drew out the violin bow. The marvel of something so simple as the straight hairs of a horse’s tail could be bundled together to make something so beautiful always amazed him. Think of how a horse used its tail. To flick away bothersome flies. But in the hand of a master craftsman those hairs could be used to make beautiful music.
He laid the bow on the canvas bag as to not damage it and went to work on the other bundle. First, he cut the bindings on the plastic at the top and bottom, then slowly peeled back the edges. For a moment, he studied his handiwork.
Clean.
Head to toe scrubbed free of the dirt and grime her life had laid upon her. Returned to the perfection of what her life should’ve been before she’d destroyed it with filth.
Careful not to disturb his masterpiece, he dragged the tarp closer to the brick support of the train overpass above them. Then grabbing the body under the armpits, he maneuvered it up against the bricks, just enough to be sure she’d be seen by a passerby. Next, he pulled away the tarp, dropped the bindings inside, and rolled it up. He turned and squatted down beside her, looking out onto the Cuyahoga River flowing past the Flats and the interstate bridge crossing the river. Grasping her head with both gloved hands, he adjusted her position until she was staring out at the same view. Finally, he laid the bow across her lap, securing it in place with her hands crossed on top of it. The violin would remain with him. A tribute to remind him of his work.
Last fall he’d watched her play in one of the parks. Elegant. Beautiful. Worthy of a solo with the Cleveland Orchestra or even the Philharmonic.
And what was she using her talent for? To beg for money from passersby. Money to buy poison and stick it in her veins. It was a blasphemy. That’s why she had to become a donor. To put her body to some use. Just as he’d cleansed her outside, harvesting her blood cleansed her inside.
15
Well, we know it’s been more than a week wince Art was last here,” Aaron said, as he and Brianna stood down the block from the Lutheran Ministry Shelter while Stanley did his business.
The largest homeless shelter for men in the Cleveland area, the huge facility had beds and food service for the homeless, training in the food prep industry as their workforce development program, as well as counseling services of all kinds. Some of the volunteers working tonight knew Stanley and were sad to hear that Art had died. Aaron kept the information that he’d been killed a secret, letting the people they talked to think it had been a natural death.
While Brianna chatted with some of the lady volunteers, a few she’d met while working in the women’s shelter, Aaron walked Stanley among the clients having their meals or getting ready to bunk down for the night. He wanted to see how they reacted to the little terrier and how Stanley reacted to them.
“Did any of the men know Art?” Brianna asked as they walked further down the block to where he’d parked the old sedan.
“One guy named Bill recognized Stanley right away and got real sad when I told him Art was dead. Said Art missed their weekly game of checkers, so he’d figured something was up. Apparently, they played a quiet game at one of the local libraries on Tuesdays in bad weather and at a park in good.” He unlocked the passenger door and held it open for her and Stanley to get inside. Once he was in the driver’s side, he headed to Brianna’s place. “A few of the other older guys came to say hi to Stanley and ask about Art. I asked them if there were any other homeless people they’d noticed weren’t showing up like usual.”
“And were there?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Not that they could think of. They’re going to keep their eyes and ears open for me and let me know if they notice anything.”
“So, you really think this isn’t a one-time thing? Just someone who had a beef with Art over something?”
“Like I said when we found him, the cleanliness tells me it’s something else. People who kill because of an altercation or a perceived slight, they kill messy. Blood everywhere, evidence lying around, the body left where it lay.” He turned onto the road leading to her condo. “They don’t make elaborate plans, drain almost all the blood out of the body, clean it and all the clothing, pose it somewhere to be found, and leave no other evidence around.”
She nodded, then turned in her seat. He could feel her staring at him. “You think he’s targeting homeless people because…?” she left the question unended.
“I don’t know if he is targeting them,” he answered, pulling into the drive behind her house, used the garage door opener he’d snagged from her car they’d left at the safehouse and drove inside. He turned off the car a
s the garage door closed, then slammed his hands down on the steering wheel. “I don’t know shit. That’s the problem. I don’t know who. I don’t know why. I don’t know how many he’s killed before. I don’t know who he’s targeting. It’s like staring into a jigsaw puzzle box and I have one lousy piece.”
“How big is it?” she asked.
“How big is what?” He turned to stare at her wondering what the hell she was talking about.
“The puzzle. How big is it? I mean, do we have to find two hundred and forty-nine more pieces, four hundred and ninety-nine pieces? Or are we looking at the thousand-piece variety and have nine hundred and ninety-nine to find?”
The expression on her face was so bland and relaxed he couldn’t help but choke on a laugh.
Then she grinned. “I know it’s a serious situation, but you can’t get overwhelmed by what we don’t know. You have to focus on what we do know and move on from there, right?”
“Right. I just hate that someone else may have to die before another piece falls into place.”
“Brooding about it tonight isn’t going to solve anything. So, why don’t we go inside and I’ll make us both a cup of tea,” she said, releasing his hand and switching it to hold Stanley as she opened the car door.
He followed her inside, deposited his coat on one of the hooks in the laundry mud room just as she did and wondered what kind of tea she’d make this late in the day. The last thing he needed was caffeine.
The answer was simple.
Herbal tea plus honey plus lemon plus a good helping of Irish whiskey.
“A hot toddy?” he asked, taking a drink and enjoying the taste of it, not to mention the little kick from the whiskey. He noticed she barely splashed any in hers.
“Learned it from the nuns.” She grinned over her shoulder as she led him into the living room. “Sister Rose Thomas, actually. Whenever one of us couldn’t sleep, or in Abby’s case, woke with a nightmare, she’d bring us a cup of this. Abby used to say she was trying to turn us into alcoholics. I don’t have more than one drink a day, on the days I do drink, but sometimes circumstances require a hot toddy. Like tonight.”
“I understand.” He sat on the sofa, expecting her to take the leather chair beside it. Instead, she settled in beside him, sipping her tea. Hiding his surprise, he draped one arm over the back of the sofa and used the other to drink his tea.
“So, what did you learn from the volunteers?” he asked, shifting back to the case.
They’d divided their efforts tonight. While he’d talked with the homeless residents about Art and possibility of other missing homeless people, she chatted up the volunteers to see if they’d noticed anything unusual.
“There are some very nice and compassionate people volunteering at the Lutheran Shelter. They loved it when Art came in with Stanley,” she said, and the pup raised his head from the pillow on the floor he’d claimed to stare at them. Deciding they weren’t calling him, he curled back into a ball. “Both of them were a hit with the ladies. Monica said Art would bring a bouquet of wildflowers in the spring and summer. She was sure he’d picked them in one of the parks. They’d always make a fuss over him brightening up the spot and make a vase out of one of the glasses for them.”
“Which one was Monica?” he asked, then took another sip of the tea.
“Short, average weight, middle-aged, African American woman. Shoulder length naturally curly hair.”
He liked how Brianna tended to give descriptions like a cop would. “The one with the nice smile and big gold bangles in her ears?”
“Yes. Neither she nor Shelby—the young, mid-twenties, strawberry blonde Irish-looking girl—said anyone new was working in the shelter. Everyone had been coming there for at least a year, according to them.”
“Did they mention the news crews?”
Brianna turned to glance up at him. “Yes. How did you know?”
“I’m a detective, remember?” he said and arched his brow at her.
She laughed.
He liked the sound. Always had, even though it wasn’t often he got to hear it.
“Bill,” he went on to explain, “and a couple of the other men mentioned news people had come in a few times over the past year or so. Some with cameras. One or two just taking notes. They said every so often, the news people come by to do a story on the plight of the homeless. Bill said they were just being nosey on a slow news day. Otis called them damn vultures.”
She snorted a little sardonic laugh and tensed beside him. “I know exactly how he feels. They are scavengers and parasites.”
For months after she’d gotten out of the hospital, the same news crews hounded her as she testified in the biggest trial to hit the state. High profile, since a Senator, other politicians and several CEOs were among the defendants. Castello’s Marshals and Kirk F had gotten quite good at getting her out of the courthouse without the paparazzi getting wind of it.
“Otis mentioned that once a month a group of doctors and nurses come into the shelters,” he said, moving the conversation from such a tender subject.
“Monica mentioned that, too. She said it’s a Christian charity group based upon Christ’s washing of the disciples’ feet. Apparently, foot care is very important for the homeless. They spend a lot of time walking and their shoes don’t always fit. Often they don’t have socks, so they’ll get ulcer sores or other injuries. Not to mention, many are undiagnosed diabetics or have circulatory problems, so those foot problems have trouble healing.”
“What do the docs do?”
“They come in and clean their feet, put on lotion or moisturizer, do pedicures to prevent ingrown toenails—another source of ulcers or infection—give them two pairs of clean socks and try to fit as many with shoes as they can. Socks and shoes are donated by big companies.”
“I’d hate to think our killer was among a group doing such good work,” he said.
“Me, too.” Curling her feet up onto the couch on her other side, she snuggled in a little closer as she sipped from her mug.
He could get used to this.
Heat from her body, as well as the toddy, relaxed him. Finished with the tea, he set his cup on the side table. She held her cup out to him and he set it beside his then lowered his arm a fraction to pull her in a little closer, idly running his hand up and down her shoulder and upper arm. His eyes drifted closed and he just let himself enjoy holding her.
“I’ve never done this before,” she quietly said after a few moments.
“Sat on a couch with a man?”
“No, although this is very nice. I mean I’ve never had a male friend before.”
Great. He’d been relinquished to the friend category.
Before he could think of a reply that didn’t sound petty or self-centered or just plain asshole-ish, she took a deep breath.
“What I mean is, I’ve had male friends. And Kirk F is both a friend and well, a little brother. I meant to say I’ve never had a male friend before that I’ve wanted to kiss.”
Thank God.
“So, I’d be your first?” He let the innuendo and question mix.
She turned and stared up at him, the light from the kitchen lighting her blue eyes and showing him the light blush on her cheeks. Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips before she spoke. “Why, yes you would.”
He slowly lowered his head towards her, pausing with their lips just an inch apart. “I like being first.”
Then he claimed her lips with his own. Heat not from the whiskey surged through him. He moved his tongue over her lips, stroking their softness. They parted and he slid inside, teasing her, tasting her. She met him with a tentative thrust of her own tongue against his, her hand coming to rest on his chest. Tilting his head, he added pressure, pulling her by her shoulder closer to him.
She moaned. Need for her surged through him at the sound. Need and pride—pride that he’d made her make that sound. And if she asked him to take her into her bedroom and make love to her, he’d pick her u
p and stalk in there without a word of protest.
Slow your roll, dude.
It has been more than three years since she’d been with a man and by her own admission none of those earlier relationships had ever been a healthy one. If he wanted more from her than just a quick round of mattress Olympics, and he definitely did, he was going to have to walk a tightrope between passion and patience.
Carefully, he eased back both the kiss and his hold on her, just enough to take the edge off his desire, but still enjoy kissing her. After a few more minutes, she pulled away, their lips clinging together a half second longer.
She leaned back to stare into his eyes. “Why did you stop? Is it a cop thing?”
He drew his brows down in confusion. “A cop thing?
“A conflict of interest of sorts. You know, don’t get involved with a witness or a suspect.” Then she looked confused. “But I’m not a witness, nor a suspect. Exactly what am I?”
“A partner,” he said, with a lift of one side of his mouth.
She returned his half-smile. “Partner. I like that. But won’t Jaylon be upset?”
“Nah, he’s the official partner. You’re the unofficial one.” He leaned in to give her another quick kiss. “And the reason I backed off, is I want you to be sure this is what you want. I want this to be different from any relationship you’ve had with any other man. And I’m willing to take it slow just to get there.”
She blinked, her lips parting in surprise. “Oh.”
Fighting the urge to sample those lips once more, he reached up and smoothed a honey-blonde lock of hair away from her face. “So, before I change my mind and decide to screw this up, pardon the pun, I think you should go to bed and leave me to stretch out on your couch again tonight.”
“I think,” she said, pressing her lips to his cheek then standing, “I might like taking things slow.” She headed to her bedroom, then paused in the doorway and stared over her shoulder at him. “Just not too slowly.”
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