Black In White

by J. C. Andrijeski

  I watched him produce two packets of sugar from the pocket of his jacket and rip off the tops before dumping them into the black coffee.

  Coffee was the only time Nick allowed himself sugar.

  He was kind of a health nut in most other respects.

  “...You’ve clearly got the hots for our clown,” he added, glancing up with a wink as he leaned over to toss the empty sugar packets into my trash bin. “I didn’t want you getting all teary-eyed when they gas his ass at Quentin.” Raising his cup in a mock toast without its plastic lid, he added, “Quentin at Quentin... poetic, don’t you think?”

  I knew he was referring to the local federal prison, San Quentin, which was just on the other side of the Golden Gate Bridge.

  “Cute,” I said, giving him a wry smile and leaning back in my own chair. I picked up the cup he’d brought me, smelling it before I took a grateful sip. Smiling when I lowered it, I met his gaze, watching him look at me with that smile still ghosting his face.

  “Are you going to tell me the real reason you don’t want me on it, Nick? You got some new hot-shot psych student whose pants you’re trying to inspect?”

  He let out a snort of laughter, involuntarily I think.

  He nearly coughed out coffee through his nose in the process.

  Relief wafted off him tangibly that time, even more than before.

  That relief made me relax, too.

  I saw his face grow serious, even as he dropped the act he’d used to come in here.

  “The guy’s too interested in you, Miri,” he said, his eyes abruptly serious. “Way too interested. Frankly, I don’t want him getting another look at you... much less talking to you on a regular basis.” He hesitated, then gave me a more openly apologetic look. “Especially since we might have to cut him loose for awhile... temporarily, I mean.”

  I stiffened. “Cut him loose?”

  “Yeah. Maybe even later today.” He gave me another apologetic look, but that one had more steel behind it. “Temporarily, like I said. We just need a little more time.”

  “Why?” I couldn’t keep the bewilderment out of my voice.

  Moreover, my heart was already pounding, remembering how confident Black had been on that point when I’d talked to him in the interview room.

  “Fucker lawyered up,” Nick said with a shrug. “He’s got a good one, too.”

  “Who?” I knew most of the defense attorneys in town. The good ones anyway.

  “Farraday,” Nick said. “You heard of him? Guy’s out of New York... a real ball buster. Made his name in that dual homicide mess with that investment shit-heel a few years back. The one with the crow bar. Remember?”

  I nodded. I remembered.

  My lips firmed as I still fought puzzlement.

  “With the bad toupee, right?” I said, taking another sip of coffee. When Nick grunted a laugh, nodding, I cleared my throat. “I thought he mostly worked for Wall Streeters. How the hell is Black affording him?”

  Hesitating another half-second, Nick put his coffee down on the edge of my desk, fishing around in the pocket of his beat-up leather jacket––the opposite pocket from the one where he got his sugar packets. Leaning back over my desk, he tossed something at me, what looked like a rectangular business card. Leaning back in the same motion, he grabbed his coffee cup on the way back to the leather chair. The chair let out a protesting squeak when the two sets of leathers rubbed together a second time.

  “Asshole’s a P.I.,” Nick grunted. “Can you believe it?”

  I gave him a blank look. “Who?”

  “Black. Quentin Black. He’s a P.I. Licensed and everything.”

  “He’s a P.I.?” My jaw dropped.

  Looking down, I snatched up the business card he’d tossed me.

  Nick nodded grimly, watching me look at it. “Rich as fuck, too. Doesn’t even need to work, he’s got so much money... at least if the reports are right. Once Farraday showed, your Mr. Black started singing a different song altogether. Now he claims he was at the scene on a case. Says he stayed silent to ‘await legal advice’ because he knew that circumstantially it looked bad for him. Says he was afraid of jail, afraid he’d say the wrong thing.”

  Nick let out an annoyed snort to let me know what he thought of that story.

  I was still staring down at the card.

  Somehow, the damned thing felt like him... like I could feel some remnant of Quentin Black’s fingertips imprinted on the linen stock.

  The card itself was bone white but for a black eagle symbol stamped in the center. The symbol looked almost military, with Quentin Black’s initials worked into the design at the bottom in an archaic-looking script.

  Flipping over the card, I found a website address as well as a physical one on California Street. The street number was low enough that it had to be near the water. That placed Mr. Quentin Black’s business offices in some of the most expensive real estate in the world.

  His office was on the forty-eighth floor.

  I couldn’t even imagine what kind of rent that must be.

  I cleared my throat, keeping the disinterested look on my face with an effort.

  “How did he explain the blood?” I said, my voice neutral. “He was covered in blood. Did his lawyer have anything on that?”

  When I glanced up, Nick scowled.

  “He claims he was trying to ‘save’ her,” Nick grunted. “That she was still alive when he got there... barely. He’s not disputing he was there... or that the blood is hers. He says he tried to put pressure on some of the worst cuts to stop the bleeding.”

  “What did the coroner say?”

  Nick shrugged. “He says it’s possible.”

  “Possible?” I frowned. “Likely-possible? Or unlikely-possible?”

  “Possible,” Nick said, giving me a harder stare. “Why? You still think he didn’t do it, Miri? Because it’s too ‘theatrical’ for him or whatever?”

  I nodded, but not really in answer to his question.

  “So?” I said. “Will his story hold up? In court.”

  Nick’s scowl deepened. “With his lawyer? Probably. Fucker’s a licensed P.I. We’ve got zilch on motive. He’s got an alibi for the Grace Cathedral thing... including a plane ticket showing he was out of the country. We ran his creds and they’re all up to date. Further, he told us last night that the family of Esther Velaquez hired him a few weeks ago. Now we have to run that down, too, see if we can match it to his story about the Palace killing.”

  I nodded, watching his face cautiously.

  Esther Velaquez was the primary victim of the first wedding murder. They found her just like this one, with a few inches of make-up on her face and posed in an expensive wedding dress almost like a ballerina. Only she hadn’t been alone. Rather, she’d bled to death inside Grace Cathedral along with five of her wedding party––three bridesmaids and two groomsmen. By far most of the damage in terms of cutting had been done to her, though.

  The wedding hadn’t even been scheduled for two months.

  All of them had that same spiral symbol cut into their chests. The killer only did it to her while she’d still been alive, however. The rest got it post-mortem.

  The story was heartbreaking really. The six of them had gone out to dinner and then to a bar to celebrate. They all left the bar together and no one ever saw them alive again.

  By all accounts, Esther had been a kind person, with a lot of friends and family.

  The cops speculated that the wedding party might have gone to the cathedral in some connection to the wedding itself, but no one really knew for sure how they’d gotten there. After the Palace killing, it looked less likely that they’d gone willingly.

  “How did he explain that he was at the scene at all?” I said, still thinking aloud. “Black. Did he claim to have followed a suspect there?”

  Nick’s scowl deepened. “No. He says he and his staff staked out various locations around town, in the hopes of catching the killer in the act. He said he went thr
ough a list of ‘most popular wedding sites’ and Grace was first. The Palace of Fine Arts was second. He said it was ‘bad luck’ he got there too late to save her.”

  “Did he see who did it?”

  Nick shrugged, but I practically felt the anger on him that time.

  “He says no. He’s promised to cooperate, says he’ll give us whatever we want in terms of his own investigation. He also claimed he’d been operating on a hunch with the Palace thing or he would have brought us in earlier. He claims he never expected to hit paydirt... not that fast, anyway.”

  I nodded, folding my hands across my chest as I studied his eyes.

  “But you still don’t believe it?” I said cautiously.

  “Fuck no, I don’t believe it!” Nick exploded, staring at me. “Do you?”

  I kept my expression clinician smooth. “Is there any reason why I shouldn’t?”

  He aimed a finger at me.

  That time, the anger practically vibrated off his skin.

  “You were there, Miri,” he said. “You saw him in there. Did he look like someone scared to you? Of the police? Of me? Of any of us? Did he strike you as someone likely to ‘cooperate to the full extent of the law’? Who even gave a shit the girl was dead, for that matter?”

  I hesitated, then shrugged. “Is there any reason I should dismiss his explanation out of hand? Is there a more plausible story, given the facts?”

  “You think him just happening to be there, trying to save that girl’s life, is more plausible than him getting caught murdering her?”

  Thinking about his words, I nodded, telling the truth.

  “Frankly? Yes. If the girl’s parents actually hired him, Nick––”

  “The whole thing is b.s., Miri... and you know it is!”

  Thinking about his words, I shook my head slowly. “Sorry, Nick. I don’t. It’s weird, sure... and his being at the scene definitely makes him a suspect. But as stories go, it’s not entirely implausible either.” I tapped Quentin Black’s business card against the top of my desk. “Maybe you don’t want to admit he might have followed a lead that you missed and it paid off?”

  Nick’s complexion darkened. “You yourself said Black’s a fucking sociopath––”

  “There are a lot of high-functioning narcissists and people with personality disorders running around who don’t become serial killers, Nick,” I reminded him mildly. “I imagine there are a fairly high number in various forms of law enforcement... as well as in private security. Studies have shown there are certainly a lot running around with big stock portfolios. Without a motive, I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t at least entertain his story as the true one.” Clearing my throat, I added, “Anyway, I said I thought he was a sociopath... not that I knew for certain he was one. It’s way too early for me to make a diagnosis like that definitively.”

  Pausing, I kept my voice casual.

  “What else?”

  “What do you mean, what else?”

  “Did you find out anything more about Black? Something you’re not telling me?”

  “Like what?”

  Shrugging lightly, I kept my voice nonchalant as I took another sip of coffee. “Well. His fingerprints and DNA didn’t show up, even though he’s a P.I... .a licensed P.I., according to you. Did you find out why? Is he ex-intelligence or something? Someone with a high clearance, that they waived that for him?”

  Nick stared at me, his dark eyes hard as stones. “Why the fuck would you ask me that?”

  I sighed at the wariness in his gaze.

  “Nick,” I said, lowering the cup. “I’m about to marry someone in intelligence, remember? And Black pegged me as ex-military less than a minute after I walked through that door. It stands to reason that he might––”

  “Okay, okay,” Nick cut in, holding up a hand. He still sounded angry. “And yes. He did a few stints. And yes, Special Forces at the end. Which means it’s all sealed... even to me.” He gave me a more pointed look. “Ian might be able to access it, though.”

  I frowned, feeling somehow that the mention of Ian was a little too deliberate.

  “He’s out of town,” I said, my frown deepening. “And I wouldn’t count on it anyway, not unless you went through channels. Do you have anyone else you like for this? For the Grace Cathedral killing at least?”

  “No,” Nick said, his voice harder.

  I sighed for real that time, setting my coffee back on the desk. “What is it with you and this guy, Nick? This isn’t like you. Is it so hard to admit you might have been wrong?”

  “It is when I know I’m not wrong.”

  I let out a snort, making an I give up gesture with my hands.

  Nick continued to glare at me though.

  “There’s something not right about this guy, Miri. I know you see it.”

  I let out a surprised laugh. “Well, yeah... read between the lines, Nick. He was probably doing wet-work for the U.S. military... for all we know he still is. Of course you’re getting vibes. Has it occurred to you that maybe you just don’t like guys like him?”

  When I met Nick’s gaze, his eyes looked positively murderous.

  “Do you know this guy, Miri?” he said.

  “Know him?” I felt my face grow inexplicably hot. “Black?”

  “Yes, Black. Do you know him? Had you met him before yesterday?”

  I gaped at him. “Why in God’s name would you think that?”

  “It’s a simple fucking question. Are you going to answer it?”

  My jaw snapped shut. “No, I don’t know him.” My temper sparked hotter when I felt Nick not believing me. “Just what are you asking me, Nick? Or do I even want to know?”

  He didn’t answer at first. When he looked back at me though, his anger hadn’t lessened. If anything, the expression in his eyes looked even colder.

  “He’s been asking about you, Miri. A lot.”

  I let out an annoyed sound, unimpressed. “And? How is that my fault?”

  “He also asked me about Ian. Made a few cryptic fucking remarks I didn’t like much, truthfully. Things that made me wonder if maybe he knew Ian, too.”

  I firmed my lips. Raising my hand, I tapped my engagement ring, a perversion of me and Nick’s running joke. I let my hand fall back to the top of my desk.

  “He made it clear he noticed the ring, Nick,” I said.

  “And?” Nick said. “You fit the victim profile, Miri. He knew Ian’s name. He also knew Ian was a defense contractor. Are you sure all of this isn’t about you?”

  It was my turn to stare.

  Not about Nick’s revelations about what Black knew, at least not primarily. After all, I was pretty sure I knew exactly how Quentin Black obtained that information.

  No, I stared more because it hadn’t even occurred to me until then that I fit the wedding killer’s profile. Ian and I weren’t to be married for another five months, and I’d barely had time to even think about ceremony itself, so maybe that was part of it. With him gone so much lately, a lot of the planning had been put on hold. I didn’t have a living mother to pester me about it, and Ian’s parents were both dead too, so we’d opted for a pretty simple ceremony.

  The fact that I fit the victim profile stunned me briefly.

  It also made me wonder what Black was up to, grilling Nick about Ian.

  Was he threatening me via Nick? I found it hard to believe, although I couldn’t have said why exactly. If he wasn’t threatening me, what the hell was he doing? Why antagonize a homicide cop who likes you for murder? Was Black really that arrogant?

  Yes, my mind answered unequivocally. Yes, he really is that arrogant.

  I wondered if there was more to it, though. Had he done it simply to rattle Nick, or had it been some kind of message to me? Or was it more to drive a wedge between me and Nick?

  Thinking about the possibilities made my face heat again.

  Still, if it was anger or something else I felt, I couldn’t decide.

  Realizing I’d been starin
g over Nick’s shoulder while I’d been thinking those things rather than looking at Nick himself, I refocused on his face. Once I did, I found him watching me, that harder, more suspicious scrutiny back in his eyes.

  “What the fuck is going on, Miri?” he said. “You’re not telling me something. I want to know what it is.”

  I rolled my eyes, annoyed for real that time. “You’re imagining things, Nick––”

  He cut me off. “I’m really not. So I’m going to say this once, Miri. Stay the hell away from this asshole. That’s a direct order.”

  “An order?” I said, disbelieving. “I’m not in your platoon anymore, Sarg...”

  He didn’t flinch. “Fine. Order. Threat. Warning. Pick a word. And don’t think I don’t see the wheels turning in that giant brain of yours, Miriam. Don’t think for a single second that I didn’t see it when I told you that asshole was going free today, too...”

  Grunting, he rearranged his muscular body in the chair.

  “Truthfully, I wasn’t going to give you that damned card,” he muttered, motioning towards my desk. “I was just going to kick you off the case, let you think we were proceeding with Black the same as we would with any other murdering asshole...” Taking a breath, he sank deeper into the leather, planting his hands on the armrests. “...Ian’s going to kill me if I tell him about this, you know. That I let you talk to a fucking serial killer who now has a hard-on for you. An ex-spook who got his record expunged for being a professional murderer...”

  Biting my lip at the reference to Ian, I only shrugged.

  “So why did you give me the card, Nick?” I said.

  He glared at me, then motioned sharply with a hand. “Because for awhile there, you were almost acting like yourself again, Miri...”

  “As opposed to what?”

  His expression dropped every ounce of sarcasm.

  “As opposed to someone who’s lying to me,” he said. Staring at me coldly, he motioned to where I still held Quentin Black’s business card between my fingers, toying with the paper without noticing I was doing it. “I don’t know what it is, but you’ve got some kind of ‘thing’ with this guy. That, or he’s managed to snow you in some way... intrigue you maybe. Maybe it’s some shrink thing... a profile you’ve never seen before. Maybe you liked bantering with a brain even bigger than yours for once. I know that must be a rare experience for you...”