by S. E. Harmon
“I understand that, but aren’t you guys friends?”
“Of a fashion.”
“Didn’t you go to senior prom together?”
“Yes.” He snapped off the light and got into bed. When it became clear he wasn’t going to say anything more, I reached over to my nightstand and turned on the lamp. He sighed. “Talking in the dark is a thing, you know.”
“Maybe you can get Andrea to give us the inside scoop. For old time’s sake.”
“Trust me, there’s no love lost there. When the guy you lost your virginity to later comes out as gay, it doesn’t exactly give you the warm and fuzzies.”
“You call her Andy.”
“So does everyone else.”
“I don’t. And doesn’t she send you Christmas cards?”
I vaguely remembered some photo card with a picture of her, a balding guy with glasses—cute in a CPA kind of way—and three kids, all smiling and wearing ugly Christmas sweaters in the snow.
“She networks.” Danny didn’t seem to remember the card as fondly. “She sends a lot of people Christmas cards.”
“Aren’t you guys Facebook friends? Didn’t she wish you happy birthday?”
“Because that means we’re best buds?”
“Danny—”
“All right, all right. You’re worse than that chattering bird that keeps crapping on my car,” he groused. “I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”
“I’ll put up a birdfeeder in the backyard,” I promised. “Maybe that’ll convince him to relocate.”
The covers rustled as he leaned over me and turned off my lamp. He came over me, using his weight to push me flat to the mattress. His clever fingers made short work of my shirt, and I shrugged out of it obligingly.
A smile crossed my mouth when Mr. Neat Freak tossed the shirt over the side of the bed. “And what, exactly, would you be doing?”
“I’m helping you with your clothes.” He trailed soft kisses across my skin, and I barely suppressed an answering shiver. He thrust against me urgently. “You know what I’m thinking?”
I sighed and did some thrusting of my own. “Hell yeah.”
“Pancakes,” he said against my neck.
“Waffles,” I blurted out at the same time.
“Close enough.” He chuckled, the sound soft and sexy in the dark. “Pancakes and waffles after.”
“After,” I agreed.
We may not be on the same page, but dammit, we were always reading the same book.
Chapter 28
I started out bright and early the next day, determined to find a connection between our victims and Luke. No one greeted me with open arms, which was to be expected. People generally aren’t jazzed about the arrest of a loved one.
I started with his fiancée, who was working the front of the bakery. She greeted me with an icy reception and then barely glanced at the pictures before informing me she’d never heard of any of the Ironcrest Eight. She took great pleasure in ushering me right back out the door. No free donuts, I lamented sadly as I skulked past the colorful display.
Sue’s reception wasn’t much better. Our entire conversation was conducted in her foyer—no offers of a seat and some fresh lemonade. She unbuttoned enough to tell me a few names of Luke’s college buddies, more to prove she knew he wasn’t guilty and had nothing to hide, rather than the desire to help.
I trotted the photos around to Howie and Tim, old college buds of Luke’s who owned a small coffee shop. They were friendly enough but claimed they’d never seen my vics. The only thing that saved it from being a waste of time was a large coffee. And an equally large muffin.
An hour later, I waited in Casey’s high-rise apartment, listening with half an ear as he finished up a work call. I stood by the wall to wall window, mesmerized by the view. It had begun to rain, but I could still see people down on the beach. I was actually glad I didn’t have a window like this because I’d be glued to it all day.
Luckily, I didn’t have to worry about such things. The view was way out of my budget. Clearly Casey’s photography did quite well. Of course, money couldn’t buy happiness, or so everyone kept insisting. I was willing to try, but no one had yet offered me the opportunity.
I glanced over at the wall of pictures behind me. None of them featured Mason. I wondered if that was coincidence or necessity. Casey sounded harried in the other room, still trying to get off the phone, and I decided to take the opportunity to nose around. There wasn’t much to see—a kitchen, a tiny bathroom with a dollhouse-sized sink, and a couple closed doors down another hallway. Everything was compact but well-appointed, with shiny marble finishes and granite countertops.
On my way back to the living room, I passed a small office that looked chock-full of stuff. I pushed the cracked door open fully and wandered inside. Unlike the living room, the Mason influence in this room was strong. Pictures of him were on the desk and the wall—candid snaps of the two friends in various places through the years. I picked up one of the two of them at someone’s birthday party.
It was rather comforting. I’d gotten to know Mason over the course of my investigation, and he was undeniably a good guy. It was nice to know that a life, well-lived but cut short, wasn’t just forgotten.
It was also creepy as fuck. How many pictures were too many pictures of your best friend? I put the photo back with a small frown. I wasn’t sure if there was an exact number, but Casey had to be close. It seemed more than admiration and uncomfortably close to obsession. And everyone knew obsession made people do strange things. But we had our killer dead to rights.
I stared up at an artistic interpretation of Mason in Andy Warhol colors.
Didn’t we?
Lost in my own thoughts, I jumped at the sound of Casey’s voice. “He was beautiful, wasn’t he?”
I turned to find him standing in the doorway, watching me with an unreadable gaze. He looked crisp and casual in pressed khaki shorts, a polo shirt, and boat shoes. His dark hair was neatly tamed with product.
Apparently we were done pretending he wasn’t hopelessly in love with Mason. “He was,” I agreed. “You’ve done some nice work here.”
“I’m sure you’re not here to talk about my art.” He was clearly eager to get down to brass tacks. And maybe get a cop out of his office. “What can I help you with, Detective?”
“I’d like you to take a look at these pictures.” I pulled out the printout I’d made of the Ironcrest victims and handed it over to Casey. “Do you recognize any of these men?”
He frowned. “Why would I?”
“Just take a look, please.”
I watched his face carefully as he scanned the list. I had to give him credit—he’d make a pretty good damn poker player... if it wasn’t for that pesky slight twitch above his left eye. Enough time passed for him to look at each picture four times over, and he still didn’t speak.
“See anything familiar?” I asked evenly. “Do you know anyone in the pictures?”
He handed me the sheet and said shortly, “No.”
I handed it right back. “Look again.”
He stared at the photos some more. “I think Mason might’ve gone to school with Samuel Abbott,” he said hesitantly.
“Anyone else?”
“I heard you arrested Luke.” He gnawed on his lip. “It’s hard to believe he could’ve done… whatever you think he did.”
Maybe you didn’t know him as well as you thought.
“I saw an article about you a while back,” he said softly. “Is it true? What that reporter said you could do?”
Fucking Phillip Nichols. Not for the first time, I wanted to strangle that fuckwit reporter. “You shouldn’t believe everything you read,” I said evenly.
“Well, I didn’t. Until you found those men. Those poor men. There’s something that led you to the bridge.” His gaze met mine. “Or someone that led you to the bridge. You can’t deny that.”
I sure can and I will. “An investigator’s instincts can be a st
range beast.”
He didn’t seem satisfied with my answer. In fact, he seemed more convinced than before that his suspicions were right. We had a brief stare down that was interrupted by the ringing of my phone. When I glanced at it, Danny’s face flashed across the screen.
“I have to get this,” I said apologetically.
“Of course. I’ll give you some privacy. Would you like something to drink?”
Absolutely not. “Sure. That’ll be great. Thanks.”
Despite his words, he hesitated at the doorway, clearly uncomfortable leaving me in his personal space. Then he muttered something under his breath and hurried off.
I answered right before voicemail picked up. “Hey. Can I call you back in—”
“Where are you?” Danny’s voice was terse.
“Casey’s apartment. Why—”
“Where is he?”
“He’s in the kitchen.” I frowned as I realized I hadn’t actually heard anything in the kitchen. “Why do you—”
“I need you to locate him and get some cuffs on him. Right now.”
“Why—”
“Christiansen,” he said sharply.
If his use of my last name didn’t clue me in that this was important, his tone certainly did. I stopped asking questions. There would be time enough for that later.
“Don’t hang up,” I said shortly.
His snort said “as if” better than words could, and I stuck the phone in my pocket so I could unholster my weapon. I headed for the door and then risked sticking my head out into the hallway. The silence in the apartment was deafening. I cleared both directions quickly.
“Casey Cobb,” I boomed authoritatively as I walked down the hallway. I kept my head on a swivel. “This will all go easier if you cooperate.”
My demand was met with silence. Surprise, surprise. I took a breath before I left the security of the hallway and ducked into the open area living room. The front door was wide open. I quickly cleared the rest of the apartment, just in case he’d left the door open as a ruse.
It wasn’t. The apartment was empty. A quick check of the hallway netted the same result.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and demanded, “Now what the hell is going on? And why is Casey on the run?”
“I just figured out what that broken piece was. The one Saunders found in the trunk.” Danny’s voice was grim. “It’s a lens cap.”
It took me a few seconds to process that information. When I did, I cursed. “That’s the heavy blunt object. A fucking camera.” My mouth firmed. “Think our resident photographer here knows anything about that?”
“I’m thinking he just might.”
I swore again, more vehemently this time. “You’re on your way?”
Danny’s voice was tense. The sudden sound of a siren on his end made me wince. “That’s a stupid question.”
I hung up before I gave him a stupid answer.
I made my way back to the living room, my mouth set in a grim line. My entire life seemed determined to follow the glass half empty, glass half full model. Yes, we had our serial killer. Great fucking job. But now that nutcase was on the loose—and probably feeling a bit desperate—in a building with at least fifteen floors.
“Well, fuck,” I said to no one in particular.
I couldn’t lock down the building on my own, simple as that, but backup was on the way. And when they got here, we’d find him.
Famous last words.
I found the cameras in a closet in Casey’s office. They were both new and vintage, positioned on the shelves with care. One of the impressive Nikons was heavy and expensive—and missing a ridged lens cap. I put the camera back carefully. I couldn’t help but wonder if it had Mason’s DNA in the cracks and crannies.
I found the pictures moments later in an old shoebox. I gathered them in a sloppy stack and started to shuffle through them. I knew I was looking at the last days of Casey’s victims. They looked drugged and out of it in most of them. I winced at one of Samuel Abbot sitting on the couch with Casey, hands linked. Samuel’s head lolled back on his shoulders, while Casey looked positively beatific.
As I flipped through more of the photos, I noticed a pattern in the poses. Even the outfits were repeats, and I knew instinctively that the clothes probably belonged to Mason. Who knew how long Casey kept his victims around, drugged and completely confused? Who knew how long they had to play the part of a man they never even met before? I stared at a photo of Paul Marks sitting at the dining room table, lifeless and stiff as a board. My stomach lurched.
Maybe some of them had to play the part even after they were dead.
“He’s on the roof.”
I jumped and grabbed my chest, as if I could protect my heart with the power of my hand alone. “Jesus!”
Mason didn’t seem to care that he’d given me a sudden case of what surely had to be atrial fibrillation. “He’s on the roof,” he repeated urgently. “He’s going to jump.”
“What?”
“Please.” He tugged at my sleeve. “We don’t have much time. You can’t let him do this.”
I all but threw the photos back in the shoebox and headed for the door at a dead run. Mason didn’t seem impressed by my hustle. “Hurry,” he urged.
“Well, we can’t all float along,” I huffed. “Some of us have to use our feet, you know.”
“You have to save him.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said exasperatedly.
More famous last words. I almost had enough for my newest book—The Dummies Guide to Dying with Honor.
I ran down the hall after Mason’s fleeting form, hustling for the elevator. As I jabbed the elevator button, I made a quick call to Danny. He answered on the first ring, just as the doors opened. “You got him?”
“On the roof,” I huffed. I got on and pressed the penthouse button repeatedly. “How far are you?”
“Five minutes out.”
I was torn between being impressed and wanting to bitch him out for driving so goddamned fast. Sirens only helped so much, and if his estimate was correct, he’d made a forty-five-minute drive in less than half of that.
The elevator doors barely had time to open before I barreled off. I didn’t bother to look for signage, I just followed Mason. Sure enough, he led me to the roof access stairway.
“Gotta go,” I said. “You know I can’t talk and run.”
“See you in a few.” He paused, and I knew he wanted to say more. In the end, he just bit out a terse, “Be careful.”
“I always try.” I pounded up the narrow stairway, hanging up on what suspiciously sounded like a strangled curse.
I pulled my weapon before I cracked open the roof access door and then peered through the crack before opening it wider. The storm had picked up in earnest and the rain came down in sheets. The rumble of thunder was a low warning grumble, like a growl in the back of a dog’s throat. It was a night not fit for man nor beast, but at least it wasn't lightning.
A flash of light cracked the sky.
Well, hopefully we’d have a few minutes before the frogs and locusts.
Already soaked to the bone, I swiped my hair back out of my eyes. I scanned the roof quickly. The figure standing at the edge of the roof seemed mindless of the elements. I debated whether to approach silently or alert him to my presence; the thought of startling him into falling was the deciding factor.
"Casey," I called out. "It's Detective Christiansen. I just want to talk."
He whirled quickly in sync with a crack of lightning that outlined his frame in stark relief. I had only a few seconds to realize he had a gun before he raised it in my direction.
All right. Fucking fine, I’ll admit it. Casey’s arrest wasn’t going quite as smoothly as I’d hoped.
“Now you don’t want to do that.” I kept my tone nice and even. “I want you to back away from the ledge, nice and easy.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Of course you can.”
“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear. I don’t want to do that,” he snapped. He was bowstring tight, almost vibrating with emotion. “You should go back inside. This has nothing to do with you.”
“I’m here for Mason. He was your best friend, wasn’t he? He wouldn’t want you to do this.” I eased closer, keeping my weapon level. He said something that I couldn't hear over the wind and I took a few more steps. “Let’s just talk this out.”
He watched me carefully, a small furrow puckering his brow. I got a few steps closer before he readjusted his grip on the gun. “I think that’s far enough,” he said.
I stopped in my tracks. "You don't want to shoot me."
"Of course I don't," he snapped.
"Then put the gun down."
"You’re not giving the orders here,” he shouted.
The change from calm and collected to pissed off was so mercurial, I blinked a little. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do. I just want to talk. To get your side of the story.”
"Then why do you need a weapon?"
"Why do you?" I countered. In lieu of words, he backed up a few steps, so the backs of his legs pressed against the ledge. "All right, all right. Let's not do anything rash. Just… talk to me.”
“I thought that’s what we were doing.”
“Well, I'd feel a lot better if that thing wasn't trained on my face."
He squinted at me and then put it to his own temple. "Is this better?"
I didn’t think abso-fucking-lutely would go over well. I holstered my gun with one hand as I held out the other, placatingly. I still wanted to bring him in alive, not in a body bag. “Casey. Talk to me. If not for your own sake, then for Mason’s.”
His head jerked up at the sound of Mason’s name. “I loved Mason.” His eyes were red-rimmed and weary. “You have to make sure they understand that. Tell them that I loved Mason.”
“You can tell them yourself.”
“Tell them!” he shouted.
Negotiations had never been my strong suit and clearly that hadn’t changed. “I will. I will,” I assured him. “But right now, why don’t you tell me why you killed him?”
“That was never the plan.”
