“She is,” Madison confirmed, even though Barrett hadn’t officially ID’d Carson. Shock and disbelief were common in the wake of death in general, murder or otherwise. But with the former, people tended to have an extra hard time processing the fact that a life was snuffed out by another’s hand.
“I was trying to get my head around how I was going to tell her that I’d have to evict her if she didn’t get caught up. Guess that problem is solved.” Green’s voice was solemn, and there was a whisper of hope that testified he’d rather have that difficult conversation than the one he was having now.
Rationalization was another thing that came up after someone died, as if there was a hidden nugget of positivity to be found in the horror of loss. Theo Green, in Madison’s opinion, was a man who sincerely cared about other people—even to his own detriment. And it was obvious he had a soft spot for the underdog. “We’re sorry for your loss, Mr. Green.”
He lifted his gaze to meet hers. “Just find who did this to her.”
“That’s our intention.” She wasn’t going to promise as much out loud, but she would find justice. It was a vow she made with every case.
Madison was behind the wheel again as she and Terry headed back to the station. She saw every minute turn over on the dash clock.
“I assume you want to see if we can find Carl Long tonight?” Terry asked, getting out of the car once she’d parked.
“Normally, I’d say yes, but—”
“Really?” Terry bugged his eyes out. “You’re calling it a day already? It’s not even midnight.”
“Guess I’m learning from you that I need food and rest.” She wasn’t going to feign illness, and she certainly wasn’t going to fill him on her plans.
“Hey, I’m not going to stand here arguing with you.” He headed toward his van.
“We start early, though,” she called after him.
“Eight. For the autopsy.”
“Before eight so we’re not late.”
“You got it, boss.”
She hustled toward her Mazda, and on the way, her phone rang. Troy. She couldn’t avoid him forever.
“Hello,” she answered after the third ring.
“I was starting to wonder if you dropped off the surface of the earth.”
“I told you when I left that I was likely going to be late.”
There was a pocket of silence that was painful for her. Lulls in conversations between them never used to be awkward. Now they seemed filled with assumptions about what the other was thinking and not saying.
“So the woman was murdered?”
Madison had given Troy the basics after Estelle’s call. “Yeah, she was. I probably won’t be home until really late if you want to go to bed without—”
“Yeah, no problem. Thanks for letting me know.”
She took a deep breath. Before Troy, she easily let relationships go—no point to getting trapped by drama. She operated on the theory that if a relationship was work it wasn’t worth the effort or meant to be. But with Troy, there was a damn part of her that wanted to fight, claw, scratch her way. Then, if it didn’t meld, well, she’d have to rethink things. “I should have called you earlier or—”
“I tried calling.”
She wasn’t sure if his tone accused her of ignoring him or not. “Did you leave a voicemail?” She winced, guilt slicing through her for shifting the blame for the communication breakdown onto him.
“No. I figured you’d see my missed calls. You could have shot me a quick text.”
She hesitated just a few seconds too long.
“Then again, I should know better. You’re on a case and me, Hershey, everything else disappears. At least I know where I stand.”
She pinched her eyes shut and clamped her mouth closed. Heat spiked through her. He didn’t own her; they weren’t even engaged, let alone married. And why should she have to explain the minutia of her day?
“Do you know when you’ll be home?”
He rarely pushed her when she was working a case, and with the direct question, she was stabbed with sadness. For the sake of their relationship, she should head straight home but— “Probably about two, maybe earlier.”
“Two? In the morning?”
“What do you want from me, Troy?” she spat. “It’s a fresh case. You know the first twenty-four are important.”
“Yeah, I know.” He hung up.
Tears pooled in her eyes, and she cursed the warm liquid. She hated hiding this other side of her life from him, but it was for his own good. His claims of them being a team were nothing more than the offering of a kind man, saying the right thing, but not really intending any follow-through. And, sure they were a partnership, a united front—at least on some things. But he didn’t quite get her obsession with ridding the police department of corrupt cops. He certainly wouldn’t understand her using every spare second to gather intel before going to Internal Affairs. He’d tell her it was too dangerous or she was taking risks she didn’t need to. What he didn’t understand and maybe never would was that her vow to protect and serve the city of Stiles meant something to her down to her marrow. To start with, her vendetta against the Russian Mafia itself was personal; she blamed them for her grandfather’s murder. To add to this, seeing her fellow officers betraying the badge drove her desire to serve justice even more. It was time for the mob and anyone on their payroll to live behind bars. It was the least of what they deserved.
-
Thirteen
Madison parked a few blocks away from Club Sophisticated. It was a downtown bar that had attracted people affiliated with the Russian Mafia in the past, and she was quite certain some previously unknown associates were still regulars, along with newfound corrupt cops. At least she had it on good authority.
About three weeks ago, she’d enlisted the help of friend and renowned reporter, Leland King, to investigate one cop she suspected of corruption. Dustin Phelps. King had captured photos inside the club of Phelps with another Stiles PD officer, Garrett Murphy. With them was Jonathan Wright, who was the right-hand man to Marcus Randall, a business tycoon in town suspected of crooked dealings, and a mystery woman. King bowed out after handing over the images because his mother’s life was threatened. If he knew who the woman was, he hadn’t said, and Madison had let it go, figuring she’d find it out for herself. She’d keep at it for a while longer, respecting King’s decision, but uncovering the woman’s identity was proving a bit difficult.
It was part of the reason why she was here after eleven at night, instead of being home with Troy and Hershey. It was also why she was dressed in black jeans, black shirt, and black hoodie—all of which she kept in the trunk of her Mazda. She’d checked her appearance in the pitted and smeared mirror of a gas station restroom after she changed, and it showed a woman about to commit a crime. After all, if duct tape, rope, and a knife were a murder kit, a black hoodie, shirt, and jeans were in the criminal handbook on what to wear. But she wasn’t the one doing anything illegal.
She gave herself one last look in the rearview mirror before getting out of the car. Some of her short blond hair was poking out around her ears, and she tucked the strands out of sight. Now it was just her light complexion against the dark clothing.
She grabbed her camera from the trunk and set out for the rear of the club. Her reasoning was anyone involved with the Russians wouldn’t leave by the front door. She’d find a spot to hide and snap pictures of anyone exiting.
She walked past other bars, and they appeared to be doing a good business. Looking through their windows, bodies were crammed and gyrating, and music thumped out to the sidewalk. She ducked down an alley that ran along the side of a jazz club. It ended at another alley that butted up to Club Sophisticated.
She ducked left, and the farther she walked, the stronger the stench of rotting garbage. She passed an overflowing dump
ster. Its lid cocked, black bags hoisting it up. The reek had bile shooting up her throat. She snapped a hand over her mouth and swallowed roughly as she looked around for a good place to hide and take pictures. Most of the alley was exposed. Bags were piled next to the dumpster, and if she wedged herself behind them—
Fuck me, she thought, but the spot would offer the most concealment, and it was quite close to the back door.
She mumbled to herself as she set about getting into position. The garbage had her gagging again.
“Hey.” It was a woman’s voice. One Madison recognized—but from where? Regardless, maybe if she ignored her, she’d go away.
“I said, ‘Hey,’” the woman repeated.
All wishful thinking apparently! She turned and wished she hadn’t. She knew exactly who the woman was now. She’d clawed Madison during a previous investigation, and the woman also claimed to have “a gift” for seeing the future. And things just keep getting better.
The woman’s gnarled face relaxed with seeming recognition but then contorted again. “You’re that cop.”
She resisted the urge to point out that for someone who could “see” things, the woman should have known who she was before Madison faced her. But she needed this woman’s cooperation. She closed the distance between them. “I need you to keep quiet.”
“Don’t tell me what to do!”
“Shh.” The woman recoiled, and Madison held up her hands. “I won’t hurt you.” Really, if anyone should be afraid—if history had a say—it was Madison.
“You homeless now?” The woman jutted out her chin and sneered. Even in the pale light, Madison noted that she had no teeth on the bottom, very few on top.
“No, but I’m—”
The back door of the club opened, and a woman came out. Slender, a few inches taller than Madison, probably about five eight. She had a swiftness to her steps and pulled the hood of her coat over her head and tucked her hands into her pockets. She didn’t give the impression she saw Madison or the other woman. That could be what she wanted them to think, or it could be a matter of the homeless or perceived homeless being invisible to some.
But Madison noticed her. The mystery woman. Madison slammed the heel of her left boot into the ground. If she hadn’t been stuck talking to “Claws,” she’d have had another picture.
Madison felt a jabbing finger in her arm and pulled back.
“Why are you here?”
“Listen…” Madison took a few more steps closer to her intended roost—as disgusting as it was—and the woman moved with her. “I’m working a case, and I need you to leave.”
“Oh, really. Not what I’m sensing.”
“Then your senses are off.”
The woman smacked her gums.
“Please, can you go somewhere else while I work? Just for a bit.”
“For how long?”
Madison’s gaze drifted to the door of the club. She prayed that no one else would come out while she was dealing with this impossible woman. “A couple hours at the most.”
“’K, but then I’m back. That’s where I sleep. Shelters me from the wind.” She flicked a finger toward the area that Madison was going to use for concealment.
There were certainly people with far worse luck than she had.
-
Fourteen
A couple hours later, Madison could almost squeeze out the stench of the garbage—almost. Her stomach, though, was aware of the lingering potency.
It was probably about time for her to get moving anyhow. A quick look at her phone told her it was just after one in the morning. Her eyes were getting heavy, but she’d been up since about eight yesterday morning. Troy had an incessant need to clean the house every Saturday first thing, and he would keep the noise down, but the aroma of cleaners still found their way to their room and her nose. Come to think of it, her sense of smell was highly attuned these days. Whatever that was about.
The back door of Club Sophisticated swung open, and she lifted her camera. Blake Golden and Jonathan Wright. Seeing them made her hesitate, though, she shouldn’t know why. Their presence here wasn’t a huge surprise.
Madison had dated Golden for a while—that is, until she found out he put his defense-attorney skills to work for Dimitre Petrov, the Russian Mafia don.
Madison took a few pictures of the two men.
Wright was holding the door and peeked into the club, as if waiting on someone.
Madison adjusted her posture, sat up a little more. Still poised to hit the shutter button.
A man came through the doorway. Officer Dustin Phelps. Picture taken.
And another man. Officer Garrett Murphy. Image captured.
Her heart was racing. She didn’t have the officers with a direct associate of the Mafia, but Golden and Wright could, by a stretch, be considered associates. It was disgusting to see her suspicions confirmed. Phelps and Murphy had taken an oath to serve and protect.
But things became even more difficult with Murphy. He’d been the best man at Cynthia’s wedding, a last-minute stand-in. Madison would make certain he was corrupt before raising her concerns to her friend.
Golden and Wright went west, and Phelps and Murphy moved at a crawl in the opposite direction. Neither was saying anything, which was unfortunate.
The door swung open again.
“Are you coming or what?” Phelps called out to a man who’d just exited.
“Yes, Mom.” The man’s face, even in the dim lighting of the alley, mostly shadows, was familiar. It was Joel Phelps, Dustin’s brother.
Madison couldn’t see Dustin and Murphy, who were now blocked by the dumpster, but she no longer heard their footsteps. They must have been waiting for Joel.
Shortly after, their steps resumed, tapping off in an even rhythm, unlike Madison’s heart. She’d had her suspicions about Joel before now, but it would seem they were confirmed. He, too, was corrupt. He worked as a freelance reporter and often contributed to the Stiles Times. Madison had been curious if he had somehow found out about King’s poking around and been behind the threat on King’s mother.
She’d love to pay Joel Phelps a visit, really get in his face, but there’d be no advantage. He’d just tip off his little brother, who would also inform Murphy. It would either make them burrow further underground or invoke retaliation.
She waited things out until she heard nothing other than the bass of the clubs before coming out of her hidey shithole. She started to move and stopped cold.
A scraping noise. What the hell—
She found the source and slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a scream. A rat, the size of a small groundhog scurried out, its nose twitching, its beady eyes staring, and its throat making some dreadful squeak.
She flew from her hiding spot and performed a full-body shimmy. She wouldn’t be able to shower long enough to wash tonight off, but before she’d have the luxury of even trying, she had a stop to make.
The storage building housed a couple hundred units of varying sizes. Madison had leased a small one. She walked through the maze of hallways; each section was motion-triggered to turn on lighting as she moved along. It put her in every spy movie ever written, and she felt like she might be getting in over her head. But she couldn’t bring herself to turn her back on the corruption in her city, and she couldn’t exactly come out with her mission to Troy. She just didn’t think he’d fully understand her need.
She stopped outside unit 135, slipped the key into the padlock, and pushed up on the garage-style door. She pocketed the padlock. Thanks to common sense and those previously mentioned movies, she wasn’t going to be careless enough to make it easy if a baddie was tailing her to lock her inside. They’d have to bring their own lock anyway. That thought did little to comfort her.
She stepped inside, facing the flood of guilt she always experienced from dece
iving the people she loved. She worked to offset the chastisement with the justification that she was keeping them safe by housing anything related to her little side mission separate from them.
She flicked on a light and lowered the door, leaving it open just about a foot from the ground—another precaution.
The unit was about function not beauty. She had a shelving unit, corkboard, desk, chair, computer, and printer. She’d paid for all of it in cash, not that Troy was in the business of snooping through her purchases. But the money had come from her grandmother, which Madison felt was fitting. After all, if it wasn’t for her grandfather taking down one of the Mafia’s bookkeepers, he might still be alive today. Instead, Madison had never met him, and she’d lost her grandmother five years ago to a cancerous brain tumor.
Madison plugged her camera into the computer and transferred the pictures she’d taken. If anyone ever got ahold of it, they’d find nothing on the data card. She was quite sure coming up with a story to explain a camera in her trunk would be far easier than explaining why she had pictures of people coming out of Club Sophisticated, including fellow officers, depending on who was asking the question.
She brought up the images one at a time, zooming in and studying them. She paused on the photo of Blake Golden and Jonathan Wright. Wright had tailed her and Terry during the investigation into the murder of Randall’s son, and she was quite certain that he was in cahoots with Petrov’s right-hand men at the time. She’d also been quite sure that relationship had resulted in the murder of Ryan Turner, a friend of Randall’s son, who was a threat to the business tycoon and possibly the Mafia. Ryan had died of an overdose—accidental, was the story—but Madison had never bought that. To her, though, Wright hanging out at Club Sophisticated was all the proof she needed that the guy was dirty—former Marine or not.
She stared at her photos for a while longer, then slumped in the chair. She was exhausted and frustrated. Really all these pictures proved was these men kept company with each other at a club, at least formerly haunted by the mob. She was going to need better if she was ever going to nail Phelps and Murphy.
What We Bury Page 7
