by Beverly Long
Kids were wrong about a lot of things.
Rena pulled into a parking spot at the side of the building. Unbuckled her seat belt. Opened her door.
“I’m not looking forward to this,” he said, his head turned away from his partner.
Rena sighed loudly. “I know. I’m going to miss him. I really wasn’t expecting Toby to do this.”
Toby Kingman had been with the Baywood Police Department for thirty-two years. He’d been A.L.’s boss for twelve and Rena’s for eight. Two months ago, before the murders had started, he’d given notice to his boss that he was retiring.
The hissing and moaning could still be heard.
Toby Kingman was a cop’s cop. Understood what it was to work the street, knew the bullshit that cops put up with. Didn’t back down from supporting his cops when they were right.
Didn’t protect bad cops, either.
That made him okay in A.L.’s book. He would miss the man. Two nights ago, they’d had his retirement party. The one that counted. The one where cops gathered in a dark and familiar bar and told stories, the kind where service was understood and really appreciated.
Tonight, the city was putting on some official thing to celebrate the event. A.L. would normally have skipped out, but the word had come down that attendance was mandatory.
“Rumor is that they’re going to announce the new chief,” Rena said. “It sort of lacks some class that they’d do that the same night that they celebrate Toby’s retirement.”
A.L. turned to look at her. “You were expecting class?”
“Neither of the two deputy chiefs want the job. Piss poor succession planning if you ask me,” Rena said.
“Not great,” A.L. agreed. Toby had been good at so many things but probably hadn’t given enough thought to who would ultimately fill his shoes.
“They’re going to have to tap the detective ranks. It should be you,” she said. “You’re the best detective on the force.”
“It won’t be me,” he said knowingly.
Rena didn’t argue. “You’re too cantankerous.”
A.L. shrugged. It was unlikely that anybody considered him management material, even though he’d done many of the right things. Had gone to college and earned a criminal justice degree. Gotten a beat cop job in Madison. Four years later, had transferred to the SWAT unit. Professionally, he’d had it going.
Personally, things had been rockier. Two years into his job in Madison, Jacqui had gotten pregnant. They’d dated for only six months, but he’d been confident they could make it work, and eight weeks before Traci was born, they’d tied the knot. When she’d been four, and the marriage was already on a downward skid, Jacqui had wanted him home more. He’d left the SWAT unit and moved back to Baywood to take the open detective slot. Things were better for a while but, ultimately, not good enough. The divorce five years ago had been a relief.
Rena got the rest of the way out of the car, slammed the door and started walking. “And,” she said, picking up the conversation, “they want somebody who will kiss their ass every now and then.”
“I kiss your ass. Isn’t that enough?”
“You maybe bite my ass, but you definitely don’t kiss it,” she said over her shoulder.
He smiled and caught up with her.
“It won’t be me,” Rena said. “I’ve been discounted.”
He didn’t bother to placate her and tell her that her thoughts were unfounded. She’d made the mistake of confiding in a friend, who hadn’t had the sense to keep her mouth shut about it at work, that Rena and her husband were taking fertility treatments. Sexism, just like racism and ageism, was real. She’d been labeled “on the mommy track.” Not in any file and never in any public venue. But that wasn’t where the real decisions were made. No, those still happened over beers by mostly white men.
“I think it will be Faster,” she said.
She was probably right. Christian Faster had been a detective for a few years. He was less than thorough, didn’t really give a shit about victims and cheated on his wife. But he was a supreme ass-kisser. “Who cares?”
“I do. You should.”
“Well,” he said, “we’ll know soon enough.”
The party was on the third floor, in the large conference room. On the way there, he and Rena stopped on the second floor, in the office that they shared with the four other detectives on the force. It was empty. Likely everyone was already assembled upstairs. Word would have spread quickly that there had been another murder, and cops weren’t immune to the need to ruminate and speculate. But even within the department, information was being handled carefully in a need-to-know manner. Members of the task force that had been initiated after the second murder would be briefed at the daily morning meeting. As the lead detectives on the case, either he or Rena had to be there to provide updates. It had been chaired by Toby. Now the new guy would have that responsibility. “I’m giving them ten minutes,” A.L. said. They needed to start dismantling Jane Picus’s life as soon as possible.
Rena nodded. And, like the good mind reader that she normally was, said, “We should probably start at the flower shop. They’re open until six.”
He checked his phone. It was almost five. The store was just down the street. “Okay,” he said. He looked at his partner a little closer. She really did look tired. “Hey, are you feeling all right?” he asked.
Two
Rena felt like shit. They’d been working nonstop for weeks and the new meds that the doctor had put her on made her sick to her stomach. She’d lost five pounds in two weeks and was tired of getting up in the middle of the night with stomach cramps that could have dragged a water buffalo to its knees.
And it really made her angry that she couldn’t say anything about it to Gabe. Because he’d feel badly for her and it would weaken his resolve to keep trying.
At thirty-eight, and after two years, Rena could barely keep herself motivated to try the next thing her eternally optimistic reproductive endocrinologist came up with. If Gabe wasn’t all in, it would simply be too much.
Infertility was stressful. Ask anybody.
Gabe thought it was her job that was preventing pregnancy, and three nights ago, just before he’d left for Cleveland, he’d said she should quit. It had been the second time he’d voiced that opinion, clearly not caring that the first time he’d offered up the suggestion, they’d had a fight that had lasted three days. She loved her job. He knew that. She understood that he didn’t feel the same. Understood when he said all the things one might expect. It’s too dangerous. People are getting crazy. Nobody respects the police anymore.
It was hard to argue with the truth. But that didn’t mean that she was willing to give up everything she’d ever worked to be. She’d go to the effort of putting on a face tonight, something that A.L. wouldn’t be bothered with. She was willing to play the game; nobody would know that she agreed with A.L. that Christian Faster was an idiot.
Gabe would be back tonight, and hopefully they could keep it together until a fertilized egg managed to attach itself to her uterine wall. He’d be a great dad—she was confident of that. His older brother, Danny, was a great dad, and everybody said that Gabe and Danny were just alike. Hell, Danny was both dad and mom, having lost his wife to cancer two years earlier. But he and his young boys were soldiering on.
She looked at the stack of files on her desk, all needing her attention. But now with a fourth woman smothered, they would continue to be put aside. And she would continue to believe that they’d catch a break pretty soon and nail Perp’s balls to the wall.
It could be a woman, of course. No balls. She and A.L. had discussed this at length. Statistically, most serial killers were men. But there were some females. And the absence of sexual assault definitely made that an option. Also, the no forced entry. Both believed it more likely that a strange woman knocking at the door would
be less frightening than a strange man. She and A.L. had gotten to the point where they simply said Perp. It was unisex. But in the back of her mind, she was confident Perp was a man.
Maybe she was as much a sexist as the rest of the world.
“Ready?” she asked A.L.
“As ever,” he said.
She hadn’t been blowing shit when she’d said that he was the most qualified to lead the department. She’d always been incredibly grateful that she’d been assigned to be his partner. It had taken her almost a year to be confident that he wasn’t as big of a jerk as he wanted people to believe. And she’d known better than to make the mistake of trying to convince others that they were wrong about him.
A.L. would have verbally chopped her up in little pieces and had her for lunch. At six-one and some two hundred pounds, he was big enough to get some attention. He could still beat her in a foot chase, which he’d proven just months earlier. The touch of silver at the edges of his short dark hair didn’t make him look distinguished but rather a little dangerous and she thought that probably made him happy.
She knew that Carrie and A.L. hooked up every now and again. She figured A.L. knew that she knew, since she and Carrie were friends, but they never discussed it. Carrie was equally discreet, although every now and then, only when they were off the clock, she would let it drop that she and A.L. had once again had a moment.
Rena wasn’t aware that A.L. was seeing anybody else. He never talked about what had led to the divorce, but based on some of the conversations she overheard between A.L. and his ex-wife, they weren’t well suited. She’d made the mistake of telling Gabe about one of the more vitriolic exchanges, and his response had been, “Once you have a kid, you’re stuck with that person, and for better or worse can become pretty damn bad.”
Like the crazy person that the fertility drugs were making her, she’d interpreted his comment as reason number 151 of why not having a kid was better than having a kid, and a crying jag had commenced. It had taken Gabe two full days of talking in a nice, neutral tone to get her to admit that 1) he’d never ever said that he didn’t want a child, and 2) just maybe she’d read a meaning into his remarks that had no way in hell been intended.
She and A.L. took the stairs to the third floor. There was a low buzz of conversation in the conference room. All the chairs were taken, so she and A.L. took a spot leaning up against the back wall. There was a small table off to one side, holding the requisite cake and fruit punch.
They were there less than two minutes when the mayor entered the room. Kenwood Johnson was a six-foot seven-inch black man. Twenty years ago, he’d been the starting forward on the University of Wisconsin’s basketball team. Maybe not in quite the same shape, he still looked real good. And always smelled delicious.
She took a big breath as he walked past and smiled at A.L., who rolled his eyes. They’d had the conversation about the mayor’s cologne at least twice.
People, cops and noncops alike, thought Kenwood did a good job. Appreciated the fact that he’d stayed in Wisconsin after graduation and started a small catering company. The fact that he had been elected and reelected to a second four-year term was a testament to his ability to get along with most anybody.
The fact that he favored Christian Faster was a testament that everybody had bad judgment once in a while.
Mayor Johnson made his way to the far side of the room, shaking hands as he went. He turned to take in the room. “Good to see so many of you here.”
Always nice to pretend that they’d all shown up voluntarily. She wondered if he’d go off script and mention Jane Picus. That’s what the room really wanted to talk about.
“It’s always a bittersweet moment when you have to bid an esteemed colleague goodbye. On one hand, we’re sad to see Toby Kingman exit from the police department, and on the other...” He paused for dramatic effect, and A.L. leaned close to her ear.
“We’re jealous as hell,” he whispered.
“We’re so happy that he’s at the point in his life and career where he can start to take it easy,” Mayor Johnson said. “A round of applause, please, for Toby Kingman.”
Every cop in the room put his or her hands together. Toby, a humble guy, turned red above the collar of his dingy white shirt.
“We’re fortunate,” Mayor Johnson went on, “that we have an excellent person to take his place. Tonight, I am here to announce that I have appointed Christian Faster to be the chief of police of Baywood.”
For a long moment, the room was absolutely quiet. Then Toby Kingman, good guy that he was, started clapping and the other people in the room, out of respect for Toby, fell into line.
Christian stood up. He always wore an expensive suit with good shoes. And he always had something to say. He was the antithesis of Toby Kingman.
She could almost feel the disgust radiating from A.L.’s pores, and she willed her partner to keep it together. If A.L. got put on the shit list, then, as his partner, she’d be scooping it up, too. She turned her head, looked A.L. in the eye and whispered, “Change can be good.”
“Fuck you, Morgan,” A.L. said conversationally. “Get your cake to go. We’ve got work to do.”
* * *
He drove while Rena ate her cake. He’d skipped the sugar overload, thinking he already needed a barf bag after listening to Faster wax on about his goal of making the Baywood Police Department a shining example for others to follow. Maybe it really was time to go get a job at the factory with his dad and Uncle Joe.
But first he was going to catch the bastard who was doing this. He turned onto Division Street and drove halfway down the block. There were lots of empty parking spots this late in the afternoon. Over the years, he’d been in the Petal Poof a couple times. Mostly to buy Traci flowers after her many dance and piano recitals. It never failed that his ex would make some smart-ass remark that she never got flowers from him.
He thought maybe she had a time or two, but he never debated the issue. That would have involved a prolonged conversation with Jacqui, and he really did try to avoid that.
“Traci working?” Rena asked, pointing at the sign above the door of Pancake Magic.
“Not tonight.” Pancake Magic was Baywood’s best diner, and his daughter had been waitressing there for a few months, generally a couple nights a week and on Saturday mornings. She’d gotten the job without asking him or Jacqui first.
He liked that about his kid.
Liked it, too, that Pancake Magic served dinner from five to eight, so that even after cleanup, she was home by nine on a school night. Her first two weeks, he’d been parked outside, waiting to follow her home. She’d insisted it wasn’t necessary and that it made her feel as if she couldn’t be trusted. He’d relented once he’d gotten her promise that she’d always leave as part of a group.
Shit happens, he’d told her, even in smaller towns.
Maybe his daughter knew Jane Picus, maybe had waited on her. Maybe—Christ, he felt sick at the thought—she’d waited on whoever had targeted Jane Picus, the fuckhead who was killing women.
“Are you okay?” Rena asked. “You’re breathing heavy.”
“I’m fucking great,” he said. “Let’s just do this.”
They got out of the car, and he pulled on the door to the florist. It was locked. He cupped his hands around his eyes so that he could see inside the darker interior. He saw several people huddled around the counter. They’d locked the doors early.
That answered the question of whether or not her coworkers had heard the news. He knocked on the door. It was opened quickly by the woman he recognized as the owner.
“Detectives McKittridge and Morgan,” he said. He opened his badge and held it steady, as did Rena.
“Of course,” she said. “Come in. I’m Sharon Plow.” The fiftyish-year-old woman looked and sounded as if she’d been crying.
“I’m gues
sing that you’ve heard the news about Jane Picus,” he said.
She nodded, waved a hand at the other two people by the counter. “I closed up right away and called Jillian and Ben. They just got here. We’ve all worked together for many years,” she said. “Ben does deliveries and Jillian and Jane worked the counter. Our customers always joked that they wanted to talk to one of the J’s.”
That joke was probably going to fall flat in the future. Jillian looked a little older than Sharon. Ben had to be pushing seventy.
He normally wouldn’t question a group of people together, but in these circumstances, he thought it might be best. Rena evidently agreed, because she said, “We’re sorry for your loss, and while we don’t want to intrude, it would help us if we could ask you a few questions.”
Rena had a nice way about her. Rarely did people realize that there was a rod of steel that ran up her spine. Her shoulder-length hair was thick and red and a little wild on the humid days. He’d seen her come unglued only a couple times, always when the crimes involved brutality to children. The creeps hadn’t stood a chance with the five-foot-four, one-hundred-and-twenty-pound tornado.
“Of course,” Sharon said.
He got the busywork out of the way, getting everybody’s full name and address. Then he asked, “How long did Jane work here?”
“About five years. It was not long after I’d opened the shop. Jillian and Ben were already hired, and Jane completed the team.”
“Anything unusual about Jane’s work recently?”
All three of them shook their heads. “She was always lovely to work with,” Jillian said. She had a trace of an English accent. “So proud of her daughter. She’s a straight-A student, you know.”
