The church’s pianist Kurt performed a beautiful Schubert piece and the choir volunteered to come in and sing one of Patti’s favorite songs. Their voices soared and dipped, filling the sanctuary with the beauty of their melded harmonies—even as grief stripped the family of its defenses and they huddled together, eyes glued to the large photo of Patti holding Jay, laughing.
Patti’s mother stopped as the family shuffled toward their cars an hour and a half later.
“Thank you, my dear, for the service. It was a wonderful tribute.”
Cici clasped both her hands around the older, softer ones, noting the veins and delicacy of the protruding wrist bone. “Of course. Patti was an important member of this community. She will be missed.”
A movement to her left caused Cici to flinch, then turn. There, lumbering away from the church’s open doors, was a tall man dressed in black, his too-large pants pooling around his knees and ankles, seemingly held up by thick black work boots.
“Excuse me,” Cici said, her heart racing.
“Who was that?” Cici asked Mrs. Sanchez, interrupting the woman chatting with her friends where they stood near the door.
“Who was who, dear?”
Cici tipped her chin, not wanting to draw more attention to him by pointing. “The man. In black. Walking away.”
Mrs. Sanchez turned to look, befuddlement turning way to confusion. “No idea.” She pulled herself upright. “I’ll go speak to him. No one should pop in on a memorial service for a look-see. Such terrible manners. And those pants.” She sniffed, her lip curling to show her disdain.
“Don’t,” Cici said, her tone sharp. All four women now stared at Cici, eyes wide, mouths gaping.
“Whatever you remember about him, write it down now. In my office.” At their growing looks of dismay, Cici said. “Please. Right now. Don’t talk to each other about it. Right down what you remember. I need to call Sam.”
She pulled out her phone as Mrs. Sanchez said, “Heaven preserve us.”
Secrets were impossible to keep with Mrs. Sanchez in the room, but, then, maybe if the women knew that the man who’d crashed the funeral might be a person of interest in Patti’s death—and the missing college runner and Marietta – they would be more vigilant. Not out of trouble. No, that group of older women sought trouble in their ongoing war to stifle it.
Devon, a nice young man who’d started with the police force about a year before, came by to collect their written accounts. He also brought the police sketch artist Sam had mentioned to Cici earlier. Her name was Jody and she seemed to enjoy wearing multiple layers of linen in a variety of lengths and colors. Cici complimented her ruffled pants.
“Thank you,” Jody said. She shook her head, causing her numerous beads and jangly earrings to make themselves heard. The resounding noise was melodious and soothing. Cici liked her.
“Why don’t we start with you, Reverend Gurule? I understand you managed a good look at our fellow.”
Cici offered Jody her desk chair and desk but Jody shook her head, those ringlets bouncing in tandem with her jewelry. “I’m happy here on this side of the desk. Nice chairs. You get comfortable, though. This could take a while.”
Cici sat. She did the breathing exercises that helped her regain focus and remain in the present and then began talking. Jody remained patient, listening. She asked the occasional question. Her strong, thin arms rippled as they moved over her page.
“You were very thorough,” Jody complimented with a smile. “As Agent Chastain said you’d be.” She turned the sketch toward Cici. “How does this mesh with your image?”
Cici nodded once, her mouth too dry to speak. Sensing Jody needed a verbal reply, Cici managed to croak out, “Yes. That’s him. Those eyes—” She looked away, unable to bear the hatred flaming even from the penciled eyes.
Jody rose and collected her materials. “I’ll talk to the other women now. Together, I think.”
“They’ll try to out-remember and outdo one another,” Cici said with a grimace.
Jody’s smile was as soft as the indigo outer tunic she wore. “Nothing new there. And I don’t mind. It’ll make them feel useful. Plus, my flight out isn’t until this evening.”
“You’re not on staff here?” Cici asked, surprise slithering through her chest.
Jody chuckled. “I’m a federal employee, assigned, typically, to various FBI groups. I met Sam while he worked the task force in Denver—that’s my home base, if you will. Apparently, Sam’s new position makes him powerful enough to not just fly me out for a day but to keep me away from other pressing cases.”
Cici rolled her lips back into her mouth, unsure how to respond. Jody winked and headed out to the small-group room to talk to Mrs. Sanchez and her friends.
Cici ambled outside into the covered courtyard garden. The faint trickle of water from the fountain caused the tension in her shoulders to ease a little. She fingered the silver conchos of her belt, enjoying the smooth, cool edge of the metal against her fingertips. The belt had been her mother’s favorite accessory, and it went well with the earrings Sam had given her. Besides those two pieces, she was dressed all in black—as befit the somberness of the day. Cici had purchased the flowing skirt a few years before when she lived in Boston, but it had served her better here, in the fall and winter—for the number of funerals and memorial services she’d had to perform.
She raised her hand, stroking the delicate metal of her new earrings, thankful for a connection to Sam. Much as she wanted to leave the safety of the church, she didn’t. The rapist seemed to know who she was—and her connection to Sam. She had no desire to find herself in another perilous situation. Especially with a broken foot and high levels of fatigue.
She settled deeper into the bench, out of direct sun, and opened her laptop. She read through her sermon. After an hour and a half, nearly two, of fine-tuning, she shut the device, stood, and stretched.
She passed the children’s garden on the way inside and stopped long enough to smile at the fat, round-faced sunflowers and the tenacious zucchini vines.
A cat trotted into the space. He was well-groomed with a thick, shiny orange and gray coat.
“Aren’t you pretty,” Cici murmured, bending down to pet the cat. He nuzzled into her hand, his collar jangling. She picked up the tag but couldn’t make out the number there.
“You’ve managed to get into some trouble, huh?” Cici said.
She looked closer at the cat, her breath catching as it tugged at a piece of paper tucked inside its collar, the deep rumbling purr vibrating through Cici’s hands and up her arms. Or maybe that was Cici, shaking, from the sight of her name scrawled on that thin white sheet.
“I thought you looked an awful lot like the cat in Patti’s garage,” she muttered.
She pulled her phone out of her pocket, trying to ignore her shaking hands and dialed Sam’s number.
“I have a cat,” she said, still shocked and struggling to process what was happening. “It walked into the garden.”
“All right. Though I don’t think Mona and Rodolfo are going to want to share your affection even if the thing is a tenth their size.”
Much as Cici wanted to enjoy Sam’s banter, her stomach flip-flopped before it slid back in place.
“No, Sam. You’re not following what I’m telling you. The cat. It’s the one from the Urlichs’.”
40
Cici
How can a rational being be ennobled by any thing that is not obtained by its own exertions? ― Mary Wollstonecraft
* * *
Sam cursed. “I shouldn’t leave the crime scene now.”
“No doubt that was the point,” Cici replied. “There’s a note.”
“I’ll send someone over there to be with you now. A uniform from the precinct. We’ve moved over to Two-Mile. The group pulled another couple of bodies.”
Her shoulders drooped. Additional bodies, more families who would grieve their dead. Cici had hoped no more women were located—
for the sake of the living.
Not that she felt like talking, but her words kept her from having to read the hateful message scrawled on the white paper.
“I think he trained the cat to carry paper. It was…um…” Cici needed a moment to gather her composure. “It was wrapped around the cat’s collar.”
“What does it say?” Sam asked.
Cici could hear the people and chaos continuing to swirl around him at the preserve, but Sam’s focus turned toward Cici.
The words wanted to stick in her throat but Cici forced them out. “It says: I have the girl. If he doesn’t stop, I’ll make sure you end up next to her.”
Sam hissed out a curse.
Cici cleared her dry, aching throat. She remembered with startling clarity the dream of being underwater, helpless. She’d never shake the terrible feeling of her hands tied behind her, the drugged feeling that kept her too uncoordinated to reach the surface, the air slowly drifting from her lungs as her vision turned dark.
“That’s not all.”
“What else?” Sam asked.
She touched her tongue to her dry lower lip. “Um…”
“Cici,” Sam said in a warning tone. “What does it say?”
Cici clenched her fists and forced the words out all in one breath—the only way she’d be able to get them out. “He said that if you—he names you by name—if Detective Samuel Chastain continues searching for the killer, I—he calls me Reverend Cecilia—anyway, I won’t get off as easy as the others.”
41
Sam
We die. That may be the meaning of life. But we do language. That may be the measure of our lives. ― Toni Morrison
* * *
Dread pooled in Sam’s belly, licking outward. Sam couldn’t stop the investigation even to save Cici—the man knew that. He was screwing with Sam, toying with him, which once again made Sam think he must have some kind of connection to him. But he didn’t know who the man was.
“I’ll send uniforms your way now,” Sam said. “Wait. Isn’t Devon there?”
“No, he left about a half-hour ago. He planned to drop Jody at the precinct and then finish his shift—whatever that means.”
“I’ll call him. Or another officer. Hang on.”
Cici’s safety was his responsibility to ensure, and so far, he was failing her.
Sam looked around for a familiar face—someone he could trust to take what seemed relatively innocuous—a cat—seriously and ensure Cici’s safety. Raynor wouldn’t go. While Raynor was no longer the lead investigator, he was still involved as the local liaison.
As soon as they’d pulled those bodies from the water yesterday, Sam had reason to call his boss and request federal resources. The first of those came in the form of Jody, but Sam needed more help.
“Stay on the phone with me. Can you do that?” he asked her.
“Yes, of course.” Her voice shook a little but she sounded resolute.
Sam glanced around until he saw one of the uniformed officers he knew. “Will you call in a stalker situation for me?” Sam asked. He gave the guy Cici’s address.
The guy gave Sam a funny look, but contacted dispatch, using the coded numbers police departments gave their crimes. The walkie-talkie squawked back with dispatch noting there were two fatal car crashes and a potential gas leak.
The guy gave Sam a “what-you-gonna-do” look. No real help there.
A damn cat. Their guy turned a pet into a scary-as-all-hell message. At her church. Which meant he was learning her schedule.
“Where are you?” Sam asked.
“I was in the garden. I’m heading inside.”
“God, Cici. Yes, get behind some locked doors. Can you put the cat somewhere where it can’t escape?” Sam asked, his voice tight.
“I am locking the doors. For the entire office area. Mrs. Sanchez isn’t really happy with me.”
Like Sam cared about Mrs. Sanchez’s happiness at the moment.
“The cat—do you have the cat?” Sam asked. “It’s now evidence.”
“Yeah. It’s very friendly.”
Goosebumps rippled over Sam’s skin. He sprinted toward Raynor. “Would you be willing to go check on Cici?” Sam asked him.
After the conversation yesterday when Sam explained the case shifting to federal jurisdiction, Raynor’s demeanor had shifted. He now considered Sam one of the Feds butting in, taking over.
“You do it,” Raynor said, his jaw jutted out with pugnacious irritation. “She’s your girlfriend.”
“The cat from the Urlich’s garage walked into her church,” Sam said. He could feel the desperate need to be there prickle through him.
Raynor’s eyes widened, but then he hardened his stance and narrowed his eyes. “SFPD needs a presence here to maintain the crime scene that’s in our district. And the cat’s a menace.”
Raynor dug in just as Sam hoped he wouldn’t. His pride had been savaged, and he was taking the pain out on Sam now.
Sam blew out a breath. “I’m the one who put in the word with the chief,” he told Raynor. “I said you’d be a steady, capable addition. You’ve made me regret those words, and I’ll be sure to tell your boss and the chief that when we sit down with them at the end of this.”
Raynor’s face fell into lines of disappointment before frustration and anger built there. He called for Sam, but Sam had turned away, already scrambling toward his vehicle.
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” he said into the phone. “Don’t you dare hang up on me. Not for any reason.”
The fact that Cici didn’t argue told him how scared she was.
“I don’t like this.” Sam’s stomach churned, the muffins he ate hours before turning leaden and molten at the same time in the pit of his gut. “Who else is at the church?”
“Mrs. Sanchez, of course. And Kurt.”
“He hasn’t gone after men before. His are gender-related crimes, which means Kurt should be fine.” Sam said, trying to soothe Cici’s concern so she didn’t bolt out of her office and drag the pianist in—or worse, put herself in the killer’s direct path.
“What if he isn’t?” Cici’s voice rose in plaintive question.
“Anyone else there?”
“Maybe Big Joe. He likes to work in the garden on his downtime. He’s not answering his phone, and I…I was too scared to—”
“You did the right thing. That garden and therefore Big Joe are on the other side of the property. He’ll be fine,” Sam said again, hoping he was correct. If the killer went after either man, Cici’s guilt would grow and morph. He didn’t want to give her any reason to do something reckless or to feel worse about the situation.
“All the other folks from the memorial cleared out a while ago. But he was here, Sam. At the memorial. I’m sure of it.”
Sam slid into his SUV. He should have called Jeannette. She was in town, and she was probably closer to Cici’s location than he was. Never mind now. Sam wasn’t going to hang up the phone—his connection to Cici—to call her. He started it and maneuvered around the other police rigs with the phone tucked between his shoulder and ear. Letting go of the wheel, he snagged the seatbelt and clipped it into place. By now, his Bluetooth connection kicked in.
Cici remained silent, and Sam worried he’d lost the connection. No. No. He was too close to the future he wanted.
Her voice drifted from the speakers and his muscles went momentarily lax with relief.
“The cat…oh, it’s acting weird, Sam.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know how to explain this,” she said.
“Is it going to hurt you?” Sam asked.
“Maybe,” she said.
“Can you shut it in your office and wait with Mrs. Sanchez?” Sam asked.
“Sam—”
“What?”
All his internal organs seemed to contract. He wasn’t going to make it to her in time.
“Nothing bad,” she said. Sam’s body unclenched for the seco
nd time in under a minute.
“Dammit, Cee—”
“Will you just listen,” she said. “There’s a spot here, on the cat’s collar. I noticed it while it was having its fit. Flipping all around, like it’s hurt. Do you think it’s hurt?”
“Focus on the spot.”
Sam exhaled as he bounced—hard—onto Paseo de Peralta. He gnawed on his lip, debating the best route to the southern part of town. He whipped around some tootling tourists and sped toward Agua Fria.
He cut the corner—and the light—and poured on more speed. A siren and lights kicked in behind him. Good. Sam appreciated the backup—even if the officer thought he was making a traffic stop for reckless driving.
“I have a cruiser tailing me and we’re coming in fast. Five minutes.”
“Okay,” Cici said.
He continued to break the speed limit, ignoring the officer’s voice yelling into his PA. He really needed lights for his SUV. But he didn’t have any, and he wasn’t stopping until he was in the parking lot.
Over the sound of the siren, Sam heard something loud crash.
Mrs. Sanchez squealed and released a rapid stream of Spanish. “Use the office phone to call nine-one-one,” Sam shouted.
He wove between the cars, thankful he was only a couple of miles from the church.
“Mrs. Sanchez is doing that now.”
“Good. What was that noise?” he asked.
“I think…” Cici’s voice cracked. “I think it must have been Kurt.”
Sam slammed his foot onto the brake as he cut his wheel to the left. His tires skidded before they caught and he turned onto the street.
“Don’t you dare unlock the door, Cecilia. Don’t you dare. I’ll be in the building in less than two minutes.”
“I can’t leave him—”
A Revelation of Death Page 17
