by Debra Webb
“Person of interest,” Devine corrected. “You and many others are persons of interest.”
“I see,” Hanover acquiesced, his smug expression giving away his amusement. “I expect that’s the less threatening of the terms.” His tone was openly condescending, the words directed at the younger man.
Bobbie watched him carefully. He was completely relaxed and enjoying the interview. “You’re quite the collector of—” she indicated the room at large “—daggers and swords.”
“I am, indeed.” He glanced around the enormous space. “My father started the collection when I was a child. We spent several years in Tokyo. I attended my first five years of school there.” As if to emphasize the point he added, “Chosen-teki nado no yona jokyo wareware wa-chu ni jibun jishin o mitsukemasu.”
Bobbie exchanged a look with Devine who appeared annoyed and said, “I assume that was Japanese.”
Hanover gave a nod of acknowledgment. “I said, ‘What a challenging position we find ourselves in.’ Wouldn’t you agree?”
Bobbie had friends who’d majored in international business in college. Learning Japanese and Chinese was considered beneficial for those who wanted to make their mark in the Asian market. She wasn’t surprised Hanover was proficient in one or both. Was he trying to impress them? “You lost a couple million dollars to Nigel Parker’s Ponzi scheme.”
“I did.” He leaned back and draped one arm across the back of the sofa. “If you’re asking me if I murdered Nigel and his wife and took his daughter, the answer is no. As much as it pains me to lose money, I have plenty more where that came from.”
“Were you a client of his wife’s?” Might as well cut to the chase. Maybe the man’s divorce was about his inability to stay faithful. His personality certainly left something to be desired. Bobbie wasn’t particularly fond of braggarts.
Hanover smiled and glanced directly at Devine before responding. “As much as I enjoy beautiful women, frankly, I would have been far more likely to be involved with Nigel than his wife.”
You guessed that one right, Bobbie. “You’re the only one of his clients who owns rare daggers and swords.”
He cocked his head and studied her, more of that amusement sparkling in his eyes. “What are you suggesting, Detective Gentry?”
“We aren’t suggesting anything, sir,” Devine responded before she could. “We’d like to examine your collection.”
Her partner leaned forward as he spoke, his expression and tone daring the other man to deny them access. Did these two know each other? This was the first time she’d noticed her partner’s inability to avoid a pissing contest. She’d certainly never had him speak over her as if she weren’t in the room.
“We can get a warrant,” Bobbie pointed out, looking from one man to the other. There was no need to play games.
Hanover turned his full attention back to her. “That won’t be necessary, Detective Gentry.” He stood and fastened the center button on his elegant suit jacket. “Examine my collection to your heart’s desire.” He touched a finger to his lips as if he’d only just recalled a relevant detail. “While you’re at it, perhaps you can find the century-old dagger that was stolen from me last month. I’m certain the officer who came to the house filed a report.” He squared his shoulders. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I was in the middle of preparing for an urgent business trip.”
Bobbie stood. Devine did the same. “Mr. Hanover, I’m afraid there may be a problem with your planned travel.”
Hanover scrutinized her for another long moment, whether it was curiosity or irritation in his eyes Bobbie couldn’t say for sure. “You look like your mother.”
Taken aback by the unexpected statement, Bobbie flinched before she could school the reaction. “Excuse me?”
“Your mother,” he repeated, “she was an amazing woman.”
Bobbie opened her mouth to question him when her phone vibrated. She checked the screen. Holt. “Excuse me.” She looked to Devine. “I have to take this call. Make sure Mr. Hanover understands the situation regarding travel.”
While Devine explained to Hanover that his travel plans would have to wait, Bobbie stepped away. “What’s up?”
“We have another homicide,” Sergeant Lynette Holt said before shouting at someone in the background to get some more uniforms on the scene. To Bobbie she said, “I need you here. Now.” She rattled off the address.
There were still a couple of questions she wanted to ask Hanover. “We’re interviewing—”
“Just get over here,” Holt growled. “We may have a connection between this one and the Parker murders.”
County Downs Court
10:30 a.m.
Bobbie showed her badge, then ducked under the crime scene tape and hustled up the sidewalk. Devine had dropped her off and would move on to the next name on the Parker client list. Since none of Fern’s friends had panned out it was time to focus on enemies of the parents. Devine would also follow up on the robbery Hanover claimed to have reported last month. The guy was an odd one, that was for sure. She’d flat out asked Devine if he knew Hanover and he insisted he had never met the man. It was possible her partner had only been reacting to Hanover’s blatant sexual overtures.
That was the thing about having a new partner. It took years to learn all the ins and outs of a person’s personality and to build the kind of trust she and Newt had shared. God, she missed him.
Bobbie tugged on a pair of gloves before entering the front door of the ranch-style home. Holt and Bauer were scheduled to help with the interviews of POIs in the Parker case today. A new homicide had taken priority. She glanced around the living room. An evidence tech was busy dusting for prints, another was checking the camera he’d used to photograph the scene. The coroner’s van was out front so Dr. Carroll was here somewhere. Holt appeared in the passageway between the living room and dining room.
“This way.” She motioned for Bobbie to follow her.
Bobbie trailed down a long hall after her sergeant. Doors to three bedrooms and a bathroom stood open. The first two bedrooms were sparsely furnished. Like the living room, the rooms were neat. No indications of a struggle or any sort of trouble. “How many vics?”
“One.”
“Any witnesses?”
“Nope.”
The final bedroom on the right was their destination. The smell of coagulating blood and feces was thick in the air. Asher Bauer and the coroner stood on either side of the Caucasian male, early to midtwenties, hanging from a rope attached to a hook that had been mounted overhead in the middle of the room. The pool of blood soaked into the carpet beneath the victim was clearly most of what had once been in his body. Along with the deep crimson puddle was the feces and urine that had evacuated his dying body as well as certain body parts. Damn.
“Slade Manning,” Holt announced.
Bauer cleared his throat. He looked a little green around the gills. Bobbie could see why. The vic was naked and he’d been castrated. His genitals lay in the middle of the coagulated mess on the carpet. Bobbie glanced behind her and noted the arterial spray on the wall. She grimaced. Damn.
“His heart was still beating when he was castrated,” Carroll said, drawing Bobbie’s attention to her.
“Man,” Bauer said with a scowl, “this is seriously fucked up.”
Bobbie couldn’t agree more.
“The rest was helped along by gravity,” Carroll continued with a gesture toward the victim’s ankles. “The posterior tibial arteries were opened up to speed things along. Whoever did this wanted him to bleed out as completely as possible.”
Bobbie shifted her attention to Holt. “How is your vic connected to Nigel Parker or his wife?”
“Don’t know for sure yet,” Holt said. “Manning was single. He was a star football player at Auburn his last two years of college but n
ever got picked up by a pro team. Two former girlfriends accused him of abuse but never followed through with the charges. Ruined his pro aspirations but kept his record clean.”
“Neighbors say he was a quiet guy,” Bauer said, picking up where his partner left off, “who grilled out with his work friends occasionally. He had a steady stream of ladies. No complaints about him from anyone questioned so far.” He hitched his thumb toward the closet door on the other side of the room. “He liked to dabble in S&M. Lots of sex toys and kinky outfits. The hook in the ceiling was probably part of his repertoire. Was being the operative word.” He shuddered and put a protective hand over his package. “Man.”
“So there isn’t a connection to the Parker case?” Bobbie was totally confused. It wasn’t like Holt to demand a command appearance when Bobbie was already on another case. Bauer’s expression warned there was something more. One of the three in the room needed to spit it out. She didn’t have all day. “What?”
“Do you know this guy?” Holt asked her.
Bobbie shook her head. “Never seen him before.”
“The killer left you a message on his back,” Bauer explained.
Bobbie held his gaze for one endless moment before she made her way around the puddle of bodily fluids and parts to view the victim’s back. The scars on her own back burned as if the cruel words had been tattooed there yesterday rather than ten months ago. She stared at the dead man’s back. The words written in what appeared to be red lipstick took a moment for her brain to assimilate.
Do I have your attention yet, Bobbie?
Something like defeat sank deep into her bones. Weller was right. Whoever was doing this planned to use Bobbie to get to Nick.
“There’s more of that lipstick on the sheets.” Holt gestured to the bed. “Suggests he wasn’t alone.”
The sheets were rumpled. Bobbie moistened her lips and asked the coroner, “Any sign of sexual activity on the bed?”
“More than you’ll find in most low-rent motel rooms,” Carroll said.
A couple more knots twisted in Bobbie’s gut. “Are we thinking whoever was in bed with him, presumably wearing red lipstick, is the killer or another missing person?”
Holt shrugged. “Can’t say yet. All we know for sure is that whoever did this knows you somehow.”
“If your evidence techs are finished,” Carroll said, shattering the mounting tension, “I’d like to take him down now.”
“Bauer’ll give you a hand,” Holt said, her tone as somber as the coroner’s. Bauer glanced at his boss as if he’d rather she suggested he commit himself to rehab. Holt ignored him and said, “We need to talk, Bobbie.”
The numbness expanding through her limbs made Bobbie’s movements stilted as she followed Holt back down the hall, through the dining room and kitchen, and out the back door. They both spent a moment drawing in some much-needed fresh air before peeling off the latex gloves they wore.
“I’m assuming that since this nut job used the word yet in his message that the Parker case is related.”
“We haven’t found anything to suggest the Parker murders were committed by someone who wanted to get my attention.” Bobbie’s stomach clenched, mostly because she knew her words weren’t entirely true. Weller had warned her. Nick had basically confirmed the threat by showing up. Shit.
“Go back over the scene at the Parker house. Make sure nothing was missed. We’ll work on finding out who was here with Manning.”
“You haven’t found any personal effects belonging to anyone besides Manning?”
“Not one damned thing.” Holt planted her hands on her slim hips. “I have to tell you, I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
Bobbie couldn’t discuss Weller’s warning with her, at least not yet. The cop part of her felt guilty for holding back but she owed it to Nick to talk this out with him first. “I’ll have Devine meet me on Westminster and see if we overlooked a message somewhere. I’ll need a ride.”
Holt nodded. “Have one of the uniforms take you.”
Bobbie hesitated. “How’s the baby?” Holt and her wife, Tricia, had named their baby after Newt. They called him Howie. He would have appreciated the gesture. Everyone who knew him missed him immensely.
Holt rubbed at her forehead with her arm. Bobbie felt a trickle of sweat slip down her spine. No matter that it was the middle of October and not even noon, it was far too warm. Or maybe it was the message on the dead guy and the possibility of a second missing person making them both sweat.
“Howie’s good.” The sergeant exhaled a big breath and locked gazes with Bobbie. “I mean it, Bobbie, if there’s anything I should know, I need you to tell me sooner rather than later. I don’t want a repeat of...what happened before.”
Guilt sat a little heavier on Bobbie’s shoulders. “Got it.” The words were bitter on her tongue.
Holt held her gaze for a moment, weighing Bobbie’s response. “All right. Get over there and see what you can find.”
Bobbie nodded. If she opened her mouth again she might not be able to keep holding out. Holt had backed her up during those final minutes in that damned shack where the Storyteller had taken his last breath. Bobbie owed her better than this.
But she owed Nick Shade more.
Westminster Drive
2:30 p.m.
The burger Bobbie had eaten on the way here threatened to swell into her throat as she entered the Parker home. It would take a major cleaning to extinguish the smell of death that had filled the house. Cold, dead flesh had a distinct odor—an odor that clung to walls and draperies and carpets well after the bodies were taken away. The metallic scent of blood and the unmistakable smell that was far too much like that of raw steak from the gutting the victims had suffered would take a serious chemical cleaning to dispel.
“Where do you want to start?” Devine, hands in the pockets of his designer trousers, stared at her expectantly.
“I’ll start in the garage if you want to take the attic.” She was burning up already. She wanted no part of the attic.
“Sure thing.” He readied to remove his jacket.
Bobbie hesitated before heading to the garage. “Had you and Hanover met before this morning?”
Devine laughed. “You asked me that already, and—” he shook his head “—the answer is still no. But I did get the distinct impression that he would like to know me better.”
“It sure looked like he was flirting with you or daring you somehow.”
“No kidding.” Devine shook his head and held out his arms. “I’m sorry, but do I look gay?”
His offended expression made her shrug. “I never really thought about it.”
Sullen, he tugged at his tie. “I guess I should ask Bauer.”
“Maybe,” Bobbie agreed. “I’m going down to the garage.” She flashed him a weary smile. “Have fun.”
Except for Fern’s room the house was far too clean to have been home to a teenager and a ten-year-old boy. Bobbie couldn’t help wondering how much was the housekeeper’s doing and how much was the killer’s. He’d damned sure cleaned that bathroom, leaving nothing more than a residue of the blood from his victims in the drain. More irritating, there was nothing she could really put her finger on as being wrong. As she passed through the kitchen Bobbie checked the oven. Spotless.
So weird. Did they eat takeout every night or was the housekeeper that damned on top of the cleaning?
Tugging on a pair of gloves, she moved down the steps to the lower level. When she opened the door to the garage the lingering stench of decomposing human organs and waste assaulted her. This was one area where the killer had left a hell of a mess. A remains removal service had cleaned up whatever the coroner’s office and the lab had left behind. Still, the smell was brutal. Maybe Devine had gotten the better deal in the attic.
B
obbie walked the space, checked under and inside the vehicles. The ceiling was clear. The walls, other than the areas closest to where the murders had occurred, were clear. The only evidence left behind was the arterial spray on the walls and the dark stain on the concrete that would require stain block and a couple of coats of paint.
If the killer had a message for her, why hide it?
Her cell vibrated and she removed it from her belt. Coroner flashed on the screen.
“Gentry.”
“Bobbie, this is Lisa. Sergeant Holt asked me to have a second look at the Parker bodies.”
Their autopsies were scheduled for next week. The bodies were being transferred to the state lab later today. Montgomery wasn’t set up for autopsies at this time. There was never enough money. The only reason the autopsies were happening next week was the pressure from the feds.
“Did you find something?”
“Sorry. Nothing new.”
“Thanks for checking. Wait,” Bobbie said before ending the call. “Is there a way to determine if the murder weapon used on Manning was the same one used on the Parkers?”
“It might be difficult to establish,” Carroll said. “With the Parkers he cut through a significant amount of tissue. The incisions made in Manning’s body won’t give us as much to look at pattern-against-tissue wise, but I’ll do what I can.”
“Thanks. Let me know.” Bobbie ended the call and surveyed the garage once more.
Heather and Nigel Parker were dead. Slade Manning was dead. Of course there was always the chance the two cases were completely unrelated. Either way, the red lipstick found at the Manning scene suggested he might not have been alone in the house at the time of his murder and that he may have known his murderer.
The day was far from over and already the weight of it was bearing down on Bobbie. Did they have two missing persons now or two more bodies out there waiting to be found?
