“So’d you jump him or what? No, wait—course you didn’t. Guys don’t spend a hundred bucks on flowers if they’ve already gotten laid.”
“That’s not—” Wait. He was right. Um.
“So you should keep ’em crossed until he coughs up something better than dying plant life. Hold out for jewelry,” Dr. Love counseled, “or plane tickets. Then claw his back and beg for the big hairy banana. Or any hairy banana, I s’pose—is he a big guy? Tall? Big hands? Because you can usually tell if they’re—”
“I may puke, and this is a new record, George—I’ve been exposed to you for only twenty seconds.”
“If you puked as often as you said you might puke, you’d be fifteen pounds lighter.”
“You’re in a mood,” I observed.
“I’m sick of this fucker. I’d like a night off from his pathetic shit. Just one night. Why’d he escalate in our fucking town?”
“He definitely should have checked with you first.”
I don’t know why I bothered. Sarcasm was almost always lost on him, and this time was no exception.
I sniffed my flowers and tried to remember the last time someone had sent me irises. Of course. Cathie—on my last birthday. She must have told Patrick irises were my favorite.
It was absurd, but I was actually cheering up a little despite being en route to a murder scene.
Minutes later, I sighed as George pulled into the nearest parking spot. Had I been so silly to say I loved crime scenes? Shiro was right; I was an idiot.
I stared out the window and decided I hated crime scenes. Particularly when the bad guys escalated and body after body kept showing up.
Yes. Definitely. Hate them.
Hate them.
Chapter Fifty-five
I carelessly tossed the vegetation in the backseat and looked over the scene. I knew Cadence did not care for crime scenes, despite what she told others—despite what she told herself. As for myself, I appreciated the efficiency most law enforcement officials showed at these locales. There was not a lot of bluster or turf battling, and virtually no socializing.
On the other hand, I disliked getting blood all over the bottoms of my shoes.
I assessed the scene and determined there was no danger to Cadence. Why had she
Chapter Fifty-six
“—Showed up, don’t you think?”
I blinked and glanced at my watch. In the short time I’d been gone, George had parked and gotten out of the car, crossed to my window, and rapped on it. And thrown my flowers into the backseat, the pitiless bum. His tie—drawn and quartered penguins—flapped in the wind.
“Huh?”
“Hey! Wake up!” Then he pressed his mouth against the glass and inflated, fogging it and distorting his face so that he looked like an angry bullfrog. “We got work!”
I sighed and got out. The place was already teeming with dozens of techs, cops, and agents. Dozens more reporters were held back behind the tape line. Poor guys, they were only trying to make a living. I sure hated seeing them back there waving mikes and lugging cameras.
Several of them saw George and me approaching, guessed correctly that we had a role here (or perhaps even recognized us from past ThreeFer scenes), and rushed us with a blitz of questions and
Chapter Fifty-seven
Flashes really bother me. Each photographic flare looks, sounds, and feels like something stealing your dignity. Which is really what is happening, if you think about it. People reduced to images. Professionals on scene, stripped of their thoughts and voices. Clothed pornography.
The ratings-obsessed panderers to society’s idiot box crowded George and me like a pack of rabid bloodhounds, baying and howling and waving microphones.
It was sickening. There they were, skulking behind the First Amendment and excusing atrocious behavior by claiming the public had a right to know.
The public had a right to know, indeed. It had a right to know what we—the government—knew would actually inform it, be of use to it. Nothing more; nothing less.
An ambulance pulled up and they started squealing like piglets, waving and pushing and shouting. The temptation to reach out and break a few noses was getting more and more difficult to ignore. I stormed past them, hitting my shoulders against cameras, deciding my presence here did more harm than
Chapter Fifty-eight
“Good, you’re here!”
I blinked; I was just past the line of photographers and reporters who had rushed me, just in front of the house. It was a nondescript starter home, white with red shutters, a roughly tended yard, and a modest “two-car” garage, if your cars were bicycles.
“I didn’t think you were ever going to come.”
It was Detective Clapp, and he looked ghastly. I’m sure I did, too. This triad-obsessed jerk was running everyone ragged.
“C’mon, you gotta come in, come in here!”
“Clapp, you’re gonna stroke out if you don’t take a pill.” George studied Clapp’s pupils and smelled the man’s breath. “Holy shit! How many Frappuccinos have you had?”
“I lost count after eight.”
Wow. Detective Clapp was actually vibrating. I’d never seen him like this before, and the man loved coffee like astronauts loved oxygen.
“Do we have another live victim?” I asked, preparing to be relieved.
“No. Come on. Come on!”
“All right, Detective. It’s all right,” I lied. At this time, nothing was all right. “Go ahead, we’re here, lead the way.”
“Right. Right! Okay! Come in!”
George and I traded glances and shared a rare moment of mutual understanding. Clapp had no idea he was screaming.
What was in that house? And oh God, why was I approaching?
“Wow,” George muttered as we followed the detective through the house and toward what was apparently a back bedroom. “Maybe we should call him an ambulance.”
“He’ll be all right,” I said doubtfully. I was a little cheered to see there were no signs of violence anywhere. A false alarm? A copycat? One ThreeFer crime scene that wasn’t awful and gory and staged? Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.
But George was rattled, which made me terribly nervous. George hadn’t even noticed Jerry Nance in the kitchen, meticulously picking through cupboards, sinks, and the fridge. God knew how many condiments he’d smuggled into his handmade pockets.
“Oh my fucking God,” George gasped, stopping so suddenly I ran into him.
I opened my mouth to scold him for being unprofessional, and then I saw what he did and slammed my teeth together so hard I almost amputated the tip of my tongue.
A bedroom. Pastel walls. Furniture by HOM. A door leading to what I assumed was a closet. Three victims. Three women—that was new. My nostrils involuntarily flared at the heavy, nauseating smell of fresh blood. And although the bedspread was soaked with blood, the three bodies were propped up against the far wall, held standing I don’t know how and holding hands.
A tall, lean blonde.
A petite Asian American woman.
A muscular, leggy redhead.
And above them, written in blood, one word:
SOON.
I was going to puke. Or faint. Or faint then puke. Gritting my teeth wasn’t going to stop it. Slitting my own throat wasn’t going to stop it. He knew me, he knew my sisters, he knew about us, he knew our secret, and oh my God, what was going on here, oh please God, please please tell me what
what
Very faintly, I heard George’s voice. Odd. He sounded . . . alarmed? No. Scared. How very, very
“Oh, shit! She’s gonna blow!”
odd.
“—back! Everybody get back right now! Don’t touch her!”
what
no oh no
what
(Daddy watch out! The goose, Daddy, the gooooooose!)
“WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?” I screamed, and then fell backward into a blood-covered tunnel that rapidly widened.
Beli
eve me, I was happy to go.
Chapter Fifty-nine
I looked at the wall and could not bring myself to judge Cadence. She just was not up to this kind of stress and never had been.
Poor Cadence.
Poor me.
“Uh . . .” George was creeping forward. “Shiro?”
“Yes.” Sighs of relief from all over the room; I almost smiled. Our reputations preceded us. “For now.” Everybody tightened up again. “I see now why you were so anxious for us to get here,” I told Detective Clapp, who looked like he was going to jump out of his Men’s Wearhouse suit at the first opportunity.
I turned to George. “Perhaps it is time to work?”
So we did.
Chapter Sixty
“You got any idea what this means?” a tech asked me. We were bonneted and booteed, collecting evidence and taking pictures and doing the thousand other jobs a crime scene entailed.
“Not yet,” I replied. I was always privately amused at how relieved most techs were to see me, as opposed to Cadence. Her admitted charm could be exhausting. All the techs I had ever met had a very orderly and linear way of looking at the world; they did not want pep talks and charm. They wanted facts.
I was usually able to provide them. But at this time, I had only the vaguest suspicions.
I read the newest sonnet, which had been left on top of the dresser.
“O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends/For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed?/Both truth and beauty on my love depends;/So dost thou too, and therein dignified.”
The sonnets, puzzling and odd before, had a decidedly sinister tone to me now.
They were love notes, I finally realized.
Notes to my sisters and me.
ThreeFer had been speaking to me since the very first crime scene, from two states away.
Now he was here. In my city. In our home.
“He will regret this,” I muttered. “He will see how stupid it was to leave a trail. How very childish and stupid.”
“Attagirl,” George said. “You can make him squeal like a piglet when you catch up to him; that’ll make you feel better.”
“It will,” I agreed, actually smiling at him.
After rereading through the file earlier, I had begun to wonder if our killer might not be a multiple personality. This bold stroke, this crime scene which all but called us by name, suggested he (or she) knew far more about us than we did about him.
But please. Please do not be a cop, or a fed. I hate dirty cops. And dirty feds gave us all a bad name.
As they began to zip up the bodies, I walked over, raised my eyebrows in a question, and then unzipped each of the three bags. I peeled back eyelids with my thumb and observed that the eye colors, in addition to the builds, nationalities, and colorings of my sisters and me, were also dead on.
Huh. I squatted beside the bodies, absently letting go of the last victim’s eyelid and watching it slowly roll back down.
Interesting.
Chapter Sixty-one
Patrick called while I was still on the scene. I kept the call short, perhaps too much so. It was not my intention to be rude or to ruin Cadence’s love life; there was simply nothing to be done about it. The work had to come first.
Nevertheless, I was surprised at how disappointed I was. The man had infuriated me with his antics that night outside Ottavio’s. Of course, he had infuriated all three of us, albeit for different reasons.
About four hours later, I was finally home and in the grip of a throbbing headache. Words were blurring together and I was heartily sick of crime-scene photos—not to mention the crime scene itself. My duck had been hours ago and I was cobbling together an evening snack of iced coffee and steamed rice.
I closed the refrigerator door, then stiffened as I heard someone walking down the hallway outside. The person paused just outside my apartment door.
Oh, lovely. I hoped it was the killer. This would all be over soon if I could just get my hands around his neck. Soon, but not quickly. No, I would not make it quick, because he had frightened my sister so badly. It would last and last and
Chapter Sixty-two
Last one on the bus is a rotten egg and a dead killer!
Yes yes!
It’s the killer round and round
Round and round
Round and round
(How stupid is the killer
round and round
to come
to my
house!)
(Oh you can come in
Please do come in
Come on in!)
Yes, the killer can walk right in
Walk right in
Walk right in
(I’m coming, killer! Don’t go away! Wait for me! Waitwait!)
And I’ll hit him
And I’ll bite
And scratch
And blow his house down
I am at the door! I am unlocking it
Why is the door locked?
(stupid Shiro so cautious and dull she is squashed
Squashed inside us
flat and dull but she’s sleeping now sleeping
Shhhhhh)
And now the door is open
And I can see
I can see
I can see
The door is open and one-two-three
It’s the Pillsbury Doughboy!
(Oh well perhaps the killer will come by later
I’m glad the Dough Boy is here!
glad
glad
glad)
(and I jumped on him because he smells like food
And now ka-boom!)
Pillsbury Doughboy is on his back
On his back
On his back
(Oh, the look! The look on your face! Such pretty eyes, yesyes! Pretty like my sister’s
The scared one
The
(Cadence)
Now we’re in the hallway
Round and round
And boy does he look stunned
The wheels on the bus go round and round,
he
smells
like
food!
And I am kissing him
Kissing him
Kissing him
I’m kissing him
But
Now
I’m
Bored.
He’s not the killer.
Meh.
Chapter Sixty-three
Of all the places my sisters had left me, this one was new: right on top of a guy. And in my own apartment, no less! Patrick’s face and mine were not even six inches apart.
“Ah. Hmm. How long have we been like this?”
“Three hours. You were insanely good.”
“What?”
He burst out laughing and twisted his hips, heaving me off him. I realized then we both still had our clothes on. “Okay, three seconds. But they sure were memorable.”
“What are you doing here?”
“You blew me off on the phone.”
Must’ve been Shiro, busy at work. “Yes, well, that means we don’t have time to talk. And yet here you are, deciding it’s okay to ignore my wishes—”
“Your sister’s wishes. I knew you’d feel differently, Cadence.”
This irritated me even more. “So your new game is to play us against each other? How is that romantic, exactly?”
He clambered to his feet, moving quickly for such a large man, and extended a hand. I ignored it and stood on my own.
“I don’t mean I came here for action,” he said. “I came here to make sure you take care of yourself. Cathie told me that when you’re using your powers to fight evil, you forget to eat. So . . . now where the hell is it?” He looked around, clearly distracted, and I couldn’t help notice the beautiful cut of his suit (Italian, I was sure), the shadow of stubble on his face, the mesmerizing eyes. Yes indeed, it was a shame that work had to come before pleasure.
“Adrienne
knocked me right over on my back when she shot out the door. I must’ve—aha!” He scooped up a sloppy cardboard container, and just when I had decided my liking for him had a ceiling, he handed it to me. It was filled with roast duck. “Cathie said you—Shiro you, not all of you—she said you were trying to find time to order this.”
“Thanks for this. I’m afraid I can’t let you stay,” I said, unable to keep the genuine regret out of my tone. “There are classified documents all over my apartment.” Not to mention several repulsive photographs.
“That’s all right. I’m just glad to see you. Any of you—even if it’s just for a few seconds.”
“Adrienne didn’t—didn’t hurt you?”
“No. She knocked me over and told me I smelled like food. Then she sang that nursery rhyme ‘The Wheels on the Bus.’ Just as I was about to start singing along, she left.”
He had gotten off lightly. Again. Was it possible that all three of us were getting fond of him?
“Thank you for stopping in. It was very kind of you to bring me another duck.”
“Another—?”
“Never mind. Thank you again. And, um . . . I’m sorry I punched your lights out.”
He rubbed his jaw. “Aw, that? That was nothing. A love tap.”
“My first, on a first date anyway. What time’d you wake up?”
“About an hour later.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“You’re right. It was about five minutes. Still impressive.”
“Thanks. Um, you’ll please see yourself out?”
“I never made it in,” he said, sarcastically. But he softened the gripe with another heart-stopping grin. “Fine, go on. Catch bad guys.”
“Oh yes,” I said, opening my door. “Count on it.”
“Cool.”
I was still smirking like a fool. And long after he’d gone, I still couldn’t stop smiling.
Me, Myself and Why? Page 14
