“Don’t touch it.” She kept her voice low, but his head snapped up and he moved back in his seat. The uniforms weren’t going to leave until she did, and neither was the impromptu film crew gathered on the sidewalk. Shit, even Little was still standing at The Sentinel’s window, waiting to see what she’d do next.
She looked down at the red square resting on her seat and weighed her options. The envelope that showed up at the station had been handled and shuffled from counter to bag to box by multiple people before it reached her. Even if there had been prints or trace evidence on it, she’d had little to no hope of gathering any of it. This one was different. It was in her car. The only person who’d touched it so far was the one responsible for leaving it there. She needed to bag it, but there was no way she could preserve the evidence without doing so in full view of everyone watching her.
She dug a glove out of her back pocket and pulled it on. “Get a paper bag out of my glovebox,” she said to Croft. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t ask—just opened the compartment in front of him and pulled out a bag. She snapped it open and dropped the envelope inside it before folding the top of the bag over. Sliding behind the wheel, she twisted around and placed the bag on the back seat before she started the car and pulled into traffic.
“That envelope. Does it have anything to do with what you asked your roommate last night about the word mox?” Croft finally said.
She shot him a look. “Why would you think that?”
“It does, doesn’t it?”
Sabrina pulled into the first parking lot she found and slammed on the brakes before throwing the car into park. “Did you put it in my car?”
“No.” Croft looked her in the eye when he said it. He was either telling the truth, or he was a fabulous liar—God knew she’d been fooled before.
“But you’ve been following me all morning.” It wasn’t a question, and Croft was smart enough to know he’d been caught.
He shrugged. “Just like any other day, right?”
“So, if you didn’t leave it, you saw who did.”
His eyes narrowed before he took a quick look at the bag behind him. “No, I didn’t. I figured out where you were going before you got there, so I parked and made a few phone calls before I followed on foot. By the time I got there, you were already at your car.”
Truth or fabulous liar—she still couldn’t tell, but it didn’t matter. “Fine. You don’t know anything useful? Get out of my car.”
Croft settled deeper into his seat. “Maybe you just aren’t asking the right questions.”
Mox … it’s Latin. It means soon. For some reason, Croft had drawn an immediate connection between that word and the envelope left on her seat.
“The word—the name—written on the front of the envelope. Is it Latin?” she said, every word sticking in her throat. Asking Croft for help was a painful thing.
“No, but you’re right, it’s a name. What do you know about Greek mythology?” he said, the corners of his mouth hugged tightly against the words as if he didn’t want to let them go.
“Zeus. Thunderbolts. Mount Olympus … ” she said, trailing off impatiently. He just sat there, staring at her. “Look, Croft. Playing with me—not a good idea for anyone. For you, even less.”
“I want to know what really happened that day in the woods.”
She’d known it was coming, but hearing him say it made her want to break his nose all over again. They stared at each other for a few seconds. “Forget it,” she said, reaching across his lap and opened his car door.
He shut the door. “You just beat me up. Me—the reporter who took your very private and very painful story national—in front of a newspaper office, not to mention several outraged citizens with camera phones.”
“What does it matter? You don’t even write for The Sentinel anymore.” Her voice sounded whiny and complaintive. It made her nauseated.
He ignored her. “Answers, Sabrina. Not just one. I want as many as I ask for, and I want the honest truth to every question I ask,” he said, his eyes boring into hers.
She sat back, glaring at him. “Or you’ll write a story about how I attacked you, unprovoked in the middle of the street. That I’m unhinged and should be locked up, is that it?” After what’d happened to Sanford—found dead in his truck, face caved in with a baseball bat—and the connection she had to his death, it would be as easy as breathing to convince the public that she was an unbalanced threat to society.
“That’s exactly it. I may not write for The Sentinel anymore, but I’ve got plenty of freelance contacts.” His tone was hard. “A story about you finally losing your shit would be an easy sell.”
She’d be lucky if they let her write parking tickets after Croft was through with her—and he’d do it, even if he didn’t want to. She’d just had her career in Homicide yanked out from under her. That was more loss than she could stomach for one day.
“Okay.”
Croft’s mouth flopped open, but he recovered quickly. “Yes? You’ll talk to me. Just like that?”
“You just successfully blackmailed me, Croft. Try not to sound so surprised.” She didn’t look at him, instead staring through the windshield, her hands wrapped around the steering wheel. He was quiet for a few moments. Sabrina wanted to believe that his guilt was getting the better of him, but she knew better. Croft had been waiting months for an opportunity like this. Exclusive interviews from her far outweighed any regret he might feel over how he got her to cooperate. She finally looked at him. “The envelope—”
“Calliope is the name of one of the nine daughters Zeus fathered with the titaness, Mnemosyne. They were given to the nymph Eufime and Zeus’s son Apollo to be raised,” Croft said. “They grew to be known as the Nine Muses. Calliope was the superior muse. Protector of justice. Said to be the lover of both Apollo and his brother Ares, god of war. Conflicting stories had her bearing both of them sons.”
She reached back and plucked the evidence bag off the back seat, putting on a fresh pair of gloves before opening it. Removing the envelope, Sabrina paused for a moment.
Wait. Take it back to the station. Have it processed properly.
She pulled the wax seal from the paper, slipping the card from its sheath before flipping it open. Inside, in the same beautiful lettering, was another message:
In mortem, et est soror tua.
Sabrina turned the card in Croft’s direction. “What does it say?”
He glanced down at the card, his mouth going flat for a second before it turned downward. He looked at her. “My Latin is way rusty. I can’t be sure that—”
“Tell me,” she almost shouted, her voice bouncing off the windows.
He sighed, his hands still wrapped around the shirt she’d given him. “In mortem, et est soror tua … as best I can tell … it means, ‘in death, she is your sister’.”
TWENTY-TWO
In death, she is your sister.
The words had Sabrina reaching for her phone and dialing Riley’s number before she even had time to process them. Croft watched her every move, but she didn’t care.
“Hello?” Riley said.
Relief coursed through her. A sudden flash of standing in the hospital, Michael’s hand gripped tight in hers—a girl she’d thought was Riley lying bloodied and broken on the gurney in front of her. Of course, it hadn’t been Riley—just another twisted joke Wade had played on her.
You think little Riley is ready for some fun and games?
She squeezed her eyes shut for a second. Pushed Wade out of her mind. No way was she gonna lose it. Not while Croft was around.
“Mom?”
“Hi. I just wanted to tell you that I love you.” She forced a smile, aware that Croft was listening to every word.
“Okay … what’s wrong?” Riley said, a hint of unease creeping into her voice.
�
��Something has to be wrong for me to call you?”
“Usually.” Riley was quiet for a second. “Seriously, Mom—is everything okay?”
She’d never thought about how much she worried them. How much being raised by her had affected them. How much danger just being around her actually put them in.
She ain’t never gonna be safe. Not with you around … sooner or later, someone like me is gonna come along and finish what I started.
“Everything is fine. I’ll be home for dinner, we’ll talk then.” She made it up as she went along. Until that moment, she’d had no intention of going home. Now, seeing Jason and Riley was all she wanted to do.
“I have piano until seven,” Riley said. “But I’ll hurry home.”
“Okay.” She ended the call and turned, looking Croft in the eye. “They’re off limits. Val. The twins. If you even think about writing so much as their names, I’ll—”
“I know.”
“And if you breathe a word about anything you’ve seen, read, or heard in this car, I’ll have you arrested for obstruction.” It was an empty threat, but saying it made her feel better. More in control than she actually was. This wasn’t a case—it was a few note cards and a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. And even if it was a case, it wouldn’t be hers. Mathews had made sure of that.
“I can help,” Croft said, tipping his head at the card she still clutched in her hand. “I double majored in journalism and classical studies—”
“Thanks, but I’d rather slam my hand in a car door than spend one unnecessary second with you.” She re-bagged the note card and applied the brake, shifting into reverse before she gave him another look. “Out.”
“You might as well use me, what with all the unnecessary time you and I will be spending together,” he said, a not-so-subtle reminder of the deal they’d struck. Croft opened the car door and planted his feet on the blacktop. “Think about it.” He stood and shut the door behind him, walking away without a backward glance.
Even though Mathews told her to take the rest of the day, Sabrina drove back to the station. As sad as it was, she had nowhere else to go and she had an hour to kill before her physical therapy appointment. Might as well spend it cleaning out her desk.
She found an empty box in one of the supply closets and carried it back to her desk, keeping an eye out for Strickland. He was nowhere to be seen and neither was Evans, which meant they were either wrapping up the Denton case or they’d already caught a new one. She dropped the box on her desk and started loading stuff into it. People watched her, but no one asked her what she was doing or where she was going. A few of them probably knew, and the rest of them didn’t care. She ignored them. Instead she worried about what was coming and how she was going to salvage her job.
Ben was right—she’d been missing her physical therapy sessions on purpose. Once she’d regained the use of her leg, going to her weekly sessions stopped making sense. Her days of running a seven-minute mile were long gone, but she could walk. Most days she was able to convince herself that was enough, but with the SWAT re-qualify hanging over her head, she’d have to push herself. PT seemed as good a place to start as any.
“Where do you want them, Inspector?”
Sabrina looked up to see Anderson, his face partially hidden by the bouquet of red roses he carried. She looked at her watch. It was just after twelve o’clock—right on time.
“Anywhere is fine.” She scooted the box over a few inches to give him room to set it down. “Thanks, Anderson,” she said to his retreating back as he headed for the elevator.
She looked at the flowers on her desk. At a passing glance, they were no different than the dozens of other arrangements she received. Red, long-stem roses in a vase with a red satin bow tucked into the foliage. But the longer she looked at it, the more certain she became that there was something different about it.
She re-counted to make sure. Once. Twice. Her eyes clicked off each bloom. She came up with the same number every time.
Until today, there had always been nine. Nine red roses. Every day, the same number—but not today. Today, there were only eight. One was missing.
TWENTY-THREE
Nine muses. Nine roses … until today.
In mortem, et est soror tua.
In death, she is your sister.
Her desk phone rang—the sound of it all but swallowed by the cacophony of noise that filled the Homicide bullpen.
“Vaughn,” she said, amazed by the level sound of her own voice.
“Hillside Villas. Apartment five twenty-three. Hurry, Calliope … Clio is waiting.”
It was him. The voice who called her yesterday.
“Clio? Who’s Clio?” She reached for a pen and wrote the name of the apartment building and number he’d given her on the first piece of paper she found.
“She is your sister.”
Before she could say anything else, the phone went dead.
She returned the phone to its cradle, letting her hand hover for just a moment, thinking things through. If she ordered a trace on her last incoming call, Mathews would know about it roughly thirty seconds after she put in the request. It would probably prove a waste of time anyway—she’d bet money the call had been made from a pre-paid cell.
But she couldn’t take the chance that it hadn’t been. She hit the disconnect button and re-dialed, getting Anderson at the front desk.
“I need you to trace the last incoming call on my desk phone,” she said. “And I need you to do it without telling anyone.”
“Uh … okay,” Anderson said. He sounded confused but game.
“As soon as you get something, call my cell.” She hung up and stood, shoving the piece of paper into her back pocket before shrugging into her jacket. Her PT appointment with Weber would have to wait.
She stepped into the elevator and punched the down button a few times, trying to force it to move faster than its usual snail’s pace. Her cell rang, and she answered it after taking a quick look at the screen.
“Hey, Strick. I can’t talk right now, I’m—”
“Whatever you’re doing, drop it. We caught a case—dead co-ed found in her apartment. Hillside Villas on the corner of Beale and Seventh. Apartment five twenty-three.”
Sabrina parked a block away, pulling a digital camera out of her center console before making sure her windows were rolled up and her doors were locked. She took the rest on foot, making the painful hike up the hill to the apartment building. The streets were lined with news vans and cars with stickers in their windows that identified their owners as members of the press.
Approaching the scene, Sabrina scanned the large crowd that’d gathered behind the crime scene tape that cordoned off the entire apartment complex. Dozens of faces stared back at her, whispered chatter buzzing like bees, so thick she had the urge to swat it away from her face with her hand. She’d gotten a good look at the crowd in front of The Sentinel, but none of the bystanders here were familiar. That didn’t mean the man who called her wasn’t here; it just meant he was good at blending in.
She flashed her badge as she ducked under the tape and kept walking, ignoring the shouts from the small cluster of reporters and cameramen being kept at bay by a frustrated-looking uniform. Murder scenes always drew media, but things always got interesting when she showed up.
“Sabrina—given the horrors you survived, does it affect you differently when it’s a young woman who’s been brutally murdered?”
She hated it when they called her by her first name. Some of the more aggressive ones actually called her Melissa, hoping to shock a reaction from her. She kept moving, eyes trained on the pair of uniforms standing sentry at the building’s entrance.
“Sabrina—how’s the leg?”
Still walking.
“Hey, Sabrina—can you confirm that you’ve been transferred out of Homi
cide, effective immediately?”
That one stopped her in her tracks and had her turning to look at the tight knot of reporters, all jockeying for position. Her eyes zeroed in on its source, and she felt the back of her neck go hot.
Jaxon Croft stood no more than ten feet away, his hands in his pockets, that asshole smirk of his aimed right at her. The work she’d done on his face had had a little time to ripen—his left eye was almost completely swollen shut, his lower lip hanging over his chin, split open and bruised. He was challenging her. Throwing out a test question to see if she’d stick to their deal or if she’d give him the brush off.
“There was no transfer. I’ve been loaned back to my old SWAT unit until they can find and train suitable recruits within the department. As soon as that happens, I’ll return to my current position,” she said as pleasantly as she could. “Now, if you’ll excuse me … ” She started to turn, but Croft stopped her.
“One more question—it was reported by the medevac chopper pilot that the man who assisted in your rescue was a man named Michael O’Shea and not Jessup’s Chief of Police, Jed Carson, as previously reported. Can you confirm that?” Croft said, his raised voice silencing the other reporters that surrounded him.
Sweet Jesus. She could practically hear the lid to Croft’s coffin being slammed shut. She looked at him again. “I can’t say for sure—I was unconscious. You’d have to ask the pilot.”
“I wish I could, but he’s disappeared.”
Everyone was watching them. The reporters, the bystanders close enough to hear their exchange. Even the uniforms on duty were waiting to hear what she said next. Croft’s expression was neutral, but Sabrina knew better. She had a feeling that he knew more about Michael than he was letting on. Whether it was enough to get him killed was the real question.
She opened her mouth, not really sure what would find its way out, but she was saved by her ringing cell. Sabrina held it up and smiled. “Sorry.” She gave Croft an apologetic shrug. “Duty calls,” she said before walking away. The crowd behind her was quiet for a second before it burst, the loudly shouted questions and comments pushing her to move faster than she wanted to. She raised the phone and answered it.
Sacrificial Muse (A Sabrina Vaughn Novel) Page 9
