The M.E. had logged the time of death as somewhere between 6:50 and 7:05 p.m. Kate Campbell had said she waited in the car for a while before going upstairs to see her estranged husband. Best guess, she’d first parked on the street outside the Nichols’ complex roughly fifteen to twenty minutes after the crime had been committed.
But as to when the killer had actually gone inside the condo — that was more difficult to nail down. The medical examiner’s report indicated that Nichols had been alive while his hands were removed, then used to paint the walls of the living room. Best guess was that he would have bled out in ten to fifteen minutes, with brain death occurring before that, which meant the killer could have broken in as early as 6:45, or as late as 7:05 p.m. Probably earlier than seven, though; Jack couldn’t imagine even the most skilled warlock being able to paint all those symbols in just a few scant minutes.
Larry hadn’t been all that thrilled with him for letting Kate Campbell go home, even with having her car impounded so a forensics team could go over it for any evidence. “She’s the most likely suspect,” he said, not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice.
“She didn’t do it,” Jack replied. And Larry probably knew that as well as he did. No way could Kate have looked so pristine if she’d just brutally murdered her husband. Even if she’d covered up her clothes with a jumpsuit or something, arterial spray still probably would have gotten on her hair or face. She wouldn’t have had time to get cleaned up in that small space between the probable time of death and when she’d called 9-1-1.
“You’re that sure? What, did you suddenly develop mind-reading skills or something?”
Unlike some of the members of his clan, Jack didn’t possess that particular gift. However, he knew that no civilian had painted those symbols on the walls of Jeff Nichols’ condo, and he also knew the reason why there was no sign of forced entry was that witches and warlocks didn’t need keys to get through locked doors. It was one of the simplest talents they possessed, although one they took care not to abuse.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t mention either of those data points to Larry, since they involved witches and warlocks, and Jack had to keep his mouth shut when it came to that particular subject. “No,” he said calmly. “I know because, for one thing, she doesn’t possess the physical strength to overcome someone like Jeff Nichols. He outweighed her by more than a hundred pounds. And there was no trace of any drugs in his system, so it’s not as if he was knocked out before the killer got busy cutting off his hands.”
“Bone saw?”
“Or something like it. The cuts were too clean for a knife, or even an axe. Also, I spoke with Kate Campbell at the scene, and she didn’t look like someone who’d just spent the previous half hour cutting off body parts and painting the walls with blood. She looked like she’d just come from work — skirt, silk blouse, open shoes. Not a hair out of place.”
“Pretty girl, huh?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with any of it,” Jack replied, an edge entering his tone.
“Just making an observation, Jack. Well, don’t stay too late. I have a feeling this investigation isn’t going anywhere soon.”
Larry had hung up then, and, presumably, had gone home to enjoy the rest of his evening. His comment continued to rankle Jack, though, even as he made notes of the symbols painted on Jeff Nichols’ condo walls. He’d take the photos, too, when he spoke with his clan members the next day. Every little bit helped.
What difference did it make if Kate Campbell was pretty? Her appearance didn’t have any bearing on the case. Sure, if he’d met her at a bar or a club, he probably would have tried to talk to her, buy her a drink…if she’d let him. On the surface, she seemed approachable enough, with her wide, friendly mouth and beautiful girl-next-door looks, but he’d also sensed a certain steeliness about her, as if she’d show her backbone when you least expected it. Good. Because she was probably going to need that strength during the days and weeks ahead. Homicide investigations were never fun, even if you did happen to be cleared of any suspicion early on in the proceedings.
Anyway, she was part of the investigation, and nothing else. He’d let himself admire her, because he wasn’t one to ignore a woman’s looks, but that would be the end of it. Anything else would be downright unprofessional, if not dangerous.
As he scratched out his notes, he made a few mental ones as well, the sort of thing he really didn’t want to commit to writing, in case anyone else might want to see his research. First thing, he’d have to talk to Luz Trujillo, see if she’d gotten any sense of an outside witch or warlock infringing on her territory. Jack wasn’t entirely sanguine about the outcome of that conversation, because he knew that Luz, while a strong witch, wasn’t quite as powerful as her mother Maya, the former prima of the de la Paz clan. In her prime, Maya could sense an interloper from a hundred miles away. He had to start somewhere, though.
After that, he’d seek out Consuelo de la Paz, a distant cousin, a woman who’d spent her long life exploring the darker corners of the witching world. As far as he knew, Consuelo had never practiced those dark arts herself, but she had done extensive research. She should know what all these symbols meant, and might have some insight as to who had drawn them, and why. That mission would take up a chunk of his day, since Consuelo lived down in Tucson and rarely ventured into the Phoenix area — as far as Jack knew, she didn’t even drive — but she was the best resource he had.
He had to hope she’d have something to offer. Because if Consuelo couldn’t help him, he’d be back to square one, just fumbling in the dark. That a warlock had committed the crime, Jack was one-hundred-percent positive. That was why he had to be the one to catch the perpetrator; the non-magical cops who staffed his department wouldn’t have a chance when going up against someone like that. No, this was for the witching community to handle, and quietly. Maybe Luz could convince Angela and Connor Wilcox to do the same thing they’d done to Matías Escobar, using their combined powers to completely destroy any trace of magical ability he possessed. That way the perpetrator of this particular crime, whoever he turned out to be, could be safely locked up in a civilian prison. Everyone wins.
Except, of course, Jeff Nichols. Jack had already performed the unwelcome duty of calling his mother to inform her of what had happened. Just the barest details, of course, along with the usual condolences such occasions demanded. She had burst into noisy sobs, claiming it was impossible, that he had to be mistaken, that the dead man had to be someone else. Jack let her weep for a few minutes, then did his best to extricate himself from the call, telling her he’d be back in touch when the medical examiner was ready to release the body.
That remark had set off another round of sobbing, but at last he was able to hang up. Next-of-kin notification was one of the worst parts of the job, but a task he had to handle, since he was lead investigator on the case.
Jack glanced up at the clock that hung on the wall above the file cabinet. A quarter past twelve. He really needed to get home. Technically, his shift didn’t start until noon the next day, but schedules didn’t mean a whole hell of a lot when you were working on an active investigation such as this one. He knew he’d be on the phone with Luz before ten, and then, with any luck, on his way down to Tucson soon afterward. However, he wouldn’t tell Larry he was actually going to Tucson, only that he would be out and about, following some leads. Because of his track record, Jack’s boss tended to give him more leeway than was usual, and thank God, since otherwise engaging in this particular extracurricular activity would be difficult to explain.
And what the day would bring after that, he had no idea.
Kate rolled over and stared at the clock next to her bedside. 4:44 a.m. Ugh. In the bed beside her, Sam breathed deeply, not loudly enough to really be classified as snoring, but enough that Kate knew her friend was down for the count, as long as she didn’t do anything to disturb her.
You need to sleep, she told herself, but she knew that would
n’t do much good. Usually, she didn’t have any problem sleeping, was so tired at the end of the day that she could easily sleep eight hours through without waking up once or even having any dreams that she could remember. Now, though, it felt as if she’d gotten up almost every hour on the hour, trying to find a position that felt comfortable, but not moving around so much that she’d wake up Sam. Kate had her personal tragedies to deal with, but Sam still had to get up and put in pretty much a twelve-hour day, starting with the classes she taught from eight until noon, and then working the second shift at the lab in North Scottsdale. She couldn’t afford to lose sleep just because her friend was suffering a bout of trauma-induced insomnia.
Problem was, every time Kate closed her eyes, she kept seeing that blood-spattered condo, Jeff’s disfigured body lying on the bloodstained carpet. Maybe with time the details would begin to fade, but right now she could still see everything — the way a plate with a half-eaten sandwich sat on the coffee table, how he’d been in his sock feet because he’d probably kicked off his shoes the minute he got home from work.
Think about something else. Anything.
Her mother had been horrified when Kate called, but she soon lapsed into questions, wanting to know where Kate was, why she had gone to her apartment instead of calling her parents to come get her and take her home. Kate didn’t want to point out that the house her parents now occupied wasn’t “home,” was someplace they’d purchased after she’d started college and wasn’t any true refuge for her. Instead, she said she’d called Sam because she lived closer, and that way she could stay over tonight. And when her father got on the phone, she’d had to repeat the whole story. He didn’t sound thrilled, but he also didn’t press her the way her mother had. Being insistent just wasn’t Liam Campbell’s way.
“Maybe tomorrow,” Kate promised her parents, and hung up afterward.
Colin had been easier to manage, just because he was all the way up in Jerome, and Jenny was now eight months pregnant and not in any shape to go tearing down to Scottsdale in the middle of the night. While her brother made the offer to come stay at Kate’s, he’d backed off soon enough when she told him she already had Sam watching out for her, and that she’d be fine. And she had to appreciate that he didn’t ask a lot of questions, even though the reporter side of his mind was probably screaming to get all the details.
Well, she supposed he could get some of that information from the evening news. They got the Phoenix stations up in Jerome, didn’t they? She was kind of hazy on that particular detail, simply because the times she’d gone to visit Colin, he and Jenny had kept her busy enough that she didn’t need to waste time watching TV.
However, Kate herself hadn’t seen any of the evening news, because Sam had made sure they stayed on Netflix and didn’t flip over to any of the local channels. Just as well. Kate really didn’t want to know how the local news might spin such a lurid crime, even though she got the feeling Detective Sandoval wouldn’t give out anything more than the barest details. He had the sort of self-assured air that made her think he probably ate local reporters for breakfast. Too bad, in a way, since with his looks he would be a natural in front of the cameras.
Whoa. Kate had to stop herself there, because what in the hell was she doing, thinking about Jack Sandoval’s looks? Talk about inappropriate. What he looked like didn’t matter. What mattered was that he would be tracking down the madman who’d killed Jeff.
Too distracted, too tired and scared and worried. That was why her brain kept going off at these weird tangents. She thought of how Officer Manning had told her not to open the door for anyone who wasn’t a cop — or, presumably, one of her immediate family — but why? Just because they weren’t sure whether Jeff’s murder was an isolated incident, that the killer might have targeted her as well, for whatever reason?
A chill went over her, even as she tried to tell herself that line of reasoning didn’t make any sense at all. As far as she knew, Kate didn’t have any enemies…well, unless you counted her mother-in-law, who’d clearly taken Kate’s betrayal of her precious only son to heart, and then some. Even so, while no doubt Nancy Nichols would have been all too thrilled to hear that her erstwhile daughter-in-law had contracted some kind of hideous venereal disease after going back out on the dating market, she really wasn’t capable of murder. Trash talk, sure. But words couldn’t draw blood.
If she’d been by herself, Kate might have slipped out of bed and gone to the kitchen, gotten herself a glass of water and some ibuprofen for the dull ache she could feel lurking behind her temples. For some reason, the analgesic worked better to help her sleep than anything else. But she didn’t want to wake up Samantha, and she didn’t know how light a sleeper her friend really was. No, she’d just have to stay here and tough things out. Eventually, she should be able to fall asleep.
The building creaked, and she had to keep herself from startling. Her apartment did that all the time; it wasn’t like some crazed axe murderer was trying to creep up the sheer stucco walls outside. Luckily, the day had been mild enough that she could keep all the windows closed and locked. Was it enough, though? She couldn’t afford an alarm system, even if the management company would have allowed her to install one.
It all seemed to hit her then — that Jeff was gone, and in one of the most gruesome ways possible. That some kind of psychotic killer was roaming free on the streets of Scottsdale, and that she didn’t know if she’d ever be safe again.
Sobs rose in her throat, but she reached up and clamped her hand over her mouth, hoping to muffle the sound that way. She didn’t want to wake up Sam. Yes, her friend had come here to offer support and comfort, but right then, Kate needed to know that she could go it alone if she had to. After all, Sam wouldn’t always be here for her.
Tears leaked down from the corners of her eyes, wetting the hair at her temples, but she made no sound. She wouldn’t. She knew she had to be brave.
No matter what happened.
Jack didn’t give Luz a lot of details over the phone, only told her that he needed to talk to her as soon as possible. Sounding somewhat mystified, she said that she had a lunch date downtown with her husband David, but she could see him late that morning.
He’d been to the house before, of course, the gracious hacienda-style home that had belonged to the former prima and had come to Luz when she assumed the title and responsibility of guiding their clan. Even though Luz and David had now lived here for several years, it still felt somewhat jarring to Jack to know that Maya wouldn’t be there to greet him when he arrived. She had been such a fixture in his life — and the lives of all their clan members — for longer than he could remember, that sometimes he still forgot that she was now gone from this world, her vital life snuffed out by that evil little bastard, Matías Escobar.
Luz herself looked very cool and gracious, wearing a turquoise-blue linen dress and sling-back sandals. Only Luz, he thought, could wear linen and not turn into a rumpled mess.
“This shouldn’t take long,” he said as she welcomed him inside. Today promised to be warmer than the day before, and ceiling fans already whirled quietly overhead.
“It’s no problem,” she replied. “I don’t need to leave for another forty-five minutes or so.”
She led him into the living room, where a blue-rimmed pitcher of Mexican glass and a pair of matching tumblers sat on the coffee table. As Jack settled himself on the couch, she poured him some iced tea and sent him a quizzical glance.
No point in beating around the bush, he supposed. “I got called in on a homicide last night. Nasty one, too.”
No reply except a slight lift of her eyebrows, as if to indicate that she knew it was his job to work homicide cases, so why was this one any different?
He reached for one of the tumblers of iced tea and took a sip, then set the glass back down. “I’m positive the killer is a warlock.”
Shock flashed in her dark eyes. “How do you know that?”
“Because these are wha
t he left behind.” Jack picked up the manila envelope containing copies of the crime-scene photos and extracted several of the 8x10s. He handed them to her.
Her gaze moved to the photos she held. She didn’t respond immediately, although he saw the muscles in her slender throat work as she swallowed, as if trying to choke back a gag reflex. After a long moment, she said, “Is that…?”
“Yes,” he replied grimly. “The killer used the victim’s blood to paint those sigils on the wall.”
“Madre de díos.” Luz suddenly looked very pale, her expertly applied blush standing out against her normally warm-toned skin. She drew in a breath, then said, “I am not trying to dispute you, Jack, but isn’t it possible that a civilian could have drawn these symbols? These things have been recorded, after all, and exist in some obscure texts, even though they are quite difficult to find.”
The thought had occurred to him — it would have made life so much easier if this were simply your garden-variety whacko — but he’d had to put it aside. “I don’t think so. For one thing, there was absolutely no sign of forced entry. A warlock wouldn’t need to force his way in. And also, although I don’t yet know how his identity relates to the bigger picture, the victim is loosely connected to the McAllisters. His estranged wife’s brother is married to Jenny McAllister.”
That revelation made her draw in a breath. “I see,” she said slowly. “Yes, that does put a slightly different complexion on things. I doubt such a connection is mere coincidence.”
Defender (The Witches of Cleopatra Hill Book 11) Page 5
