Dead Reckoning (Cold Case Psychic Book 2)

by Pandora Pine

  “Please, what, baby?” Ronan’s lips curled into a smile against the back of Tennyson’s neck.

  “Make me come,” Tennyson pleaded.

  “You want me to go faster?” Ronan teased, speeding his hand up and then slowing down again.

  “Fuck, yeah!” Ten couldn’t take his eyes off Ronan’s hand as it slid over his erection.

  Ronan chuckled and obeyed. He wrapped his free arm tighter around Tennyson’s chest and sped up the motions of his right hand.

  Tennyson had never felt more safe and more loved in his entire life. Ronan was holding on for dear life while Tennyson let go a little more with each passing second. “Love you,” Tennyson whispered as his cock jerked in Ronan’s fist.

  Ten watched blast after blast of creamy come rip from his slit to land on his chest and Ronan’s hand, knowing full well that Ronan’s eyes were glued to the same thing.

  “I love you. I love you. I love you,” Tennyson whispered, as he started to come back to earth from his volcanic orgasm.

  He wasn’t one hundred percent sure, it could have been the hormones talking, but he’d swear on his life that Ronan whispered those words back to him.

  28

  Ronan

  The red LED readout on Tennyson’s alarm clock read 3:45am. Ronan hadn’t slept a wink all night.

  Every time he shut his eyes all he could see was the sightless blue eyes of Dylan Charles staring back up at him from that field in Rumney Marsh.

  There was no way to have predicted the boy he’d spoken with at the Tremont Street Mission would end up dead twelve hours after Ronan had met him, but he was still wracked with guilt nonetheless. The boy was sixteen years old and deserved more years of life than he’d gotten.

  After Tennyson had returned the favor in the bathroom with his very willing lips, they’d called out for Chinese food and spent the rest of the night in front of the television watching The Crown on Netflix. Carson and Truman were in love with the show and Tennyson had wanted to try it out. After Ten’s confession in the tub, Ronan couldn’t have denied him anything.

  Ronan couldn’t help wondering if Ten had heard his own whispered words of love while Tennyson had been coming his brains out. Granted it hadn’t been his most courageous moment, but a confession of love was a confession of love regardless of the volume. He was sure there would be a moment down the road when he would be braver and the words would be louder. He knew Tennyson could feel the words in his heart through what they’d done anyway.

  Tennyson had started nodding off only two episodes into season one and Ronan had suggested they go to bed. He’d been staring up at the ceiling ever since.

  He knew this is what love was. Tennyson had been sleeping peacefully on his chest for the last six hours and Ronan didn’t have the heart to wake him up. Hell, he knew that if he’d gotten out of bed all he would have done was go back to work in the kitchen and stare at yesterday’s crime scene photos some more. He had to face facts, they were no closer to catching this son-of-a-bitch now than they were before Dylan Charles had been murdered.

  “Hey there,” Tennyson said softly, before sitting up and pointing to the end of the bed.

  “We have a visitor?” Ronan whispered.

  “Yeah, sitting on the edge of your side of the bed.”

  “Hi.” Ronan held up a hand to wave.

  “What’s your name?” Tennyson asked, pulling the covers up tight around his bare chest. After a moment he nodded. “Says his name is Chris Jessup.”

  “Is he related to this case?” Ronan found himself hoping so. It said a lot that he hoped the spirit visiting his bedroom in the middle of the night was a murder victim and not just some random spirit with a message to pass on to his grieving mother.

  “He’s got the number two written on his chest.” Tennyson shivered.

  “You can see that?” How was that even possible?

  “Spirits can show me anything they want me to see. He’s saying that Bertha sent him here to see us.”

  “Thanks, Bertha.” Ronan whispered. “What can he tell us about the man who killed him?”

  “He says his killer was around all the time,” Tennyson said.

  “Around where?” Ronan hated the disconnect he felt when he couldn’t hear the other end of the conversation. So much about being a detective had to do with reading body language and picking up on clues in the way the witness spoke. Ronan was getting none of that.

  “At the Tremont Street Mission, but Chris doesn’t know his name.” Tennyson took a deep breath. “What color were his hair and eyes?” Ten paused before saying, “dark.”

  “Shit, both Jace Lincoln and Rod Jacobson both have dark hair. Do either of those names ring a bell, Chris.”

  “He’s shaking his head no,” Tennyson said on a sigh.

  “How did you end up with him? Did you pick him up somewhere? Did he answer an ad on the internet?”

  “No, he’s saying his killer asked him to come help unload something from his car into the shelter. When he went to reach into the trunk, the man hit me. When he woke up again, they were in a shitty hotel room and he was tied to the bed and the killer was raping him.” Tennyson shuddered in the dark.

  “Jesus Christ,” Ronan muttered. “What happened when he finished?”

  “Chris was begging the man to let him go and the killer laughed and started hitting him. Punching him so hard that he blacked out. The next thing he knew, he was standing outside his body watching while the man mutilated him.” Tennyson reached forward. “I’m so sorry this happened to you, Chris.”

  While Ronan was listening to the teenager’s awful, but familiar tale, he couldn’t help thinking the name wasn’t ringing a bell. “Ten, his name isn’t familiar to me. I don’t think we’ve recovered his remains yet.”

  “He’s nodding his head, Ronan. Do you know where your remains are, Chris?” Ten asked gently.

  Ronan said a silent prayer. If the morgues in Massachusetts didn’t have his body then it was possible they were still out there somewhere.

  “He thinks it’s possible he might have been driven into southern New Hampshire.”

  “Why does he think that?” Christ, the last thing they needed was to involve another state in this situation.

  “He thinks he saw the Barnard School in South Hampton. Says he used to drive past it on Route 107 on his way to a barbecue joint his mother used to take him to when he was a kid.”

  “Fitzgibbon didn’t check morgues for John Does in New Hampshire. We can do that in the morning.” Fitzgibbon wasn’t going to like this bit of news one bit. Not only was he going to have to reach out across state lines, but they were getting perilously close to the point in time when the media was going to need to be alerted as well.

  “Thank you, Chris,” Tennyson said. “Does speaking with him help us at all?” Ten asked a few seconds later.

  Ronan tilted his head to the side. On the one hand they didn’t really have any new evidence to go on, but on the other, he was going to be able to start interviewing suspects. “Well, we’ve got two suspects now. Problem is, they’re both pillars of the community.”

  How the hell was Ronan going to tell Fitzgibbon that the possible suspects a ghost was fingering were a Pulitzer Prize winning journalist and the man who ran the Tremont Street Mission homeless shelter?

  29

  Tennyson

  Neither one of them managed to fall back to sleep after their visitation from Chris Jessup. Tennyson had curled up on Ronan’s chest until his heart stopped pounding, but his eyes had stayed open.

  Instead of trying to sleep, they’d showered and picked up donuts for the office. They’d been working for an hour before Fitzgibbon walked in.

  “Shit, this can’t be good.” A tired grin was plastered on his face.

  “We brought donuts. Does that mitigate the damage?” Ronan smiled back.

  “Christ on the cross. What the hell have you done this time, Ronan?” Fitzgibbon didn’t look like he was in the mood to dea
l with any of Ronan’s bullshit this early in the morning.

  “Nothing yet, cap. That’s why we’re here.” Ronan grabbed the donuts and followed Fitzgibbon into his office.

  “Thank you for keeping him from doing anything stupid, Tennyson.” The captain set his briefcase down on his desk.

  “Who says he didn’t?” Tennyson couldn’t help giving Fitzgibbon a bit of shit. For once they were doing things by the book. Fitzgibbon wasn’t going to have anything to complain about. This time.

  Fitzgibbon raised a silent eyebrow and sat down at his desk to turn the computer on.

  “Actually, what’s going on is so big that I was smart enough to know I needed to talk to you in person.” Ronan looked pretty damn proud of himself.

  “Well then I guess it’s a good thing I had coffee on my way back from Swampscott.” Fitzgibbon folded his hands on the blotter in front of him.

  “They let you spend the night with Greeley?” Tennyson was stunned. There was usually a strict rule about no family contact at drug rehabs for a period of thirty days.

  “I didn’t give them a choice. He’s having a bitch of a time with detox. They keep having to sedate him. I promised Greeley I wouldn’t leave his side at night when it’s at its worst and I’ll be god damned if I break my word to him. He’s had enough of that in his young life.”

  “Damn, cap. I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of you.” Ronan shook his head. “But Greeley’s one lucky kid to have you on his side. How are you getting through the night?”

  “I’m reading to him.” Fitzgibbon looked proud of himself.

  “What book?” Tennyson asked

  “Right now, I’m reading The Odyssey. I loved that book back in high school and thought he might too.”

  That had been one of Tennyson’s favorites as well. “Maybe after that try Treasure Island or Moby Dick.”

  Fitzgibbon pulled a yellow sticky note off the pad in front of him and scribbled the titles down. “Thanks, Tennyson. I really appreciate that. He’s struggling something fierce, but he’s stronger than the poison, you know? Listening to the sound of my voice seems to help.”

  “Of course it does. It lets him know that you’re there for him.”

  “No one has ever been there for him and now he’s got you, cap. It’s got to be blowing his mind.” Ronan was all smiles.

  “Speaking of blowing my mind, why don’t the two of you let me in on what’s going on. You’re both here at the crack of dawn and Ronan looks like he hasn’t slept in two days.”

  Ronan exchanged a wordless look with Tennyson that handed him the floor. “We had a visitor early this morning.”

  “Ah. Was it Dylan Charles?” Fitzgibbon steepled his fingers.

  Tennyson shook his head. “No, it was a teenage boy named Chris Jessup.”

  “Okay, that’s a new name. Who is he?” Fitzgibbon sat back in his chair.

  “He’s victim number two,” Ronan chimed in.

  “We haven’t found his remains yet.” Fitzgibbon sounded grim.

  “Right, but the good news is that Chris told us that he thinks his body was left in South Hampton, New Hampshire. He recognized the Elementary School.”

  “Jesus Christ. I remember hearing about a dead teenager being found on the campus of the Barnyard School.”

  Ronan snorted. “Uh, that’s the Barnard School, cap.”

  “I’ll call the Rockingham County Medical Examiner and the detectives who handled the case and see about getting the file and the autopsy report. I can’t imagine knowing where to find his body is what got you love birds out of bed so early this morning. What else did he give you?”

  This was the moment of truth. Tennyson looked at Ronan before looking back at the captain. “Two possible suspects.”

  Fitzgibbon looked confused. “That’s great guys, but what the hell are you doing sitting here in my office telling me about it at zero-dark-thirty? Why aren’t you making plans to bring them both in and interview them?”

  “Uh, this is where the story gets a little hairy,” Ronan started.

  “Ronan, we’re long past it being a problem that a spirit from the beyond is giving you information on who to interview.”

  “It’s not just that, cap, but rather who these possible suspects are that has me and Ten sitting here in your office.”

  Fitzgibbon rolled his eyes. “Okay drama queen, who the hell are these suspects? The president and first lady?”

  Ronan shook his head. “No, but what would you say if I told you they were Rod Jacobson and Jace Lincoln?”

  “Shit, piss and corruption!” Fitzgibbon slapped a hand down on his desk. “You’re telling me you want to interview a Pulitzer Prize winning author and a man who runs a homeless shelter. Christ, who’s next, me?” He leaned forward in his chair and looked back and forth between Ten and Ronan.

  “All of the witnesses we’ve spoken with, Greeley included, said the suspect had dark hair. Chris Jessup said the same thing, but he went a step further. He told us that the man who killed him hung around the shelter all the time. The night he was murdered the man asked him to help bring something in from his car and when they went outside to get it from the trunk, the killer hit him.”

  “I get why you’re thinking of Jace Lincoln as a suspect, but why Rod Jacobson?”

  “Chris was victim number two. His murder happened during the time when Jacobson was researching the piece on the street kids. He was at the shelter a lot. Hell, cap, he made a lot of friends in that community and does a lot of volunteer work. He still spends a lot of time at local Boston shelters. Not just the Tremont Street Mission.”

  Fitzgibbon was silent for a few seconds. “Bring them both in. Lincoln first, then Jacobson. Go easy on them, Ronan. Tennyson, use your gift.” He reached for a donut, his hand hovering over the box at the last second. “You know, Ten, I thought it was just weird at first that Jacobson didn’t want you to go along with Ronan when they met. Writers are an odd lot after all, but looking at this from the angle that he could possibly be a suspect, him not wanting you to come along takes on a more sinister tone.”

  “I was thinking the same thing, cap,” Ronan agreed.

  “What? You’re psychic now too? God help me.” Fitzgibbon rolled his eyes. “Go, both of you.”

  Tennyson’s stomach pitched and rolled over the idea that he was going to have to be front and center in both of these interviews. His ace in the hole was that he’d never met either of these men and could just let his sixth sense do the talking. He could only pray that one of these two men was the killer, otherwise they’d be back at square one.

  30

  Ronan

  Jace Lincoln was scheduled to come in to meet with them at 2pm. Ronan had spent the entire day working on a list of interview questions which he’d gone over with Tennyson who’d been able to add some questions of his own.

  The last time they’d had to interview a suspect, Ronan hadn’t included Tennyson in the preparation process. Granted, Ronan knew damn well their suspect in the Michael Frye case wasn’t guilty of murdering the five-year-old boy, but Ronan had to interview him anyway. Not including Tennyson had been unprofessional and bush league.

  This time he and Tennyson would go into the interview as a team. As partners in every sense of the word.

  “My palms are sweating.” Tennyson wiped them against the butt of his jeans as Ronan held the door to the interrogation room open for him. “I can’t imagine what this is going to be like for Jace Lincoln coming in here thinking he’s helping us out, only to have the tables turned on him.”

  “Just remember this isn’t going to start out as an interrogation,” Ronan cautioned. “We need to treat him with kid gloves until he gives us something to pounce on.”

  “If he gives us something to pounce on.” Tennyson shook his head. “I just can’t imagine a philanthropist as a serial killer. All he does with his time and his money is try to make people’s lives better.”

  “What better way to hunt your victi
ms?” This was another situation where Ronan felt like he was chipping off another piece of Ten’s innocence.

  “What do you mean?” Tennyson looked horrified.

  “Well, using your lion and wildebeest analogy, Lincoln has full access to these kids at the shelter. He’s able to study them and get to know them better under the guise of wanting to help them. Then he can figure out which one is in the most need of money. Who would be willing to take the most risk for the most reward.”

  Ten nodded, his shoulders sagging a bit. “He’d even be able to figure out who was on drugs and who might be easier to take down in a fight.”

  “Exactly. The shelter is the perfect hunting ground for a predator. The kids know and trust him. And I’m sure Chris Jessup didn’t hesitate to help when Lincoln asked him to.”

  “If he was the one who asked him to…” Tennyson trailed off. “It could have been Jacobson. Or a third suspect we haven’t met yet.”

  “Fine, if he asked him to.” Ronan knew Tennyson would play the role of good cop in this interrogation. Ronan loved that Tennyson still had that innocence about him. He didn’t want to see this line of work stamp that out of him, but on the other hand, if he believed the best of everyone, he was in for disappointment.

  Just as Ronan was about to give Ten a few more pointers, there was a knock on the interrogation room door. “Come in,” Ronan called out.

  “Hey, guys.” Detective Mick O’Dwyer stuck his head in the door. “I’ve got Jace Lincoln for you.”

  “Thanks, Mick.” Ronan waved to the detective as he showed Lincoln into the room. Mick had been a real friend to him after the Michael Frye case ended. His wife had made sure Ronan was fed while Mick made sure he had a shoulder to lean on.

  “How can I help out Boston’s finest today?” Jace Lincoln asked with a genuine smile as he sat down at the table.

  Ronan took the seat across from him and next to Tennyson. “This is my partner, Tennyson Grimm.”

  “Ah, yes, the psychic. I read a lot about you after the Michael Frye case. Seems you’ve made quite a name for yourself. I know a great financial guy if you’re interested.”