She wheels back a few inches but isn’t deterred enough to drop the subject. “Seriously, what do you have?”
“I don’t fucking know.”
The wheels are practically turning behind her light irises as she looks me over. “You don’t look like you’re coming down with a virus. Just . . . pale and out of it.”
Drunk and hungover at the same time.
Not that I can let her realize that.
“I told you, I don’t know yet. I just feel it sinking in.” Pulling my chair closer to my desk, I fire up my computer. The glare of the monitor coming to life almost kills me right there, but at least it’ll help me get Ruby off my back.
“Cough? Tired feeling? Sore throat?”
Or not.
My teeth click against each other as I pull up the new report sent by Dr. Conley. There was no point meeting him at the M.E’s office this time; I was there when this body was found. The report does confirm that the blade is exact—and I do mean exact—to the one left inside Mr. Woodward.
What’s also identical? The white carving on it, the one no one can seem to locate in any database.
The design hanging from the heavy chain around my neck, hidden by my dress shirt.
My head pounds harder at the thought.
“Maybe it’s a stomach virus.”
Momentarily closing my eyes, I count to ten, praying I can push back the frustration pounding its way up my throat. When I open them again, the glare of the lights make my stomach turn. Ignoring it, I read the next line in the report.
The next matching detail? The insertion of the blade expertly positioned to slice through vertebrates C2 and C3. She’s gotten good at it. Really good.
Assuming she’s the infamous Boston Slasher, although aside from her killing technique, I’ve found nothing to point to that fact.
My thoughts still can’t wrap themselves around that fact it’s a female.
Who sucked your dick last night until you couldn’t think straight.
“Honestly, it must just be some weird stomach flu.”
“God damn it, Saunders!” I slam my hand onto my desk, barely missing my keyboard. “I took way too much NyQuil to put up with your shit right now!” I’m full of it. NyQuil isn’t responsible for my current inability to behave as a normal human.
Ruby blinks at me, unfazed by my outburst. “Why take NyQuil if you’re not sure what it is?”
Swear to the Lord Almighty, the blood vessel on the side of my head is about to fucking pop. I round on her, lips parting to deliver my next dose of fury—
“Quinn! My office—now!”
Captain Porter’s command is the equivalent of C4 going off in my gut. Throwing Ruby a nasty glare, I hurry to do as I’m told, before I call anymore unnecessary attention on myself. Once inside his office, I find him behind his desk, expression stony.
“What exactly is wrong with you today?”
He suspects I’m drunk. No shit. I’ve seen that look one too many times on the faces of my superiors to doubt it. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“You’re a mess, Quinn. And you’re acting out.”
Ducking my head in what I hope is a show of shame, I reply, “I don’t mean to. Feeling under the weather and Saunders doesn’t make it easy to work with her, as you know.”
“Look at me, Quinn.”
I snap my head back, hurrying to do as he says.
“What’s wrong with you?”
Again, the tone of that question isn’t lost on me. He already suspects but is giving me the benefit of the doubt. “Not sure. Took more meds than I should’ve. Definitely feel like I’m coming down with something.”
He hums, leaning back in his chair. “Should’ve taken a sick day.”
“I know, but the case is too important. Especially after the latest victim...”
“Well, the way I see it, Quinn, I need you sharp on this one. More than ever, now that you actually laid eyes on the killer”—he tilts his head, expression contemplative—“are you sure it was a female?”
“Positive, sir.”
“Shit. Not many female serial killers going around.”
“If it is the one from almost a decade ago. And they’re becoming more common nowadays.”
“Damn straight. Either way, Quinn, you’re not fit to be out on the field today. You’re paler than a sheet of paper. So you choose: remain on admin duty today, or take the day off.”
My first impulse is to fight him on it.
One hard look at him and I know that battle’s already lost.
I could stay here, hopefully avoid Ruby if he sends her out, work on searching the databases . . .
Or head home and continue my search from there, unimpeded by anyone.
Captain Porter raises an eyebrow at my lack of reply.
“Alright, sir. If you think it’s best, I’ll head home for the day.”
“I do think it’s best, Quinn. Get home and get yourself back to form.”
It’s an order. One I have no choice but to obey.
Works in my favor anyway. I’ll be able to continue my own research and hopefully avoid anyone picking up lingering traces of the alcohol on my breath.
As pathetic as that makes me.
“Thank you. I’ll make sure to be back tomorrow bright and early.”
“Only if you’re better, Quinn. I mean it. We need you on your A-game.”
“Yes, sir. Got it. A-game.”
* * *
Remember when I mentioned downing seventy-five percent of the Jameson bottle last night? Well, the other twenty-five percent is calling my name from the depths of my cabinet. A situation that I’m going to have to deal with.
Eventually.
If I can’t get a handle on the drinking, confessing to Father Lacerra will be the least of my worries.
Returning to AA means alerting my superiors of my situation. There’s no way I’ll be able to keep it hidden from them.
To distract myself, I go back to my in-depth search of the DuBois family. I don’t know why, but my mind keeps returning to them. To the fact the first victim was at their home the night he was killed.
It has nothing to do with Kiera.
It has everything to do with her. I can’t deny it anymore.
Shit. I’m going to need to go for another confession. Simply praying isn’t doing anything to bring me clarity. To bring me peace.
Absolution? It’s starting to seem like a pipedream for a transgressor like me.
Although, how in the hell am I going to confess to my priest that I let the fucking killer suck me off mid-chase after she murdered her latest victim? That I washed off the DNA evidence left on my body that could’ve helped us finally identify her?
That in my same desperate frenzy, I shoved the clothes with the victim’s blood, with more evidence, into the washer, as if getting them cleaned would somehow purge my own dirty soul?
The Jameson screams my name louder.
Tugging on my hair, I bring my attention back to my desktop and continue reading the article I pulled up.
The latest PR piece of the anointed, golden heir—Elon DuBois.
While the women in the family seem to polish their reputation through charity work, the men of the family prefer flashier pursuits.
For Elon, it seems to be Silicon Valley investments. He’s made a habit of picking the most promising, up-and-coming start up and attaching both his name and money to them, basking in the glory when they take off.
I study each of his pictures, the expression on his face.
Or to be more exact, his lack thereof.
Even when smiling for the benefit of the cameras, there’s something about him that remains detached. Cold. Chilling.
This fucking man rubs me in the wrong way, on every level, even more so than anyone I’ve ever met before. Jumping to conclusions can doom a case from the onset, that I did learn in the last near-decade on the force.
Why my cop instincts are so fixated on him is still a mystery. Yet it’
s not one I’m going to drop. Maybe it’s nothing, maybe I’m just being stupid . . . and maybe it’s not stupid and I’m really onto something.
My personal cell rings on the desk next to me. Looking at the screen, I groan at seeing “Mom” flashing on the screen. Tempted to ignore her, I place the phone back on the surface—
Ah, fuck this. It’s Ma. As much as talking to her stresses me out from time to time, I’m still the good little Irish boy deep down, raised to respect his mother above all else except God.
“Hey, Ma. How are you?”
“Maverick. I haven’t heard from you in over a week.”
Ah, there’s my mother. Straight to the point. “I’m sorry, Ma. It’s been really busy at work.”
“Hmmm. Yes. They have you back on that cursed case.”
Here we go. “Yes, Ma. They do. I’m especially suited to help them catch this killer.”
“You’re especially suited to ruin your life over it, you mean.”
Know how they say “a mother always knows”? That’s my Ma. All the time. Even when I try to hide my state from her, even when I don’t constantly communicate with her, she has this sixth sense that tells her I’m fucking up my life.
And what am I doing with this case? Fucking up my life.
Can’t tell her that, though. “It’s fine, Mom. I’ve learned my lesson from the last time.” I haven’t learned jack shit from the last time, if my current track record is proof. The guilt in my soul manifests itself in another dazzling display of memories.
Two women.
One a complicated mystery that yanks at every string of my mind, consuming even my emotions.
The other, a killer. A serial killer. Possibly the same one that left behind a string of bodies during my early days on the force.
Both of them women that I’ve allowed to touch me in the most intimate, carnal ways possible. Both tied to this fucking case.
“Is that why I haven’t seen you in person for over a month? Because everything is alright? Do I have to take the bus to your place just to see my own son’s face?”
Ma never got her driver’s license, she’s old-fashioned like that, and although she’s a hardy thing, the thought of her traveling on the bus to my place bothers me too much. “If I promise to come over on my next day off, will that be okay?”
“Hmmm. Fine. And how about Mass? Have you been attending? Father Lacerra mentioned he hasn’t seen you as often lately.”
I exhale softly, low enough to prevent her from hearing. I’m not surprised he told her, just don’t want to deal with it at the moment. “Ma, I go as often as I can. You know how my RDOs and OT work.”
“That job might mean everything to you, Maverick, but it’s not more important than your connection to God. Never forget that.”
“Of course, Mom. I know that.” My voice is probably more curt than it should be, but the last thing I need from her is a reminder.
“Don’t you speak to me like that, Maverick. You shouldn’t let this job or the case be the reason you become derelict in your duties to our Lord. Let me know what day you’ll be passing by.” And with that, she hangs up the phone as she usually does, not bothering with a goodbye.
“Whoever conceals his transgressions will not prosper, but he who confesses and forsakes them will obtain mercy.” - Proverbs 28:13
The next morning can only be described as hell.
This has to be it, the fiery depths of my own personal hell, which sure as fuck isn’t good for me considering I got sent home for the same shit yesterday.
Actually, no. I take that back. Not the same shit, not the same shit at all.
Yesterday, I was drunk.
But today?
Today I’m hungover, on two women. They’ve ingrained themselves within me on such a molecular level, I don’t know what the fuck to do with myself. How to handle this. The way my mind can ping pong between the two in seconds flat has to be some form of insanity.
Kiera.
The Killer.
Ballgown.
Latex.
The two of them together.
I groan at the visual, throwing my head back into the driver’s seat right outside the precinct’s parking lot.
I’m losing it. It’s too much—a toxic, slippery slope of sin and temptation, and yet, if I don’t see Kiera soon, I may just snap for real. Because that’s where the bulk of my thoughts remain—with her.
I want her.
In every way possible.
Know feeling that body against me again would cleanse me of this fixation with the killer.
I have to see her. No—I will see her. How, I’m not sure of yet, but I’ll find a way.
With not five minutes to spare, ‘cause I’m already fucking late, I pull myself together in the rearview mirror and bolt out of the car.
Into the precinct.
It’s quite busy again today, teeming with life.
I have to shuffle my way around the commotion to get to the elevator bank. My thumb meets the button repeatedly as if that’ll somehow summon it faster. The doors open, I’m in, and less than a minute later, I’ve made it to homicide.
Right in time too, apparently, because it looks like the Cap isn’t too far into the morning meeting. Closer I get, though, the more I realize he’s livid.
Shit.
“If I find out that anyone, and I do mean anyone, leaked this information to the press, you can expect to walk out those doors without a job. This is complete and utter bullshit!” he barks furiously, face reddening.
I see Ruby in the crowd and stroll up beside her, trying my hardest to blend in. “What happened?”
She looks up at me in surprise, that analytical eyebrow arching high at my disheveled appearance, and swiftly turns back to the Captain. “The press officially has word on the killer. Body count, killing style, design on the weapon. It was on the news earlier this morning and should hit the papers by tomorrow.”
My eyes widen.
Fuck.
Fuck. They know.
My entire body runs ice cold. News of a serial killer is never good, but one that includes the killer leaving behind a calling card—one I wear daily around my neck—is infinitely worse. If anyone so much as sees my chain . . .
I’m going to have to take it off.
Silent panic begins to set in, the clenching and unclenching of my fists.
Shuffling on my feet.
My jaw ticks, crucifix in question burning hot against my chest.
The need to reach for it eats at me, but I restrain myself, taking steadying breaths as my nails dig into my palm.
I can’t take it off. I just can’t. In fact, I’ve never taken it off, not a single day in my life. It’s my lifeline, my grasp of reality, a reminder that my faith will never lead me astray when all hope is lost.
Not that my faith has been much help lately, but still, I know I can’t possibly throw this thing in a drawer and just forget about it.
“Get to work, people!” The Cap’s voice refocuses my attention in the moment. “We have a lot of damage control to do on top of nailing this case once and for all. Focus, keep your mouths shut, and let’s get it done!”
Everyone disperses in a flurry without a single word, including Blackstone and Lee. Ruby fists the arm of my dress shirt to pull me to our desks when the Captain’s voice rings out again.
“Blackstone, Lee, Quinn, and Saunders—the four of you in my office. Now.”
Ruby and I exchange a look at the snip in his tone, as do Nathaniel and Jared, all of us shuffling after him in confusion.
“Close the door,” he instructs as he takes a seat behind his desk. Ruby does as she’s asked, prompting him to continue. “As leads on this case, I expect you all to be working together and exchanging information as much as possible, so I’d like to know why the hell it seems you’re all on different pages.”
The four of us stare between one another, not knowing how to respond. What am I supposed to say? Because I loathe Blackstone w
ith a passion and think he’s full of shit?
“I’ll wait,” Captain Porter huffs at our silence, reclining in his chair.
Nathaniel runs a hand through his hair and clears his throat to speak up, like the kiss-ass he is. “We haven’t run into each other much the last week or so, Cap. When we’re coming, they’re going. Vice-versa.”
“Not an excuse. It’s your responsibility, all of you,” he eyes us steadily, “to make the damn time. So today, you’re going to do just that and catch up before you step foot outside those doors. Are we clear?”
A soft round of “Yes, sir” bounces off the walls to which Captain Porter nods, shooing us away with a wave of his hand.
“Chop, chop—get to it.”
We file out in silence and congregate just outside his office in a perplexed state, not knowing where to go, much less what the hell to do.
“My desk, I guess?” Blackstone suggests curtly, but I can hear the twinge of annoyance hidden just beneath the surface.
I almost feel like giving him a smart ass answer just to ruin his composure. Golden boy has it too easy around here.
Another nod and we’re off. Ruby and I trail the two men at a snail’s pace, all but dragging our feet.
“This fucking blows,” she whispers, dreading this in equal measure.
No shit, I think to myself.
It’s worse than admin duty.
Once we make it to Nathaniel’s desk, he and Jared drop down behind it while Ruby and I pull up two chairs before them. No one moves or speaks. It’s beyond tense, awkward even. Quite clear we have no interest in working with one another.
Can’t say I blame them.
I have absolutely no desire to be sitting here with them right now, either. The only one I can tolerate from the three is Ruby, and even then, I have very little patience for her these days, if any at all. The Captain forcing us into this little meeting is unnecessary and almost feels like some sort of payback for yesterday.
I mean, everything we learn during our own investigations is swapped when the reports are updated.
He knows this, and yet, here we are burning daylight when we could be out there questioning those who knew the victim from the club.
Corrupted: Saint Cecilia Slayings Book Two Page 3
