by D P Lyle
“Which was?” I asked.
“Stuffed in that drum.”
“There’s more, isn’t there?” I asked.
Sidau smiled, and his eyebrows bobbed a couple of beats. “Oh yes, there’s more.”
Sidau was an old movie buff. We had had a long talk about it one night a couple of years ago. He liked the old black and whites. Anything with a cliff-hanger. He liked to make everyone cliff-hang a bit. Like now. Save the best for last.
“What’s the punch line?” I asked.
“Her core temp is nearly ten degrees less than the room temp. According to the weather service, the low was fifty-eight at four this morning. Currently in this garage it’s sixty-two. She’s at fifty-three. Core temps can’t fall below ambient temperature.”
“You’re telling us she’s been in cold storage?” I asked.
“Had to be.”
“What the hell is going on?” Furyk’s voice was unmistakable. He stepped into the doorway, looked at me and T-Tommy. “I should have known.” He turned to the uniformed officers who followed him. “Get these two out of here. If they refuse, arrest them.”
“Listen—,” I began.
“No, hotshot. You listen. This is a crime scene. You have no authority here. I’m in charge.”
“Sergeant,” T-Tommy said.
“And you,” Furyk said. “This is your doing. You’re off the case. Now. And suspended.”
“But—”
“Get back to the department. Turn in your gun and badge. I’ll file the paper later.”
“Don’t you think you’re overreacting a bit here?” I said.
His jaw pulsed. “Where were you when this went down?”
I saw where this was going. I could play the game. “When exactly did this go down?”
Furyk’s face reddened. “You better have an alibi. One that’s fucking titanium.”
“I do. What about you? Where were you?”
I thought he would crack a molar. Maybe rupture an aneurysm. I loved this shit.
He moved close, his voice like air seeping from a punctured tire. “Get the fuck out of here. I won’t ask again.”
I walked past him to my car. I leaned against it and waited. In a couple of minutes, T-Tommy ducked beneath the tape and walked in my direction.
“Sorry,” I said.
“Fuck him.” He glanced at the garage. “Something’s wrong here. He goes to the gym every morning from six to eight. Every day. No one calls him or bothers him during that time. Regardless of what’s going down.”
“So, who called him today?” I asked.
“That’s what I’d like to know.”
CHAPTER 72
WEDNESDAY 8:03 A.M.
T-TOMMY LEFT HIS CAR AT THE SCENE AND RODE WITH ME. HE wanted to swing by the South Precinct and drop off his badge and gun, muttering something about how Furyk could run off and fuck himself. I told him I understood, but maybe a couple of days to cool off might be wise. Give it some thought, anyway. He grumbled but finally agreed.
We rolled toward Sin-Dee’s. On the way, I called Claire and told her what was up and that she might want to go over to Slade’s place. She said she’d grab a camera crew and head that way. Now she owed me. I liked that.
As expected, no one answered my knock at Sin-Dee’s. They were all dead. I noticed Martha Godwyn peeking through her curtain and waved to her. She opened her front door and stepped onto her porch. She wore the same kimono I saw her in last time we were here. A cigarette hung from her lip. No drink. Maybe she waited until noon to start. Maybe she left it inside.
“If it isn’t the Hardy Boys,” she said. She nodded at Sin-Dee’s door. “She ain’t there.”
“I know.”
Martha cocked her head and angled her gaze at me. “So, why’re you here?”
No time for BS. “Sin-Dee’s been murdered.”
She stumbled back. I thought the cigarette might slip from her now slack mouth, but it hung on somehow. Seemed to defy gravity. She scissored it between her fingers, took a quick hit, and pulled it from her lips. “What do you mean?”
“She was killed last night.”
“The other girl, too? The new one?”
“Who?” I asked.
“Don’t remember her name. Kay or Katie. Maybe Kathy. Just met her in passing. Only been here a couple of days. They left together last night.”
“What does she look like?”
“Cover of Vogue. Has a face you won’t forget. Hair like a raven. That blue-black color.”
“You saw them leave last night?”
“Around ten. Big, bald black guy picked them up.”
T-Tommy and I looked at each other, and I knew he was thinking the same as me. Max.
Martha lit a fresh cigarette from the remnant of the one she held and then ground the butt into the soil of an ornate pot on her porch. The scraggly plant didn’t seem to mind. She took a long pull and with smoke trailing from her nostrils said, “You going to look inside again?”
“Yeah. Hopefully find something that will help us figure out who did this.”
T-Tommy had the door open in a couple of heartbeats, and we slipped inside. Martha took up a position at the door, leaning against the jamb, sucking smoke into her lungs.
The place was neat and clean, no sign of an altercation. Didn’t suspect there would be. It looked as it did when we had seen it a few days ago. The pile of coke was gone, but the razor blade and mirror lay on the coffee table, a few grains of white powder clinging to the glass. In the kitchen, two wineglasses, a small puddle of red wine in the bottom of each, and a half bottle of Merlot were next to the sink.
In the upstairs room where Noel had stayed we found a small suitcase, empty, a handful of clothes in the closet, and a purse on the nightstand. The wallet inside contained no money or credit cards, only an Alabama driver’s license issued to Kathleen Amanda Fuller, twenty in two weeks, Russellville address. The smiling face belonged to the strangled and sliced-up girl I had seen on the table in Slade’s garage.
I handed the license to T-Tommy when he walked into the room.
“Sin-Dee’s purse is in her room. Means they went out on a job.”
Hookers rarely took much personal stuff with them when they were working. Just the essentials. A little cash, lipstick, mouthwash, condoms. A credit card if absolutely necessary.
We left everything as it was and went back downstairs. On the kitchen counter beside the phone I found a slip of paper. A list of six items, four checked off.
I didn’t know who Rob was or what the trip to New York was about, but I was dead solid sure that Katie’s license renewal and Sin-Dee’s laundry wouldn’t happen. The call to Rosalee apparently had. Well, well.
CHAPTER 73
WEDNESDAY 8:53 A.M.
T-TOMMY AND I REACHED ROSALEE KENNEDY’S IN ABOUT TEN MINUTES.
Max answered the door. “The fuck you guys want?” He wasn’t as pleasant as last time. Couldn’t imagine why.
“Rosalee,” I said.
“She’s busy.”
“So are we.” I pushed past him.
He grabbed my arm, squeezed. “Don’t you hear so well?”
In an earlier life—right after Jill’s abduction and my spiral into depression and my brief marriage to Claire—I was a US Marine MP. They teach you how to handle these situations. How to take down bad guys with minimum effort. Eyes, neck, balls, fingers, whatever was available. I chose a thumb.
I fisted Max’s left thumb and cranked it back. Hard. Max dropped to his knees. He didn’t resist when T-Tommy snagged his gun from the holster on his belt. I let go.
God bless the USMC.
“I hear real good,” I said.
We found Rosalee in the kitchen, sitting at a table in a nook that had views over the pool. She wore a loose silk robe and scanned the newspaper spread on the table before her, narrow reading glasses settled low on her nose. A phone and what appeared to be a black leather appointment book lay nearby. Ready for business.
She looked up, shock on her face, and fumbled with her coffee cup, spilling some on the paper. “What the . . . ?”
I waved her into silence and sat down across the table. “I’ll ask the questions.”
Max came in, shaking his hand and rubbing his thumb. “Sorry,” he said.
Rosalee tugged off her glasses, dropped them on the paper, and glared at me. “You can’t come in here and—”
I pointed to the phone. “The number’s 911 if you want to call. Or I have Investigator Tortelli right here if you want to file a complaint. Maybe you want to call your buddy Rocco. Or your guardian angel.”
She settled in her chair, regaining her composure, and dabbed at the spilled coffee with a napkin. “I don’t need a guardian angel. I can take care of myself.”
I smiled. “I’d bet Sergeant Furyk would be disappointed to hear that.”
“Who’s that?”
“The guy you’ve given . . .” I looked at T-Tommy. “What is it? Ten thousand?”
“Closer to twelve.”
“The guy you’ve given twelve Grovers to so he can be your next mayor or whatever cushy job he’s looking for.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do.” I leaned back, starting to enjoy this. “I find it odd that the top homicide cop gets money from you, Rocco Scarcella, and Harmon Talbert.”
Her gaze darted around. Max, the floor, me, T-Tommy, the floor, back to me. I could feel the wheels turning inside her head.
I pressed on. “Quite a confederacy. So I ask myself, why is this dirty little group killing so many folks?”
“I’m afraid you’re misinformed.” Rosalee stood, but I motioned her back into her seat.
Max began to move forward, but T-Tommy gave him a look that convinced him to stay put.
“Relax, Rosalee,” I said. “We might be your shining knights. Might be able to pull your bacon from the fire.”
She sat and crossed her arms over her chest.
I went on. “The thumbnail is that we know that Alejandro and Eddie supplied bodies for someone. We know they dumped the bodies after this person was finished. We know Alejandro worked for Rocco. We know Crystal, Sin-Dee, the new girl, Kathleen Fuller I believe, and our friend Noel were likely set up by you. We know that you and Rocco think that you’re bulletproof because of Furyk. What I’m telling you right here, right now, is that ain’t so. We’re going to take down Rocco. Furyk, too, if necessary. You’ll get flushed in the deal. Max, too.”
“That’s a wild theory you have there,” Rosalee said. “Problem is that it isn’t true. None of it.”
I caught her gaze, held it for a minute, waiting for things to ripen in her mind. Then I said, “The only piece we’re missing is who’s the cutter. Who chopped up these folks? And why?” Her eyes never wavered. Neither did mine. “If you know, you might be able to buy your way out of this.”
“You guys are behind the curve.” She refilled her cup from a coffee carafe on the table. Took her sweet time about it. Didn’t offer us any. Sort of rude, but under the circumstances I understood. “They got the killer this morning.”
“On the news, was it?” I asked her.
“I have my sources, too.”
“Better check them,” T-Tommy said.
I nodded. “They’re a little off base here.”
She took a sip of coffee. Another. Drawing it out. The cup made a soft ping when she returned it to the saucer. “We’ll know soon. There’s a press conference at noon. Furyk’s holding it.”
I didn’t ask how she knew. Furyk? Rocco? It didn’t matter. She was in the loop. I stood and looked down at her. “The offer stands. You can still buy your way out of this.”
Rosalee smiled. “This what?”
I picked up the pen that lay next to her appointment book and scribbled my cell number on a dry edge of the newspaper. “Eddie Elliott knew. He’s dead. Alejandro Diaz knew. He’s dead. Aden Slade knew. He’s dead. You and Max know. Do the math.”
CHAPTER 74
WEDNESDAY 11:41 A.M.
I LEANED AGAINST THE CHANNEL 8 VAN, TALKING WITH T-TOMMY AND sipping the coffee we had picked up at The Coffee Tree Books & Brew, a cool book, coffee, and sandwich shop at the south end of the strip mall that housed the South Precinct. Besides being T-Tommy’s office, the South Precinct was home to the Major Crimes Unit, which handled homicides and other crimes against persons, and the HPD crime lab. It was easy to miss, occupying the middle unit of the mall, wedged between a discount store and a sports and fitness center. The only sign that it was a governmental agency was the American flag out front and the white lettering on the double glass doors.
Claire was doing a pickup interview of one of the HPD uniforms who had been at Aden Slade’s house this morning.
We were all killing time, waiting for Furyk’s press conference. He had set up a podium near the precinct’s front doors.
While I waited, I called Miranda.
“How are you?” I asked when she answered.
“Been better.”
“Anything I can do?”
“More than you’ve already done?” She sighed heavily. “No. This’ll just take time.”
I brought her up to date on everything and then said, “Sergeant Furyk, head of homicide here, is holding a press conference at noon. I’m sure it’ll be carried down in Birmingham. If you watch, it’s all BS.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s going to say that he got the killer. That it’s some guy named Aden Slade. That Slade committed suicide.”
“Did he?”
“Not even close. He didn’t do himself, and he ain’t the killer.”
“Then who is?”
“Don’t know yet. Slade’s probably involved, but he ain’t the brains behind it. He’s just the fall guy.”
Miranda sighed. “When will this be over?”
“Soon. Very soon. I’ll call when I know more.”
As I expected, Furyk was late. Didn’t hurt to appear busier than you really were. By 12:10 the crowd was growing restless. Finally, Furyk came out, camera lenses and microphones aimed at him, and exchanged a few words with a uniformed officer who stood beside him.
He then approached the podium and faced the reporters. “Thank you for coming. This has been a tough case, and I’d like to thank all the dedicated officers who have put in many hours of hard work. I’d particularly like to thank the lead detective of the task force, Investigator Tommy Tortelli.”
“At least he’s giving you some credit,” I said.
T-Tommy shook his head. “He’s covering his ass. If this little charade goes south, he’s got me to blame.”
Furyk continued. “This case began nearly a week ago when the corpses of two young women were found buried in a wooded area just north of the city. They had been horribly mutilated by a very sick and sadistic killer. Then another mutilated victim, now identified as Alejandro Diaz, was found in a field where the killer had dumped his body. He obviously thought Mr. Diaz was dead. But he was alive and was transported to Huntsville Memorial Medical Center where, despite heroic efforts by the doctors and medical staff, he died early yesterday morning.”
He cleared his throat. “Over the past few days the bodies of nearly two dozen other victims have been unearthed, and this morning the corpses of three more young women were found. Each and every one of these victims had been similarly mutilated.” He took a deep breath, stuck his chest out, and put on a serious expression. “I should point out that it appears that these mutilations occurred while the victims were still alive.”
A murmur swelled and rolled through the gathering.
Furyk waited for it to die down. “Today’s victims were discovered at the home of the killer, Mr. Aden Slade. His body was also found at the scene. He died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.” He looked over the crowd. “I’ll answer a couple of questions.”
Hands shot up, and voices called out.
Furyk pointed at a woman near
the front.
“What are the names of the other victims?”
“The initial two young women are Noel Edwards, age nineteen, and Crystal Robinson, age twenty-four. We can’t release information on any of the others since our identification process is ongoing and we are still attempting to locate next of kin of those we have been able to identify.” A grim look again. “Many of the victims are young women who appear to have been prostitutes. That makes ascertaining their true identity more difficult. It may take a while.” Now his face softened. “We want them returned to their loved ones. Even the most weak and vulnerable among us deserve the same respect that each of us is entitled to.”
“He’s quite a humanitarian,” I said.
T-Tommy grunted.
The next question came from a Huntsville Times reporter. I recognized him but couldn’t remember his name. “What can you tell us about the perpetrator?”
“Aden Slade was a troubled young man. His father was a brilliant physician who committed suicide, and his mother died after a long illness. Mr. Slade had been enrolled in medical school but had to drop out to care for his mother. I’m certain that was an embittering experience. He was apparently a loner with few friends, which seems to be common with these types of sociopaths. He worked locally for a medical equipment manufacturing firm. Apparently he stole instruments from his employer, and it was these that he used to torture and mutilate his victims. That’s really all we know about him at this time.”
If nothing else, Furyk was smooth. The reporters seemed to eat this up, not sensing that it was complete bullshit.
Except for Claire. “Any idea how Slade managed to keep his victims imprisoned yet still go to work every day?” she asked. “Why none of his neighbors noticed anything?”
“Mr. Slade was very clever.” Furyk pointed to another reporter.
Claire wasn’t that easily brushed aside. “Are you sure that Slade acted alone? Seems like all this would require more than one person.”
