Thicker than Blood (Zoe Bentley Mystery)

by Mike Omer

  A photo she’d seen on the church memorial board was missing from this collection. And she instantly knew who appeared in the photo alongside Catherine.

  Allen Swenson.

  She found the photos that Tatum had taken of the memorial board in the church and flipped through them. Allen Swenson appeared in two of them. In one, he and Catherine stood with a group of other people, smiling at the camera. That one also appeared in the photos she’d gotten from the photographer, Finch. But the second was a photo of Allen and Catherine on a bench in the garden, talking. And that photo was missing from Finch’s photos. Why?

  In fact, now that she thought about it, there were hardly any recent pictures of Allen at all. But he’d told them that he came to most Sunday services. She checked again. Swenson appeared only a handful of times, in large group shots.

  She looked through the images yet again, this time focusing on the file names, making a note whenever the numbering jumped. Overall, the image numbers were consecutive. There would be a jump in the image numbers whenever the dates of the images changed, presumably because unrelated photos had been taken in between. Occasionally, one or two images would be missing, perhaps because they were blurry or unusable, deleted outright. But in the more recent folders, there were numerous missing pictures, the consecutive numbers suddenly leaping by four or five. A total of thirty-two photos were missing from the last two years.

  Some photos had been removed. Was this done at Swenson’s request?

  He’d told them he’d seen Catherine when he had been driving by the church. She thought back to that conversation. He’d said he had been talking to a friend. They’d never followed through on that. Which friend? Glover?

  Had Catherine seen them both together in the car? If Glover thought she’d recognized him, saw that he was with Swenson, that could be enough to prompt her murder.

  He wasn’t on her list because she’d based it on the pictures she had. Pictures he hardly appeared in. Since she assumed the unsub had met Glover in church, and saw Catherine there regularly, she focused on men who’d appeared frequently in the pictures, who were part of the congregation’s community. It never occurred to her that pictures with specific people could be missing.

  She searched for him on social media, found his profile on Facebook. She scrolled through the posts. He was divorced, no children. He’d taken several selfies with women considerably younger than him.

  She dialed Tatum.

  “Hey.” He sounded exhausted.

  She suddenly recalled the online trap Tatum had set for the killer the day before. “Any news with the virus thing?” she asked.

  “It’s not a virus—it’s a Trojan horse.” He yawned when he said horse, so it sounded like hooooorse. “No news. He hasn’t logged off, but he didn’t open the file either. No idea why. I tried asking him if he found what he was looking for in the file this morning. Still no response.”

  “Are you at the station?”

  “Yeah, I slept here. We did a sleepover party. Agent Valentine has pink PJs.”

  “Really?”

  “No. But I find it amusing that you thought it’s remotely possible.”

  “Tatum, do you have the phone number of the photographer we talked to?”

  “I think so. Finch, right? Hang on . . . okay, I sent it to you. Why?”

  “I think there are some missing photos,” Zoe answered vaguely, not sure if her hunch was strong enough to go into detail. “I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Okay. I think there’s a status meeting at—”

  She hung up before he could give her the details. Self-preservation. Then she dialed Finch. It took him a long time to answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Finch, this is Zoe Bentley. We met a few days—”

  “I remember. How can I help you?”

  “It’s about Catherine Lamb and Allen Swenson.”

  The long pause told her she’d gotten it right. She smiled grimly.

  “What about them?” Finch finally asked.

  “There was a photograph of both of them missing in the files you gave us. A photograph you used for the memorial board.”

  “That must have been a mistake. Maybe I missed a folder.”

  “From what I could see, you missed more than just a folder. There are missing photos throughout the last two years. Have you removed some of the photos, Mr. Finch?”

  “Like I said, it was probably a mistake. I’ll look through the photos on Monday morning, send you the missing files.”

  If he had a reason to hide them, he might delete them by then. “What if we send a patrol officer to your studio now? With a search warrant? Would you be able to find the photos faster?”

  “There’s no need for that.”

  “A woman has been murdered, Finch. If you’re withholding evidence—”

  “You can’t tell him that I talked to you,” Finch blurted.

  “Tell who?”

  “Allen.”

  “Allen Swenson?”

  “Yeah. He came into my studio on Tuesday and told me to delete all photos of him from the past two years.”

  Tuesday. That was the day they’d met Swenson at the church. He’d seen them looking at the memorial board and had probably gone straight after to talk to Finch and get rid of something he didn’t want them to know. “Did he tell you why?”

  “He said I invaded his privacy. Threatened he’d sue me if I didn’t do it.”

  “Did you delete the photos?”

  “I removed them from the folders. But I have a backup.”

  “We need those photos right now.”

  “I can get to my studio in about twenty minutes and send them to you.”

  “Send them to my email.” She gave him her email address. “Be quick about it.”

  The wait was interminable. She kept refreshing her email box, checking if he sent them yet. Just as she was about to call him again, she got the email. She scrolled through them.

  One photo sometimes really was worth a thousand words, and there were thirty-two of them. Some were innocuous. But those weren’t the ones Swenson was worried about. Finch had a knack for catching unique moments. And seventeen of those photos told a story.

  Allen and Catherine talking with each other in the church, their bodies a bit too close for casual acquaintanceship. A few images of them kissing in a dark corner. Then another one, with Allen placing his hand on Catherine’s waist, with her trying to move it away or hold it there. And then a few more pictures of them talking, Catherine distraught, Allen calm. A picture of Catherine in tears, with Allen staring at her stonily. And then another picture of a kiss. An aggressive kiss, Allen gripping Catherine, her own hands held to the side, rigid, as if she forced herself still.

  Zoe phoned O’Donnell, her gaze still focused on Catherine’s face in that final image. Catherine’s eyes were shut tight, as if she was trying to unsee what was happening to her, perhaps make it disappear. But in the end, she hadn’t shut her eyes tight enough.

  CHAPTER 59

  The pipe wouldn’t twist. Rhea let out a muffled groan of despair. She pulled it with all her strength, not caring if it made any noise, not caring if the other guy, Daniel, woke up. Come on . . .

  Nothing.

  The mechanism wasn’t the same as in her sink back home. Maybe it was similar, but not close enough. It just wouldn’t twist off, despite the one nut she’d loosened completely.

  She would have to do the other one. Once she unloosened that one, she’d be free for sure. Except no matter how much she tried, it wouldn’t budge. Not even a fraction of an inch. Her angle was all wrong for that one. And she was getting tired. And she could see the rust. So much rust . . .

  A thought occurred to her. She slid her bound hands so that the zip ties lay directly over the rusty connection and then lifted her body, placing all of her weight on the pipe.

  It groaned. Flakes of rust dropped around her. She tried to pull it, but with almost no support, it was impossible.
>
  Still, maybe it gave just a bit?

  She lowered herself, took a few deep breaths, then tried again. And again. The pipe held fast.

  She straightened, raised her hands, and with one swift move, pulled them down. The pipe clanged, the noise making her heart sink. But a lot more rust dropped around her. She tried it again.

  Clang.

  And again.

  Clang.

  Clang. Clang. Clang.

  She stopped. Then lifted herself, dropping her weight on the pipe. Something gave. She was doing it! The entire connection was so rusty she could break it.

  And the door opened.

  She dropped at once, hiding the scalpel with her body.

  Daniel shuffled in, blinking, yawning. He wore an open bathrobe, a pair of underwear, socks, and a greasy white shirt. He glanced at her, shook his head, then stepped to the toilet bowl. Rhea looked away. She could feel him leering at her as he peed.

  He finished; didn’t flush; trudged over to the sink, just above her; and washed his hands and face.

  Water trickled from the two nuts that connected the drain, spattering on the floor, making a noise like rainfall. Rhea hurriedly shuffled sideways, letting the water trickle on her hair and shoulders instead. If he noticed the splashing water, he’d figure out what she was doing, and it’d be the end . . .

  He didn’t. He finished washing in the sink and turned the water off.

  “Hey, did you make any breakfast?” he called out to his friend.

  There was, of course, no response.

  Daniel left the bathroom. She imagined him checking the rooms to see if his friend was there.

  When he returned, there was a gleam in his eye.

  “Well,” he said, “looks like we were left alone. Unchaperoned.”

  Rhea breathed fast through her nose, terrified.

  “I could be done with you now.” Daniel smiled. “Thirty seconds, and no more Rhea Deleon. That’s your name, right? Rhea Deleon? The police are looking for you. Well, you and me, really. We were the stars of the evening news yesterday. Maybe I can take care of you, and the police will find the remains of Rhea Deleon, discarded in the river. What do you think of that?”

  She shook her head, and his smile widened. He clearly enjoyed her reaction, enjoyed her fear. And she was terrified.

  He tapped his lips thoughtfully. “No reason we can’t have fun, right? I doubt my partner would begrudge me that.”

  He stepped out of the bathroom, leaving the door open behind him.

  Where was the other guy? He’d said he was just going to the pharmacy. It’d been at least an hour since he’d left; he should have returned by now. It didn’t matter. She had a few minutes at the most. She needed to make them count.

  She strained against the pipe, lifting herself. The pipe groaned. Then with a sudden jolt, it broke, drenching her with sludge.

  She was free. For a few seconds she just breathed heavily, not believing what had just happened. She fumbled at the gag, but it was tight, and her hands were still tied to each other. She picked up the scalpel and tried to wedge it between her hands and cut the zip ties.

  The scalpel cut her wrist, blood seeping, making the zip ties sticky. She managed to get it between her wrists and tried to saw the plastic, but it was completely impossible. The blade wasn’t serrated and kept sliding across the plastic. She was too weak, the angle too awkward.

  “Be careful with that—you might hurt yourself.”

  He stood in the doorway, holding a long gray piece of cloth. She scrambled back, thrusting the scalpel in his direction.

  He took a step inside the bathroom and kicked her in the face. The explosion of pain was worse than anything she’d ever experienced. She felt something crunch; the world blurred. The scalpel tumbled from her fingers, clattered to the floor.

  He grabbed her wrist and yanked her toward him, dragging her across the floor, thrusting her on her stomach. Something tightened around her throat, the cloth, and she couldn’t breathe. She squirmed, trying to pull free, kicking at nothing, trying to scream, nothing coming out.

  He yanked her torn pants to her knees, and his fingers roughly pawed at her, in her. The noose on her throat relented, letting her breathe, and she screamed into her gag. She shut her eyes, prayed for it to be over fast. His breathing became heavy, guttural. And then suddenly, the rough hands drew away.

  She opened her eyes. He stared at her, red faced, eyes wide. Furious.

  “It’s your fault! It’s because you’re so damn ugly!”

  The noose tightened again. No air. She couldn’t scream, couldn’t whimper.

  Her only consolation was that the pain wasn’t as bad as before. In fact, she hardly even felt it anymore.

  CHAPTER 60

  O’Donnell watched Swenson on the monitor. He was losing his patience, pacing in circles around the interrogation room. She hoped this wouldn’t be another dead end. She’d just finished interviewing the people from Zoe’s list. Sure, they’d been nervous, like anyone would be, but none of them had stood out.

  “Is that Swenson?” Tatum joined her side.

  “Yeah,” she said. “They picked him up just as he was leaving his house.”

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  “He said he was on his way to meet a friend.”

  Tatum nodded. “Any luck with the search warrant?”

  “Koch is working on it. I don’t know if we have enough.”

  “Let’s try to give Koch something bigger to persuade the judge with,” Tatum suggested.

  They stepped out to the hallway and began walking to the interrogation room. Then O’Donnell paused.

  “Look who’s here,” she said.

  Patrick Carpenter strode toward them, his face twisted in rage.

  “Detective,” he shouted, still a few yards away. “Isn’t it enough that our congregation lost Catherine? People are still deep in mourning, and you keep harassing them, trying to pin this heinous crime on one of them?” His bulging eyes were bloodshot, his clothes disheveled. Was it because of Catherine’s loss? Or was it related to his wife’s pregnancy?

  “We’re not trying to pin anything on—”

  “Mr. Swenson called me to tell me you were interrogating him.”

  O’Donnell raised an eyebrow. “I thought he called his lawyer.”

  “Oh, I did contact a lawyer on his behalf, I assure you. And apparently he’s not the first person you’ve harassed this weekend? A few other members have sent me messages telling me they’ve been subjected to—”

  “Mr. Carpenter, we are just trying to find the people responsible for Catherine’s death. I assume all the members of your church want that?”

  “We want her killer brought to justice. We don’t want this . . . this . . . witch hunt. Picking up our members one by one, fishing for information—”

  “As you already know,” Tatum said, “Daniel Moore, a member of your congregation, was actually Rod Glover, a killer on the FBI’s Most Wanted list. We believe—”

  “You think Allen had anything to do with this? Did you even talk to the man? He’s one of the most amicable people I know.”

  “Mr. Carpenter, please lower your voice, or I’ll have to—”

  “Not to mention that he’s thin and quite frail. Do you really think he is capable of enacting those violent crimes alongside a dying man? Do you have anything to back those preposterous accusations with? Did you arrest Allen just because he and Daniel happened to be passing friends?”

  O’Donnell’s brain sparked into high gear. Swenson and Glover were friends? She needed to keep Carpenter talking. “We believe Mr. Swenson has critical information about his friend. Surely you agree he should tell us anything he has.”

  Patrick seemed to realize he’d given her too much. He suddenly paused, then, after a few seconds, hissed, “I can’t stay for long. My wife is being released from the hospital today. Otherwise, I assure you, I would have insisted on being present in the questioning of Mr. Swen
son. And you better not ask him a single question until his lawyer gets here.”

  “We won’t,” O’Donnell said. “I hope everything goes well with your wife.”

  He didn’t deign to answer her, leaving without another word.

  “That was interesting,” Tatum said. “At least we have something to start with.”

  “Yup.” O’Donnell took out her phone and called Koch.

  “Hey.” Koch picked up almost immediately.

  “How’s it going with the warrant?”

  “There’s some delay. It might take another hour before the judge reviews it.”

  “Okay, listen, we have something else for you. Patrick Carpenter just told us that Swenson and Glover were friends.”

  There was a pause. “Then we have enough for a warrant for sure,” Koch finally said.

  “We have Swenson here, and we’ll do our best to keep him here, but we can’t arrest him, not yet.”

  “I’ll try to get them to hurry.” Koch hung up.

  O’Donnell slid the phone into her pocket and entered the interrogation room.

  “Detective,” Swenson said, his voice tight. “I’ve been waiting for almost an hour. I want to be helpful, but it’s the weekend, and—”

  “And we appreciate your help.” She sat down. “We just wanted to ask a few questions. We’ve been talking to congregation members all morning—perhaps Mr. Carpenter told you that when you called him.”

  Swenson sat down, saying nothing. She noticed he had an ugly scratch on the lower side of his left cheek.

  “How well did you know Catherine Lamb?” she asked, easing into it.

  “I told the agent here I talked to her a few times. We ran a charity together once. That’s it.”

  “What about Daniel Moore?”

  “Just in passing. Again, I’ve already told—”

  “Patrick Carpenter said that you and Moore are friends.”

  His eyes wavered nervously. “I wouldn’t call us friends. I may have talked to him once or twice. He’s a friendly kind of guy.”

  “When did you see him last?”

  “I don’t remember. A while ago. I think he’s been gone for a few months.”

  “Do you know where?”