Avengers of Blood

by Gae-Lynn Woods

  “You okay?”

  Kado attempted a smile at the irony of Mitch asking the same question Kado had asked Cass moments earlier. “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine.”

  “Made a decision. Probably a bad one.”

  “Cass said she was coming to see you. Is she okay?”

  “She’s probably furious with me, but yes, she’s fine.”

  Mitch studied Kado’s face, and then looked down at the piece of paper the forensic man held. “You got anything I can help with?”

  Kado started and looked at the paper. It was the crumpled response from IAFIS, requesting that a representative from the originating agency contact a specific sheriff’s office. “There’s a hit on one of the prints from Calvin Whitehead’s store. Would you follow up?”

  Mitch snagged the page and maneuvered his wheelchair in a jagged u-turn. “Phone work is my specialty these days.”

  Kado made his way back to the evidence room through the crowd of officers waiting for roll call. Cass was standing over his computer, examining the hit on the IAFIS screen.

  “There’s no name here,” she said, taking a bottle of water from him.

  He studied her profile and realized that she was in control again. Her color was almost back to its normal peaches and cream and from what he could see of her eyes, they were clear. He studied the screen with her. “And no crime is listed,” he said.

  “Is that unusual?”

  Kado shrugged. “It happens sometimes with classified cases or prints loaded for elimination purposes. Mitch is calling the sheriff’s office that submitted it. We’ll see what he finds out.” He reached for her arm and turned her away from the screen, stunned again by an overwhelming urge to kiss her. Instead, he bit the inside of his lip and nudged Cass toward the chair at the evidence table where the plastic shopping bag waited. “I’m sorry. For what I did. Before.”

  One corner of her mouth lifted.

  Kado blushed. “I mean I’m not sorry, but I’m sorry that I kind of jumped you.”

  “It’s okay. I mean, most gals get kissed after a little dinner and maybe a movie, but this was unique.”

  “Maybe we can try the dinner and a movie thing.”

  Cass drew a deep breath. “Maybe we can talk about it another time. I need to get back to work.”

  “Okay. What did you want to tell me?”

  She snagged the bag and headed for the door. “Nothing. Sorry I interrupted you.”

  “It seemed important. Was it something to do with one of the cases?”

  “Um, actually, yeah.” She moved the bag behind her back. “Bernie found a bullet hole in Calvin Whitehead’s body. Through his left calf. Keep an eye out for the slug when you’re going through the sludge, okay?” Cass lifted the bottle in a salute. “Thanks for the water.”

  The door snicked closed and Kado stood, head tilted to one side. Through the warm buzzing in his head, he wondered why women and their secrets were so hard to comprehend.

  CHAPTER 74

  CASS SLIPPED THE TAMPON box in its plastic shopping bag in her locker and shut the door, then put a finger to her mouth. It had been years since the feel of a man’s lips against hers had caused such a reaction, and her senses were overwhelmed with exhilaration and terror. She stood for a moment with her eyes closed. She wasn’t sure that Kado was ready for a relationship, but by the same token, she didn’t know if she was, either. Cass patted the locker’s door: at least her secret was safe. Her fellow officers were plenty brave when faced with an armed criminal, but there wasn’t a man on the force who would open a box of tampons. Not even on a bet.

  In the squad room, Martinez was still on the phone and she fiddled with the coffee pot, buying time as she waited for it to finish brewing. The warm feeling from Kado’s kiss was dying away, and with it, the rush of terror. Calmer now, she realized that hearing Maxine reveal that she had been raped, and then reading the note and newspaper clipping, had shaken her. Worse than she thought possible. Her dreams were still hazy, blistering replays of the rape, but in her waking hours, Cass thought that her emotions were under control. Apparently not.

  She knew that she needed help to find this man, and sooner rather than later. Something stopped her just now, when Kado was available and she could have unloaded the evidence. But that would mean talking about the rape. In essence, trusting Kado and Mitch with the biggest horror of her life. She’d never told another soul what had happened, and apparently she wasn’t ready to talk, even now. But she had to come to terms with spilling her deepest secret, and find a way to trust them with it. Just not today.

  The coffee pot burped, bringing Cass back to the squad room. She reached for two mugs, turning to search the room for Mitch. He was leaning back in his chair, the phone cord stretched as far as it would go, with a clipboard spewing paperwork balanced on his brace. A blue-capped pen whipped back and forth in his hand, tapping a furious rhythm against the notepad. Cass caught his attention and waggled a mug. He nodded.

  By the time Cass placed the coffee on his desk, Mitch had the hanger out and was scratching deep under his brace. “God, I hate this thing.”

  “Why don’t you take it off while you’re sitting here?”

  “Too many pins sticking out of me, too much Velcro on it. It’s easier to slide the hanger under and do some strategic maneuvering.”

  “When does it come off?”

  “Maybe next week. Depends how sadistic the doc is feeling when I go back to see her.”

  “A lady doctor? Hope you’re on your best behavior.”

  “I try, but it’s hard.” He extracted the coat hanger and lifted the mug to his lips, blowing lightly. Mitch’s face was pale, and Cass realized that he must be exhausted. For his first day back, yesterday had been a long one. “Kado’s fingerprint lead didn’t work out,” he said.

  “What’s the story?”

  He lifted and shifted to the wheelchair, and then snagged the coffee and clipboard. “Think you can get me to the evidence room?”

  Cass handed him her mug and maneuvered his wheelchair through the alley of desks the other officers had created to ease his passage in and out of the room. They made it down the hall and turned the sharp corner into the evidence room by working his wheelchair back and forth by degrees. Kado watched their entrance with an amused smile. “What’s up?”

  Mitch waved the clipboard. “Got a fingerprint corruption problem.”

  Kado groaned. “What is it?”

  “Dude’s dead.”

  “Huh?” Cass and Kado said in unison.

  “The guy who left the fingerprint is dead. So, the print must be smudged or something.”

  “Is that the one from Alabama?” Kado asked, rummaging in the landslide of fingerprint cards on his desk.

  “Yup.”

  “It’s clear as a bell, see for yourself,” Kado said, skimming the card across the evidence table.

  Mitch caught it and clicked his tongue. “Well, that’s troublesome.”

  “The problem is in Alabama. They must’ve cross-loaded the print with somebody else’s information. Were they helpful?”

  “The gal who answered the phone was pretty insistent that we screwed up. ‘Texas twits’, I think she called us.”

  Kado sighed. “Twits?”

  “When I told Miss Congeniality that the fingerprint was good,” Mitch glanced at Kado, “’cause I knew it would be, she said to have my forensics guy call her forensics guy.” Mitch ripped a section of paper from the clipboard and zipped it, along with the fingerprint card, across the table to Kado. “You, my friend, have the honor.”

  “Okay,” Kado said. “I’ll call.”

  “Before you do,” Mitch said, glancing over his shoulder at the closed door and pulling a short stack of evidence baggies from the depths of his clipboard, “there’s something both of you need to know.”

  CHAPTER 75

  “DO YOU HAVE A photo of this,” Kado said into the phone while looking down at his notes, “C
alvin Whitman?”

  He glanced up as Truman backed through the evidence room door, a cup of Golden Gate coffee in each hand and a bag between his teeth. “Uh huh... Sure, I understand. Let me check something else and get back to you… Yeah, thanks for your time.”

  Reaching with one hand for the cup Truman held out, he cradled the phone’s handset and then dug the fingers of the other hand into his gray eyes. He looked up at the young officer in his crisp brown uniform. Truman’s hazel eyes were bloodshot, his face puffy, and even his blond crew cut was wilting. “You look as bad as I feel,” Kado said.

  “Didn’t sleep much last night.”

  “The cases?”

  Truman yawned. “One of my sisters is home with her daughter. She’s still at that crying and eating all the time stage.”

  “She’s not sleeping through the night?”

  “Nobody’s sleeping through the night.” He pulled a ham biscuit from the bag, unwrapped it, and squeezed jam over the top.

  Kado stared. “Didn’t you eat breakfast in the conference room?”

  Truman nudged the bag across Kado’s desk. “I got some for you, too,” he said, taking a bite.

  “You’re still hungry?”

  Truman nodded.

  “Oh, to be young again.”

  Truman swallowed. “Are we starting on the stinky container this morning?”

  “I need you to do something else first. Are you okay out at The Whitehead Store by yourself?”

  “Yes,” Truman said, taking another bite.

  “I’m having fingerprint problems.”

  “How so?”

  Kado reached for a fingerprint card and held it up for Truman to see. “I’ve got one very clear fingerprint lifted from behind the counter at Whitehead’s store.”

  Truman nodded again.

  “It’s a match to a print on file with some podunk county in Alabama. They insist that the guy the print belongs to died in the late seventies. His name was Calvin Whitman.”

  Truman unwrapped another biscuit. “Similar to Whitehead.”

  “It’s probably a mix-up. But, I have to prove that the print we lifted is good.”

  “That means we need another one.”

  “Exactly. Go out to the store and dust those areas only Calvin Whitehead would have touched.”

  “Like?”

  “You’ll find several, since only Calvin worked there. Lift the cash drawer from the register and dust it inside and out. There’s a credit card machine behind the counter, an older model that doesn’t have a signature screen. Dust it all over, including the bottom. Pay attention to that clear piece of plastic that you rip receipts from. Open the gas pumps and dust the areas near the receipt paper and inside the cover.”

  “How about the stockroom?”

  Kado shook his head. “Someone making deliveries might have left fingerprints back there. Stick to the front of the shop for now. When you’re done at the store, go to his house and lift prints from the kitchen and bathroom.” Kado studied him. “Do you remember how to dust for prints, which powder to use, all that?”

  “You want me to go alone?”

  “If you’re okay with that. I’ve got tons to do here.”

  Truman beamed. “Absolutely.” He stood and brushed non-existent crumbs from his uniform as he headed for the door.

  “Scott?” When the young officer turned, Kado pointed to a toolbox resting on the countertop. “Unless you plan to blow powder out of your ass and grow bristles on your fingertips, you’ll need a forensics kit.”

  ____________

  KADO’S SMILE DISAPPEARED AS Truman’s steps faded down the hall. He wondered if the tingle in his gut came from the kiss or the guilt. Never had he grabbed a woman and laid one on her, and Kado feared he might’ve just committed assault. The only saving grace was that Cass hadn’t punched him. And although she looked surprised, she hadn’t pulled away. His offer of a date was still open, too, so Kado decided to leave the tingle alone.

  Forcing his attention back to work, he locked the forensics room door, plugged in an iron, and slid five trays onto the table. When Mitch brought the Mojo letters to him, Kado placed each between two pieces of bond paper impregnated with a solution of ninhydrin and left them to absorb the chemical. Now, he smoothed the hot iron over each sandwich and peeled the covering sheets back to look at the pages: no prints.

  Kado checked his watch and chewed his lower lip, debating. With a resigned sigh, he positioned each envelope between two pieces of bond, placed each in a tray, and slipped them inside a cabinet. It would create a ton of work, but if it got them one step closer to their murderer, it was worth it.

  CHAPTER 76

  THE CHURCH’S INTERIOR WAS dim after the morning’s bright glare when Cass stepped inside behind Martinez, and it took her eyes a moment to adjust. When they did, she was surprised at the simplicity of the decor. Her images of the Catholic Church were based on pictures of the Vatican and ornately decorated buildings in big cities. In contrast, Arcadia’s only Catholic Church was beautiful in its simplicity.

  She followed Martinez into the sanctuary and watched as he dipped his fingers in a basin and made the sign of the cross. “Carlos?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Where are all the paintings and gold trim?” she whispered.

  He chuckled. “We’re what you’d call a poor parish, chica. We manage to keep the lights on and the roof from leaking.” He cocked his steely head at her. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “You seem a little, I don’t know, off. Flustered, maybe.”

  “Just tired, I guess.” Yeah, she thought. Exhausted from being kissed by the forensics guy and figuring out that the man who raped me also raped my best friend and probably killed a woman.

  Martinez pursed his lips. “You’ve never been in a Catholic Church before?”

  She tucked a loose strand of dark red hair into her French twist and shook her head.

  He pointed over his shoulder. “That’s called the narthex.”

  “The foyer?”

  Martinez nodded and turned to the area she knew as the sanctuary. “This is the nave. It kind of means ‘ship’, like we’re in Noah’s ark. We can sit three hundred in here, and Father Donald packs it full for four masses on Sunday.”

  The nave’s walls were pure white, the floor slabs of gleaming oak planks. The pews and kneeling benches were also of oak and bare of cushions. Cass and Martinez carried on deeper into the church, stopping in a small crossing.

  “This,” he said, motioning to open rooms on either side of the nave, “is called the transept, and is the part of the church that makes it look like a cross from above.”

  Cass gasped as she looked to each side. The spaces were decorated as simply as the rest of the nave, with one exception. Each side of the transept housed a floor-to-ceiling stained glass window. Rays of colored light fell across the simple white walls and oak pews. The window to the left reflected the birth of Christ; the one to the right, his death. “Wow,” Cass said.

  “Carlos, I trust you’re telling our guest about the history of those windows,” called a voice from the back of the nave. Cass turned. A short, bald, bespectacled man walked up the center aisle. He was dressed head to toe in black, save the white collar at his neck. “I’m Father Donald Reeder.”

  “Hello Father,” she said, shaking his warm, dry hand. “I’m Cass Elliot.”

  “Detective Elliot, of course. I’ve seen your photograph in the newspapers. A difficult situation, I imagine.”

  “It’s certainly lasted longer than I would’ve liked.”

  Father Reeder smiled. “I’m sure Carlos is glad you’re back at work. Now, did he tell you about the windows?”

  Cass looked at the burly detective, surprised to see a flush creeping across his cheeks. “No,” she said, “he didn’t.”

  “Well do so, Carlos, while I tend to things on the altar. I don’t imagine you’re here for a social visit, so give me a minute and I’ll join
you.”

  The priest crossed himself and took the single step up onto a platform.

  “That’s the sanctuary,” Martinez said. “See the high altar?”

  Cass leaned sideways to see a table that looked as if it were carved from granite. A simple wood box rested on top of the altar, and an overhead light in the shape of a lantern hung from a long chain. The sanctuary’s back wall was home to a large crucifix bearing a thorn-crowned, bleeding Jesus. She shivered. “What’s in the box?”

  Martinez grinned again. “That’s the Tabernacle. It houses the Blessed Sacrament.”

  “The what?”

  “The body and blood of Christ.”

  “Like crackers and juice for communion?”

  “Amiga, you crack me up.”

  Cass’s smile was hesitant. “Um, the windows?”

  “Huh?”

  “Father Reeder said you should tell me about the windows.”

  “Well, we raised the money for them several years ago. It took a long time, because they were expensive.”

  The priest motioned them to the front pews. “Carlos not only spearheaded the fundraising for this substantial project, he drew the design.”

  “Really?” Cass asked, turning to look at both windows more closely before sitting down. “They’re beautiful, Carlos. I didn’t know you were so artistic.”

  Martinez slid into the pew behind Father Reeder and Cass, the blush returning to his cheeks.

  Father Reeder chuckled. “Humility is one of Carlos’ gifts, which makes it difficult for us to celebrate all that he does for the church. He’s raising money now for a cloister garden.”

  Martinez cleared his throat. “Father, we have some questions that might be a bit delicate.”

  “What did I tell you?” the priest asked Cass. He turned to Martinez. “You know I’ll help if I can.”