by Debra Webb
Truly sick bastard.
“If you stupid enough to piss him off the third time, then you in big trouble. That could get you dead.”
More of that tension stiffened CJ’s muscles. “Dead? Tyrone kills people who make mistakes?”
CJ snapped her mouth shut. She hadn’t meant to ask that question. She’d gone too far.
The deer-caught-in-the-headlights look in Celeste’s eyes signaled that she recognized she had said too much.
That frightened gaze suddenly narrowed. “Your name is Patterson, too. You’re her sister.”
“Yes.”
“That’s why you asking all these questions.” She shook her head. “Goddammit.” She glared at CJ. “Bitch, you’ll get me killed if you go mouthing off to Tyrone.”
“No.” CJ gave her head an adamant shake. “I told you, I won’t tell anyone.”
“Yeah. Uh-huh. You gonna give me them Vicodins or not?”
“I’d like to do an ultrasound.” Celeste shook her head. The simmering fury on the woman’s face said that CJ wouldn’t be getting anything else from her. Truth was, CJ couldn’t blame her. “Okay.” Getting her some relief was the least CJ could do. “Let me see what we have on hand. But if the pain persists, I’d like you to come back on Friday for that ultrasound.
“Whatever.” Celeste didn’t look at her.
There were more patients in the lobby. CJ would just keep asking questions until she got the answers she needed.
Or until Tyrone found out what she was up to and stopped her.
He, of all people, should know that stopping her would be easier said than done.
6:35 PM
CJ didn’t lock up until she’d seen the last patient, even if they’d showed after closing time.
She collapsed into one of the ugly molded plastic chairs and rested her head in her hands.
The quality of life in the village was unspeakable. She’d known it. She’d grown up here. But seven years away . . . she’d banished the worst parts from her mind. On the rare occasions when she’d come home, Shelley had made it a point to conceal as much of her life from CJ as possible.
Instead of complaining to Shelley, why hadn’t she asked real questions?
Instead of making demands, why hadn’t she listened?
A rap on the door jerked her from the troubling thoughts.
CJ was exhausted. She pushed to her feet. But if there was someone else who needed medical care, that was why she was here. And maybe, just maybe, she would learn something more.
She dragged to the window and split the blinds to see who was out there before unlocking the door. Some old habits were instinctive.
A man, ragged clothes, disheveled hair, waited at the door. He turned slightly as she watched. Blood stained the front of his shirt. Her pulse thumped. She surveyed the parking lot and didn’t see anyone else, which indicated the blood had likely come from him. No vehicle. He’d apparently walked from one of the village streets. Muggings and fights, usually over women or drugs, were an everyday affair.
She rushed to the door, unlocked it, and pulled it open. “You’re injured?” The idea that he could have left someone injured and had come here for assistance flashed through her mind.
“It hurts bad.” He pressed a hand to his chest, grimaced.
“Come on.” She ushered him inside and down the corridor to one of the examining rooms. “Take off your shirt.” She washed her hands and grabbed a pair of gloves. The usual adrenaline dump seared through her veins.
A hand clamped over her mouth. She reached up. A cold blade pressed against her throat. Fear bloomed in her chest even as his overwhelming body odor filled her lungs.
“All I want is the drugs,” he growled against her ear. “Don’t give me no trouble and there won’t be none.”
His breath was rancid. She nodded her understanding. Told herself to stay calm.
Slowly she sidled toward the door with him in tow. The knife blade burned her skin as they moved, piercing the outer layer of epidermis. As they shuffled awkwardly along the corridor toward the supply room, her thoughts raced.
Should she go for the pepper spray? She’d tucked it into the pocket of her lab coat this morning. Just in case. But she’d dropped her guard as the day progressed without incident.
She should never have allowed complacency to slip in.
Nothing she could do about that now. She had to think. Make a new plan.
Her hands were free. She could go for it.
As if he’d read her mind, the pressure on the knife blade increased.
At the supply room door she stalled.
“Open the door,” he ordered.
“Locked,” she mumbled into his hand. She’d kept it locked all day since she’d been the only staff on site.
“Where’s the key?”
Now was her chance. “Pocket.” Her heart hammered against her sternum.
She waited to see if he would reach into her pocket for the key, but he didn’t.
“Unlock it,” he snarled, “but don’t do nothing stupid or I’ll slice your throat wide open.”
CJ reached into her pocket. Her fingers brushed the canister. What did she do? Take the risk? Or play along?
“Hurry up!” he roared.
Her fingers latched on to the key ring and she pulled it from her pocket. She couldn’t get a deep enough breath . . . couldn’t keep her hands from shaking as she sorted through the keys.
She unlocked the door, pushed it open. He ushered her inside. The cabinets were locked as well. Different key. She picked through the keys and selected the right one, jammed it into the cabinet’s lock, and opened the door.
Sample boxes and small plastic bottles of various medications waited on the shelves.
She didn’t ask him what he wanted. She dropped the key ring back into her pocket and waited for his instructions.
The blade came away from her throat. He pushed her away. “Stay over there!”
Could she make it past him to the door before he grabbed her? Maybe. He was busy sorting through the boxes and bottles.
Her hand went into her pocket. Fingers curled around the pepper spray. She flipped up the safety catch.
When he started to stuff the drugs into his shirt, she braced to make her move.
One, two, three . . .
She lunged for the door.
He twisted. Reached for her.
She aimed the pepper spray at him, pressed the trigger.
He screamed. One hand went to his face, the other groped for her.
She darted out of his reach and through the door.
Pulling the door shut, she fished for the ring of keys. Held her breath until the pepper spray around her dissipated. Her hand trembling violently, she managed to single out the proper key and ram it into the lock.
“You fucking cunt!” he screamed through the door.
The knob twisted in her hand. She held on with all her might.
“Open the fucking door!”
She turned the key. Didn’t work. The knob was twisted in the wrong position. She pulled, gave it a twist in the other direction. Turned the key.
The lock engaged.
He kicked the door. Banged on it with his fists. All the while screaming profanities at her.
She backed away.
Call the police.
She reached into her other pocket for her cell.
“CJ?”
She whipped around.
“What’s going on back here?”
Braddock.
Thank God. “He . . .” She pointed to the supply room. “He came for the drugs.”
Braddock charged forward, grabbed her by the shoulders, and looked her over. He winced when he touched her throat where the knife had marred her skin. “You should take care of that.” He took the keys from her hand and moved toward the door.
CJ collapsed against the nearest wall. Her eyes and nose stung from the spray.
“He’s got a knife,” she remembered to tel
l Braddock as he unlocked the door. She supposed he’d realized that from the nick on her throat. Braddock had already drawn his weapon.
She heard him tell the man to put his hands up. Heard the ensuing argument and the brief scuffle.
She pushed away from the wall and checked to see that Braddock had everything under control. He was cuffing the guy. The knife lay on the floor. Blood stained its sharp blade. Her blood. She shuddered. Her skin burned where he’d pressed it to her throat.
She moved to the exam room and took a look in the mirror over the sink.
Only a minor nick. She cleansed the wound. Applied some antibiotic cream and a small bandage. While she patched her wound she heard Braddock on the phone ordering Jenkins to come get the guy and haul him in.
She washed her hands and face, then braced herself on the sink. Maybe Edward was right. She was taking far too many liberties with her future . . . with her life.
For what?
Shelley was dead.
Nothing CJ did was going to bring her back.
But what about all these people?
The abuse they suffered, particularly the women, at Tyrone’s hands was incomprehensible. Could she just walk away and pretend she didn’t see this?
The way the rest of this city had been doing for years?
You don’t belong here no more.
Ricky was right. She didn’t belong here anymore. But what kind of person would she be if she just walked away and didn’t try to stop this madness?
The conversation between Braddock and Jenkins was hushed. She stayed put. Didn’t want to deal with that. She dabbed her eyes again with a wet paper towel.
Bone-tired, she cleaned up the mess she’d made and tidied the exam room while Braddock finished up with the would-be thief. She’d already taken care of the others after her final patients were out the door.
Right now she wanted to go home and collapse.
Home?
You don’t belong here no more.
This wasn’t home. Did she even really have a home? Her apartment in Baltimore wasn’t home. It was just a place where she slept and showered.
“You okay?”
She looked up. Braddock waited at the door.
“Yeah. I’m okay.” She gestured to her throat. “It’s just a scratch.”
“But it could have been a hell of a lot worse,” he suggested.
She took a breath. He was right. “Why are you here, Braddock? Do you have news on the investigation?” His man Jenkins had been parked outside the clinic all day. Fat lot of good it had done her. But then, that wasn’t his fault; she was supposed to call if she needed help. Unsavory-looking characters had been coming in and out of the clinic all day. There was no reason for the guy who’d showed up at the door last to have been viewed any differently.
Unless Braddock had news, they had nothing else to talk about. She didn’t want to deal with him anymore, either.
“I heard a disturbing rumor.”
“What rumor?” That his broad shoulders filled the doorway so completely unsettled her somehow. Made her want to lean against that strength. No way. That wasn’t ever happening again. She was just feeling vulnerable after the incident with the addict.
Those dark eyes probed hers. She didn’t like him looking at her that way. “Say whatever you have to say, Braddock. I have to fill out an incident report and then I’m out of here.” She was tired. Tired and disgusted. Mostly with herself.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you’re making yourself an easy target.” He took a step into the room, planted his hands on his hips, and leveled a you’d-better-listen-up gaze on her. “You cannot come back here and start interrogating Nash’s people. Do you want to get yourself killed?”
Oh, so that was what this was about. Word had gotten to him that she was asking questions. Well, he could get over himself. Like she’d told him, she wasn’t going to stop until Shelley’s killer was brought to justice.
“What am I doing?” She flung her arms wide, stared up at him in challenge. “Asking the questions you haven’t asked.”
Actually she had no idea what he was doing at this point, because he hadn’t told her anything about his goals or strategy for the investigation. Well, except that he would get the job done. She’d heard that from cops before. He was the last cop she would trust.
“Look, Dr. Patterson.” He moved in closer, putting his face right in hers. “The people you questioned today will go straight to Nash and tell him what you’re up to. They get brownie points for that sort of thing. What part of this don’t you understand? Nash is a bad guy. A pimp. A major drug dealer. I’ve watched bodies loaded into the meat wagon with missing tongues. Eyes. Hearts.”
She flinched. Every word prompted images of how Nash might mutilate the women she’d questioned today.
Braddock went on, “That’s how he sets an example to the rest. I don’t want to watch your body get stuffed into a bag and then heaved onto a gurney.”
Focus. Think logically. Not emotionally. “First . . .” She took a breath. “How do you know what I’ve discussed with my patients? Have you been sitting outside questioning them?” The idea made her want to slap his smug face. “Or did you order Jenkins to do it?” He was young, handsome. Jenkins could easily have charmed the ladies who’d been in and out of here today.
Braddock shook his head. “I didn’t have to ask. I got more than one phone call filling me in on your interrogation tactics.”
“You have informants here?” If that was the case, why didn’t he know what had happened to Shelley? Someone here had to know. Oh, wait. Of course he had sources here. That was how he’d been using Shelley.
“That’s right, CJ.” He stepped back, took a breath. “I actually do my job. I’ve spent two years developing informants in the village.”
“Then what’s the holdup? One of them surely knows who killed my sister?”
“I wish it was that simple.” He held up a hand when she would have launched her next tirade. “It’s very possible that one or more knows exactly what happened. But they’re afraid to talk. This is the kind of thing that could get them killed.”
“You mean the way it got Shelley killed?”
Braddock turned away from her. He ran his fingers through his hair. She recognized what he was doing: working to temper his anger and come up with the right thing to say to get her off his back.
Not going to happen.
Finally he settled his gaze on hers once more. “What’s it going to take to get you to trust me?”
She laughed. Couldn’t help herself. “I’m never going to trust you again, Braddock. All I want from you is for you to find the person who murdered my sister.”
His expression shifted from frustrated to grim. “What did you learn today?” He set that dark gaze on hers. “Quid pro quo, Doc.”
She hated when he called her that. The last couple of times she’d come home—after their fledgling relationship was over—he’d called her that just to make her crazy. Mainly because she knew he meant it disrespectfully. “That Tyrone Nash mentally abuses the women who work for him, and when that doesn’t work anymore, he kills them.”
“That’s right,” Braddock agreed. “But we don’t have any evidence linking him to a single murder. So we wait, we watch, we question, until we find the link we need.”
She shook her head. “Tyrone is not that smart. There has to be something you’re missing, Detective.”
“Six,” he said.
“Six what?” He wasn’t making sense.
“That’s how many bodies of young women have been found in the past two years. Each one died a brutal death, but their bodies weren’t found for weeks or months after the murder. Three were found in water, two were burned, one was immersed in a fifty-gallon drum of diesel fuel. Whatever evidence might have been left on or in the body was long gone or too contaminated to utilize.”
“But Shelley’s body was found within hours of her murder,” CJ countered
. “And she wasn’t burned or submerged in anything. She was right out in the open.” How could Braddock not see this? “Killing someone and dumping the body in such a way that the evidence was destroyed is one thing. But Tyrone couldn’t possibly have carried out such a flawless plan when he murdered Shelley, leaving her body . . . the entire crime scene right out in the open.” CJ folded her arms over her chest. “You have to be missing something.”
“That’s right. He took extra precautions with her.”
“You can’t be sure it’s him,” she argued. Not that she didn’t want to see Tyrone in prison, but focusing on him alone meant Braddock wasn’t looking seriously at anyone else. Including Ricky Banks. “Excuse me.” She pushed past him to get out the door and strode to the office.
CJ had no idea where the incident report forms would be. She’d just have to prowl around.
Braddock followed. Leaned against the door frame. “Evidence or no, there were other similarities to what we believe is Nash’s MO.”
A frown nagged at her forehead as she perused Lusk’s files. He’d told her about the E. Noon thing, but was there more? “What similarities?”
Her fingers stilled on the folders. She turned to face Braddock. The air evacuated her lungs.
Then she knew.
Missing tongues. Eyes. Hearts.
“You didn’t tell me everything about the circumstances of Shelley’s death.” Her knees tried to buckle; she locked them, told herself to breathe. She had known he was keeping some parts of Shelley’s death from her. She’d had that feeling all along.
“There was no reason to tell you,” he said quietly. He held up a hand when she would have debated his statement. “We keep some elements quiet . . . for confirming leads or confessions. Telling anyone at all could interfere with the investigation.”
Fury jolted through her. “Tell me all of it.”
“There were dozens—forty, to be exact—hypodermic needles sticking in her body. As if the killer had been decorating her with her most well-known vice.”
CJ sat down, almost missing the chair. The visuals his words prompted had bile burning at the back of her throat.
“The perp stitched . . .” He closed his eyes a moment before meeting hers once more. “He stitched up the opening to her vaginal canal. And removed her clitoris.”
