Everywhere She Turns

by Debra Webb

  CJ’s eyes opened, then slowly closed once more.

  She needed to wake up, but she just couldn’t bring herself to put forth the necessary effort.

  She moistened her lips. Grimaced at the funky morning taste in her mouth.

  Taking that sedative had been a mistake. But after what she’d learned from the women at the clinic, and then the confrontation with that drug addict, not to mention Braddock’s visit, she’d been desperate for any kind of relief. She’d picked through Shelley’s over-the-counter offerings—pill form, definitely no capsules—and gone for it.

  Now she remembered why she never did that. She hated the sleep-aid hangover. An alcohol hangover would have been preferable.

  Unfortunately, either way, she wasn’t going to have the clear head she needed this morning. Braddock and his partner were going to bring her up to speed today.

  She had to get up. Shower. Get dressed and find out what time the meeting with Braddock was scheduled.

  The room was darker than usual. She’d nailed some old interior shutters she’d found in the garage over the broken window. With the meager light filtering in between the louvers, the stained wall wasn’t even noticeable. She would take care of that eventually.

  Maybe spruce up the whole place and put it on the market. Too much to think about right now.

  A minute or so more and she would drag herself up.

  Thankfully, a rare morning breeze drifted through the louvers along with the light. She’d been sweating when she fell asleep last night. Her skin still felt damp. It was hotter than blazes this time of year. The sheet was stuck to any skin not covered by her nightshirt. Yuk.

  Her nose twitched. She drew in a breath, analyzed the smell. Something new overwhelmed the stale scent of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume.

  Feeling too damned groggy, she mustered her determination and struggled onto her elbows to look around the room.

  She blinked. Looked again.

  “Jesus.”

  She clambered from the bed, stumbling because of the sheet tangled around her legs. CJ scrambled to her feet, flipped on the light. She looked down at herself. No injuries. No coagulated blood. Some amount of blood had soaked through the sheet and left a faint coating of dried blood on her shins and feet.

  Where the hell had the blood come from?

  Gingerly, she picked up the sheet. Lots of blood.

  Heart pounding, she checked the bed. More blood had soaked into the fitted sheet. Probably the mattress, too.

  Her senses locked into self-preservation mode.

  Was someone in the house?

  Apprehension knotted in her stomach.

  She listened . . . silence.

  The sheet slipped from her fingers as she cautiously moved around the bedroom. No blood on the floor. She eased into the hall, listening for sounds of an intruder and scanning for a blood trail.

  The other two bedrooms were clear. No one in the bathroom. She started to turn away from the bathroom door, then hesitated. She stared at the closed shower curtain.

  Where was her pepper spray? In the bedroom on the dresser next to the bed.

  Just do it.

  Pulse pounding, she inched toward the tub and stretched her arm until she reached the curtain. Big breath. She snatched it open.

  The air rushed out of her. No dead body in the tub. That was good.

  Her hand went to her face to push her hair back, but she hesitated. Not until she washed her hands.

  She gathered her courage once more and headed down the stairs. A step creaked and she flinched. Careful. Someone could be down there.

  The living room was empty. She moved to the kitchen. Nothing out of place. No one waiting to pounce on her. Back door was still locked.

  How the hell had anyone gotten in?

  All the windows were locked. She’d opened them last night for long enough to let some air in, then she’d closed and locked every single one before going to bed.

  Her cell phone was still upstairs, charging by the bed. Still taking care just in case, she moved back to the living room to check the front door.

  She turned the knob. No resistance.

  The door opened.

  That was impossible. She’d locked that door.

  That knot of apprehension that had formed in her stomach expanded, rising up her esophagus and blocking off the ability to breathe.

  Call Braddock.

  She dared to poke her head outside and checked the street. The idea that someone had come into the house while she slept sent a shudder through her.

  The usual nondescript sedan sat across the street. She’d totally forgotten about the surveillance on her house. She couldn’t tell if it was Jenkins or not. How had anyone gotten past him?

  Uncaring that she wore nothing but a blood-stained night-shirt, she rushed across the porch and down the steps. Apparently Jenkins noticed her coming and emerged from the car.

  “What’s wrong?” He headed across the street, met her at the rickety gate.

  “Call Braddock.” The words rushed from her mouth. She looked back at her house. “Someone was in there last night. There’s blood all over my bed.”

  “Show me,” Jenkins said as he pulled out his cell phone to make the call.

  CJ showed him to the bedroom, stood in the corridor while he had a look.

  While he was on the phone she escaped to the bathroom. Couldn’t bear the smell any longer.

  Maybe Edward was right. Maybe she shouldn’t be staying here.

  Where the hell had the blood come from?

  Was it human?

  She thought of the cats she’d heard squalling and hissing across the street the other night. Had another harmless animal been sacrificed to send her a message?

  Was it Nash trying to scare her off?

  Or was it Ricky?

  Bastards.

  She locked the bathroom door and turned the water in the shower to hot.

  She stared at her hands . . . at her legs.

  The list of bloodborne pathogens she might have been exposed to paraded through her brain.

  Not to mention that if it was human blood, there could be a body around here somewhere.

  She climbed into the shower and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed until her skin was raw. Memories from that night on the street, of the boy who’d bled out, kept flashing in her head. Then images of Shelley . . .

  CJ couldn’t bear it—had to block the horror. Had to get the blood off!

  When she’d thoroughly scrubbed her hair, her face, and every inch of her body, she braced her hands against the damp tile and fought a wave of nausea.

  What was she doing here?

  How was anything she attempted going to help solve her sister’s murder?

  She was no cop.

  Maybe Edward was right about that, too. She was risking her future, her life . . .

  For what?

  To make up for letting her sister be murdered.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  2204 Clopton Street, 7:55 AM

  Braddock lowered to a crouch to inspect the body. “Looks like old Satan had himself a feast.”

  “To say the least.” Cooper sat back on her haunches and surveyed the nude body. “I hope he was dead before the dog got to that part.” Cooper heaved a sigh. “Such a waste. Banks was cute . . . before his dog decided to take a few bites out of crime.”

  Ricky Banks lay sprawled on his kitchen floor in a position that could only be labeled crucifixion style. His hands had been screwed to the floor with six 3-inch wood screws straight through each palm. What appeared to be a man’s belt had been cut in half and used to secure his ankles to the floor with the same type screws. His pet, Satan, had ripped out, and apparently eaten, a good portion of his throat, some of the chest area, including a nipple, and most of his manhood. Blood had pooled and coagulated on the floor beneath him. Arterial spray had covered the mutt and splattered around the room. The smell of blood and excrement was thick in the air.

&nb
sp; “Where’s the dog?” Cooper glanced up at her partner.

  Braddock had arrived on the scene five minutes or so before Cooper. Animal Control had just secured the animal and taken it away minutes before Cooper arrived. Chances were he would be put down, but for now he was evidence.

  “Animal Control rounded him up.”

  “I’ll bet that was a challenge.” Cooper leaned down. “What’s this?”

  Braddock moved to her side of the body and got down on his hands and knees to get close enough to see the small marks in question. “Taser marks.” He pushed back into a crouch. “Guess that’s how the perp disabled him.”

  “But that wouldn’t last more than a few minutes. This”—she gestured to the body’s positioning—“took some time. I’ll bet he was drugged at some point.” She leaned close again to inspect the body. “Probably a needle mark around here somewhere.”

  “Braddock! Take a look at this.”

  One of the officers, Larry Metcalf, who’d responded to the neighbor’s call about a disturbance, poked his head in the back door, motioning for Braddock to come out to the yard.

  He and Cooper exchanged a look, stood simultaneously, and headed to the backyard. The second officer who’d responded to the call was interviewing the neighbors. The forensics folks were sweeping the house and the yard, which had already been cordoned off as a crime scene. The entire property was considered part of the scene for now.

  Officer Metcalf led the way to a large tree in the center of the backyard. “What do you make of this?”

  A piece of meat hung from one of the limbs.

  “It’s a pork shoulder,” Cooper said as she walked around the dangling chunk. “Looks to be intact.” She visually measured the distance from the ground. “Must’ve been just out of Satan’s reach.”

  “Might be part of some sick training ritual.” Braddock had seen these guys wrap massive log chains around a young Rottweiler’s or pit bull’s neck to build muscle mass.

  “Might be,” Cooper offered, “what kept Satan occupied while the perp prepared Banks for dinner.”

  Braddock shook his head. “That’s a sick thought, Cooper.”

  “Well, yeah.” She sniffed the meat, touched it with her gloved hands. “But this is pretty fresh. It hasn’t been hanging here long.”

  As if on cue, the meat wagon rolled up to the curb. The street was already crowded with onlookers. Two additional officers had been called in to protect the perimeter.

  “One of the neighbors said,” Metcalf put in, “that Banks didn’t feed that dog regularly. Helped keep him mean.”

  “It’s hard to feel bad for a guy like that,” Cooper commented as she stared back at the house.

  Guess this was the end of Braddock’s deal with the poor bastard.

  He and Cooper walked back to the house. “You think this is Nash’s work?”

  Braddock shrugged. “He may have gotten wind that I was leaning on Banks for information.”

  “Were you?” She stopped at the door and looked him in the eye. “I mean, did you push that last interview too far?”

  “Yeah.” No point lying. “Maybe.”

  Cooper shook her head, then searched his eyes. “Did this interview include anything either of us might regret?”

  “Just the usual carefully worded warnings.”

  Cooper didn’t look convinced, but she let it go at that.

  Back inside the house they went room by room, mindful of the evidence techs’ work, looking for anything that might reveal any appointment Banks had had last night. Anything at all with possible relevance to his murder or that of Shelley Patterson.

  In the front right pocket of the victim’s jeans, Braddock found his little black book. It contained names of the girls working for him, their cell numbers, and their addresses. He bagged the black book. The .40 caliber they’d found on the kitchen floor would be tested. A number of unsolved robberies and homicides might just be cleared up with that one.

  By the time Braddock had finished a walk-through of the house, Cooper was in the backyard again. In the tree, no less. He walked out to where Officer Metcalf stood by watching.

  “Looking for anything in particular?” Braddock inquired. He had an idea.

  “Looking for a signature.”

  E. Noon. He’d figured as much.

  She slid down the branch to the trunk of the tree, then jumped down. “Nothing there.”

  “Did you check the pork shoulder?”

  “Funny.” She hitched her head toward the house. “I’m gonna have a look for that signature.”

  Braddock couldn’t argue her logic. “There is some fairly complicated staging to the scene.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” Cooper said, excitement building, playing out on her face. “The way he was laid out. Like he was being crucified or something. And the way his weapon was on the floor just out of reach.”

  “Braddock, Cooper, you might want to see this.”

  Candice Dobbins was on her knees next to the body. The vic’s hands and feet had been freed and he’d been rolled onto his side. Dobbins was directing an evidence tech in the taking of additional photos.

  “Take a look,” Dobbins pointed a gloved finger to the vic’s back, directly between his shoulder blades.

  A silver cross had been secured there, the top of the cross pointing downward.

  “Glued, I believe,” Dobbins offered.

  “More staging,” Cooper muttered.

  What the hell was Nash up to? Other than sending Braddock a big fat message.

  “You estimated a time of death yet?” Braddock realized Dobbins had barely gotten to the scene, but knowing the time was crucial to diving into his investigation.

  “Considering the body temp and progressive state of rig, the coagulation of the blood . . .” She shrugged. “I’d say he’s been dead a good five or six hours.”

  Cooper moved around the kitchen, looking for the signature. Braddock joined her search. Tangible evidence right up front would be nice. Even the best killers made mistakes.

  Braddock’s cell vibrated. He checked the screen. Dispatch. He opened it. “Braddock.” Dispatch passed along two urgent messages from Detective Jenkins. Braddock needed to call him as soon as possible.

  Anticipation fired in his veins. Why the hell hadn’t Jenkins called him directly? He checked the incoming call log, missed call from Jenkins. Braddock stepped out the back door and made the call. One ring and Jenkins answered. He didn’t give Braddock a chance to speak. He should come to CJ’s house. Now. The detective’s final words kept replaying over and over even after the call ended.

  Blood is all over the bed.

  3021 Appleton Street

  Five minutes after Braddock arrived at CJ’s house, he called the Forensics techs to the scene.

  He and Jenkins were at a standoff in the bedroom. CJ waited downstairs in the living room.

  “I can’t believe someone got in without you noticing a thing,” Braddock repeated. Maybe if he kept going over that same detail, Jenkins would ’fess up. He’d either fallen asleep or had been AWOL. “What happened at the clinic yesterday was bad enough, but this is totally unacceptable.”

  Jenkins shook his head, his gaze downcast. “I was right here all night. I didn’t hear or see anything. And that guy at the clinic was just like all the other people who came in and out.” He met Braddock’s gaze then. “Unless I’d followed him inside—and you told me to stay outside—I couldn’t have known.”

  He could be telling the truth. The perp could have slipped through the back and left the front door unlocked just to make HPD look bad.

  But Braddock wasn’t convinced.

  “Here’s the deal.” Braddock stepped into the other detective’s personal space. “If I find out you’re lying to me, your career at HPD is over. Period.”

  Jenkins nodded. “I understand.”

  Braddock glared at him one last time. “Now get back to your post.”

  He watched the humbled d
etective go. Jenkins had never given him any reason to doubt him. But this was one hell of a big reason. Giving him grace, they were all operating on adrenaline. Not enough sleep. No time off. It would help if the chief would budge on the manpower cap. Wasn’t going to happen. Three detectives were all Braddock was allotted for this case.

  Fury still charging through him, he went back downstairs to talk to CJ. She was pretty shaken.

  She stopped her pacing and stared at Braddock as he descended the final steps.

  “I don’t understand how someone got in without . . .” CJ shook her head in confusion, gestured vaguely. “They did this and I never even knew.” She hugged her arms around herself. “I slept right through it.”

  She had told him about taking a sleeping aid. That was likely the reason she hadn’t awakened. But the problem, as he saw it, was that whoever came in and left this warning had no idea she’d taken something to help her sleep.

  The intruder hadn’t cared.

  Didn’t care about the official surveillance sitting right in front of the house.

  That would be just like Nash.

  She could have been injured or killed if she had awakened while the intruder was still in the house.

  Fear trickled. She had Nash’s attention, all right.

  “We need to talk.” Braddock ushered her to the sofa. The first thing that needed to be clarified by the lab was whether or not the blood on her bed belonged to Banks.

  CJ looked painfully young and vulnerable this morning. The bandage on her throat reminded him of the crazed addict from the clinic. That she could have been killed for a handful of pain pills made him sick to his stomach. Reminded him of another victim who hadn’t been so lucky.

  CJ’s hair was tucked into a ponytail, and the jeans and tee were seriously tighter-fitting than the clothes she generally wore. Not at all like the highly educated, conservative doctor.

  Evidently she noticed his preoccupation with the way the tee hugged her breasts.

  “I ran out of clothes.” She rubbed at her forehead. “When I was preparing to come here I just threw a couple of things in a bag.” She hugged herself tighter. “These are Shelley’s.”