Blood Score

by Jordan Dane

  “I’ll take that.” Schumacher held open a plastic evidence bag and waited for him to drop the cell phone into it. “I’ll let you know what we find out and put a rush on it.”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  The phone would be processed for fingerprints and examined for other evidence. The contact information for people that the victim had listed would be downloaded. They’d need a warrant to obtain Olivia Davenport’s phone records to help them build a case and pin down her whereabouts prior to the murder.

  But for now, they had a potential ID on the victim and a phone number to trace for a guy named Ethan. Between any calls the victim might have made while she was still alive and Ethan’s ‘where are you’ messages, the time stamp for the calls would help narrow the timeline of what happened before she died.

  “We’ve got a name and a place to start. Have you seen enough?” he asked his partner as the ME’s assistant rolled up a gurney with a black body bag draped over it. “We should head for the station and get a jump on it.”

  “Yeah, but gimme a sec.”

  Angel talked to Schumacher and the ME’s assistant one last time before she joined him again. They shoved through the media line without incident, and as they walked back to their vehicles, his partner didn’t say much until—

  “Why do you talk to them?” she asked.

  “Schumacher and O’Brien? Good question.”

  Angel stifled a smile. “You know what I mean. You talk to dead people, Gabe. That doesn’t exactly make you a spokesperson for the Mental Health Association. Do the dead ever have anything worthwhile to say?”

  “More than Schumacher and O’Brien. Trust me.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and kept walking. He felt comfortable in the silence between them. “Talking to the dead reminds me they were a daughter or a son. Or someone made love to them, or they had childhood fights with a sister or brother. They aren’t just stiffs, you know?”

  “Yeah, I can see that.”

  When she got to her ride, Angel didn’t get in right away. She leaned against her vehicle and waited for him to say more. Like a good cop—and an even better partner—she knew he hadn’t told her everything.

  “You’re not letting me off the hook, are you?”

  “Would you?” She cocked her head and smiled.

  “Good point.”

  He looked down and kicked a stone, unsure what he’d say. Lying about his past came too easily. With most people he didn’t care, but lying to Angel felt wrong, like Manny would look over her shoulder and call him on his bullshit. He couldn’t see staring into her eyes and yanking her chain, not about this. He’d felt closer to Angel after she married Manny, as if she were family.

  In the end, he resorted to the truth.

  “When I was eight, my parents were murdered. I came home from school and found them. It was brutal, Angel. One of the bloodiest crime scenes I’ve ever seen, and that’s sayin’ something.”

  No matter how straightforward he made it sound, the words had always been hard to hear, especially coming from his own mouth. The anger he felt was never far from the surface, even though he’d worked hard to disguise it. He’d certainly found ways to release the rage. The fight club was only one. His life had stopped that day, and the stigma had always been a part of him. There was no getting around that.

  “After my family was butchered, I learned not to get too attached to anything, especially people.” He stared into the dark, unable to look at her. “Whatever life a kid is supposed to have, I got that taken away, and the system never helped.”

  His mind flashed back to when his world had been ripped apart. What had happened to his mother and father had been vicious and perverted. The suffocating stench of their crime scene and the horrified looks on their faces had ripped his heart out. The torture they had endured before they died enraged him, even now. No human being deserved to die like that. When he worked crime scenes as a cop, some murders were worse than others for him, but he had never told a partner about his family until now. Telling his story to Angel made it different.

  “You know…I want to believe there’s more to all this,” he said. “I wake up some nights with a knot in my belly, thinking ‘what if this is all there is.’ My parents were cheated of their one chance. Some animal stole their lives, and the bastard got away with it, but that wasn’t good enough. He took me down too. I got a life’s sentence.”

  It never took much to tip him over the edge when he talked about what had happened. His breathing went out of control, and his heart thumped harder like on those awful nights when he’d wake up in a cold sweat. But when he looked at Angel, he suddenly remembered where he was and knew he’d been an inconsiderate moron. He hadn’t given one thought to what she’d been through with Manny until he saw the tear run down her cheek, and the urge to apologize hit him hard.

  “I’m sorry. I should never have—”

  “No, I’m the one who brought it up. I had no idea. That must have been terrible.” She reached out to touch his arm. “I’m sorry, Gabe.”

  The intimacy shocked him, especially coming from her. If he were a better man, he wouldn’t have wanted more.

  “I don’t know about life after death, but I do feel Manny with me,” she confided. “In the little things. I’ll do laundry and start to hum a song that we used to like, out of the blue. Or when I’ve turned out the lights and am lying in bed, waiting to fall asleep, I can sometimes smell his skin. Is that weird?”

  “No, you miss him.” He shrugged. “It’s natural.”

  Although he missed Manny too, his cynical side didn’t believe the dead truly communicated with the living. His parents never did, or at least he never opened his mind to the possibility. As a kid, he felt detached from everything and everyone. All he had was the shock of his profound loss and a deep-rooted rage that never went away. If that was the dead reaching out to the living, he could do without the constant reminder.

  “They never caught who killed your parents?”

  “No. It’s a cold case.” He shook his head. “I didn’t have any other relatives, so I was raised by the state. That’s where I met Manny. He got me through a really dark time. He became like family to me. I miss him, too.”

  “Yeah, he told me about how you two met. He said it took a while for that chip you had on your shoulder to drop off.” She smiled.

  “No, he knocked it off. We didn’t exactly see eye to eye at first.”

  “But it didn’t take long for you two to become inseparable.”

  “More like insufferable.” He grinned.

  “But just so you know, he never told me anything about your parents. Guess he took that as private between you.”

  Cronan nodded. “Yeah, Manny was good at keeping secrets. But after what happened to my folks, I take each murder case real personal, probably more than I should. That’s why I don’t talk about it.”

  “Is that your subtle way of telling me to keep my mouth shut?” She didn’t wait for his answer. “Don’t worry, partner. This Ramirez knows how to keep a secret too. No one will hear your story from me.”

  He stood on the curb under a streetlight and waited for her to get into her vehicle, but Angel had something more to say.

  “Thanks for confiding in me, Gabe. I know that wasn’t easy.”

  Cronan shrugged and forced a smile. “You’re my partner, Angel.”

  “For better or worse.” She waved and got in. “See you at the station.”

  After she pulled from the curb, he said, “Yeah, better for me. For you? Not so much.”

  Cronan headed for his vehicle and stuck to the shadows. The darkness helped him think—and remember.

  ***

  Early Morning – Grand Central Police Station

  With the first forty-eight hours of any murder case being critical, other open cases took a backseat faster than a cheerleader did at prom. Cronan was hard at work after he’d made a quick run home to change, grab a bite to eat, and dose up with aspirin afte
r pulling the first all-nighter in the new investigation.

  His DMV search for Olivia Davenport had turned up her current address. He posted the details on a white board he’d started to document the steps in their investigation. The board was positioned near his and Angel’s desk. An enlarged reproduction of Olivia Davenport’s DMV photo was clipped to the white board, and he’d started a timeline, using the time stamps for the messages left on Olivia’s cell phone yesterday, in an effort to retrace her steps.

  If Olivia had indeed missed a dinner date, they could use her DMV photo at restaurants and shops in the area to see if anyone recognized the blonde beauty. He had a feeling people would have remembered her if they saw her.

  Gabe had fielded a call from Schumacher. They still hadn’t found Olivia’s vehicle and had issued a BOLO alert. They’d done a search near Oz Park and at her residence, and her silver BMW 650i Convertible was missing. It made him wonder if she’d been killed as part of a carjacking, but why would a carjacker take the risk of accosting her in the middle of the park and not in the street near her vehicle? Stealing a car was a grab-and-go crime of opportunity. He couldn’t see a thief take the time to hunt for her vehicle after killing a woman to steal her purse. The whole thing felt staged.

  Cronan had written his questions on the white board.

  He’d found an online newspaper link to a photo where Olivia stood alongside her parents at a local charity event. Olivia looked stunning in a black cocktail dress, smiling for the camera. She’d organized the event as a benefit for the arts, and her parents were mentioned in the article as being generous supporters. Her father had his arm around his daughter. Both of them were grinning, but Mrs. Davenport stood near them and looked as if she’d been caught unaware of the camera. She’d forgotten to smile.

  Seeing Olivia in the photo made it hard to imagine how she ended up in Oz Park. Flashes of her violent death stirred his anger, even this early in the morning.

  “Hey, you’ve been busy.”

  When he heard Angel’s voice, he looked up from his computer.

  “Yeah, caffeine helps.” He raised his coffee mug in greeting.

  Angel headed toward her desk across from his. They were located in the far corner of the detectives’ bullpen. His partner had gone to obtain the warrant for phone records. She’d also been with forensics to get more information on the mysterious Ethan. Angel had a smile on her face, always good to see.

  “Our first stop will be to notify Olivia’s parents,” he said. “Then I’ve got an address for our vic off DMV. We can check that out.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” She nodded. “I did a lookup on the phone number for our boy Ethan, but all I found was the name of a corporation, Circle of Fifths. I have a contact name, Rachel Blevins, and an address. I’ve got us an appointment to see Ms. Blevins after we notify the family. We can ask her face to face what she knows about a guy named Ethan.”

  “Great. Just tell me where to go. I know you like doing that.”

  “You ready to head out?”

  “Yeah.” Cronan gulped the rest of his coffee and grabbed his suit jacket off the back of his chair. He shrugged into it and adjusted it over his white dress shirt and leather shoulder holster that carried his Glock 21.

  He followed Angel out of the maze of cubicles and desks, but not before looking over his shoulder at the white board.

  “If my face ever goes up on a white board, I want the cops in charge to have one question on their minds—what the hell was he thinking?”

  “Wow. That’s morbid.” Angel scrunched her face and glanced over her shoulder at him. “But I’d say you’ve got a pretty good shot at that, Gabe. It’s nice to have goals.”

  ***

  Sheridan Road – Morning

  There was never a good time to hear bad news, especially about a daughter who’d been murdered and would never come home. Cronan hated this part of the job. It brought back too many bad memories of the day he’d learned the hard way—that with the things that mattered most, there were no ‘do overs.’

  Angel kept silent as she sat next to him in the passenger seat of his unmarked Crown Vic. She stared out the windshield as they drove toward the house at the end of the driveway. The beautiful home off Sheridan Road had a spectacular view of Lake Michigan. A trim landscaped yard terraced in flowers. Even though the residence sprawled over several acres, it had the appearance of a comfortable cottage, set into the woods. A brick wall surrounded the estate, a wall that couldn’t keep the Davenports safe from bad news.

  After he parked near the front door, he asked, “You ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  Cronan felt an old familiar knot deep in his belly as he walked to the front door. No matter how many times he’d done a notification, they never got easier. The day it did, he’d know it’d be time to turn in his badge. He avoided looking Angel in the eye. He knew she had her own way of dealing with it and making idle conversation felt like an intrusion. He wanted his next words to be for the family.

  Cronan took a deep breath and rang the doorbell. It didn’t take long for someone to answer.

  “Yes, can I help you?”

  Cronan recognized Olivia’s mother in an instant. Even though the woman didn’t have blonde hair, she and her daughter had the same distinctive blue eyes. Seeing Olivia in her mother’s face brought a darker edge to what he’d come to do.

  “Are you Mrs. Elizabeth Davenport?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Detective Cronan and this is my partner, Detective Ramirez. We’re with the Chicago Police Department.” He held up his badge. “May we come in?”

  The woman tried to read their faces, but when she couldn’t, her skin turned pale.

  “What’s this about?”

  “Please…may we come in?” When Angel softened her tone, the woman raised a hand to the pearls hanging from her neck. She backed away to allow them inside.

  “Yes, this way.” Mrs. Davenport ushered them into a small parlor off the entrance.

  The room was decorated in a comfortable way, not too formal. It looked like a cross between a high-end interior design magazine and National Geographic. Exotic animal heads were hung on the walls with fur pelts. African sculptures and other taxidermy animals were accent pieces. Display cases had been positioned around the room and featured artifacts, weapons, and a collection of unusual knives. The décor looked masculine, with dark tones and leather furnishings. It wasn’t something he would have expected of Mrs. Davenport. She didn’t look the type of woman to enjoy big game hunting.

  But the photos on the walls told another part of the story.

  Cronan saw the many faces of Olivia Davenport. The images were like a time capsule—a glimpse into her life. Photos of pep rallies, best friends forever, prom dates, and graduations took a backstage to the many hunting trips she had taken with her father to exotic locations. She’d been hunting since she was a young girl.

  Cronan wasn’t sure why, but that surprised him.

  Olivia may have looked like her mother, but that’s where the similarity ended. She’d definitely been her father’s daughter. From the photos, Elizabeth hadn’t joined them on their hunting expeditions. Olivia’s mother was missing from every shot.

  When a man called out to Mrs. Davenport from a back room, she raised her voice to answer. “It’s the police, Charles. Please join us in the parlor.”

  She lowered her voice to tell them, “That’s my husband. I suppose you’ll want to talk to both of us?” Her voice cracked, and her hands trembled. The woman avoided their eyes as she sat on a small sofa and waited for her husband to join them.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Cronan said. “That would be best.” He took a seat in a leather wingback chair closest to the woman, and Angel took a seat across from them.

  While they waited, Gabe stole glances of Olivia’s mother. Elizabeth Davenport wore pale blue slacks and a crisp white blouse with a string of pearls at her neck. She was a thin woman with intense blu
e eyes and dark hair cut short that showed off her high cheekbones and slender neck. Laugh lines marked her face. She had a good face, the face of someone he would have liked to meet under other circumstances.

  Her husband entered the room and took her hand as soon as he sat next to her. The gesture wasn’t forced. It had come naturally. Charles was tall with thinning gray hair. He wore khaki Dockers with a black polo shirt and had the physique of an athlete and the tanned skin of someone who loved the outdoors.

  “What’s this about?” Charles Davenport asked. His gaze shifted between them. “You’re with the police?”

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mr. and Mrs. Davenport, but your daughter Olivia—”

  Before he finished, Elizabeth Davenport gasped and clutched the hand of her husband. “Oh, no. Please…no.”

  “Your daughter was found murdered,” he said.

  The rest became a blur—for them and for him. Disbelief followed the initial shock. Angel helped him answer the many questions they had before an oppressive silence filled the room, broken only by a mother’s gut wrenching sobs.

  “I don’t understand. Who would do such a thing?” Olivia’s mother said the same words again. “Not my baby girl. Not Olivia.”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out, ma’am. I know this is hard, but can you think of anyone who would want to hurt Olivia?” Cronan asked. After they both shook their heads, he said, “It happened in Oz Park at the intersection of Lincoln and Webster. It’s in the suburbs of Lincoln Park. Do you know what she would be doing there last evening? There were shops and restaurants in the area.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t know. Olivia likes pretty clothes and nice things. Or she might have tried a restaurant, but I don’t…” Mrs. Davenport choked and cupped her hand over her mouth. She buried her face into the shoulder of her husband, and he put his arm around her.

  “Maybe our daughter had plans to meet someone for dinner,” he explained.

  When he heard Olivia’s father guessing at her whereabouts, he decided to test how close the relationship was between parent and daughter.