Devil's Dawn (A Grant & Daniels Trilogy Book 2)

by Raine, Charlotte

  And now there's a new barrier between us because I can't tell him what the FBI is doing with the case.

  For my lunch break, I get my salad out of the break room's fridge, but then I put it right back. I want something new today and for some reason, I'm really craving a burger. Like the burgers at The Charcoal Grill. The burgers are amazing, and what harm could it do to grab some active local color? If it's a local killer, and odds suggest that it probably is, considering the specific nature of the victims, maybe my presence would even rattle some cages, and somebody would be stupid and make Aaron's job easy.

  Everyone in Wyatt goes to The Charcoal Grill, so chances are the killer will be there, too.

  I get into my car and begin my drive. I know I will end up arriving back at the office late—really late—but Rhoda won't care when she's focusing on a possible killer cop. Besides, I could always tell her I had some hunch about the robberies, I went to investigate, and happened to come back empty-handed.

  But when I reach The Charcoal Grill, there's a closed sign on the door. When I walk up to it, I read the note that's attached below it:

  To our loving, supporting customers:

  We are deeply saddened to report the death of The Charcoal Grill's manager, Patrick Duff Junior, who was also the son of the owner of The Charcoal Grill. He was a great man who loved the restaurant and everybody who had ever worked there. The whole staff's hearts go out to his family members and friends. To those who wish to pay their respects to Patrick, his funeral is on Wednesday at 2 p.m. at Westlake Church. Because of his death, the restaurant staff has chosen to close The Charcoal Grill until Thursday. Thank you for your understanding and condolences.

  The entire staff of The Charcoal Grill

  I had forgotten that Junior was the manager here and I didn't even know that his father was the owner.

  My stomach gurgles. I still have to eat and I drove the whole way here.

  I cross the street to this ice-cream parlor, Spoonful of Cream. I'm not in the mood for ice cream—it always bewilders me a bit that any ice-cream parlor could do well in Alaska—but the place does have pie, and I'm always a fan of pie, even if it's loganberry or something dubious like that.

  I sit down on a stool at the counter. A young woman with red hair pulled up into a bun walks up to me.

  "What can I get you?"

  "What kind of pie do you have today?" I ask.

  "Well, there's apple, blueberry, and lemon meringue," she drawls. "But I think the blueberry is a bit undercooked. It's not my fault though."

  "Ah, I'll try a slice of the apple pie." I hear the bells of the door as it opens again. I don't pay much attention to it—I've already taken my phone out and begun debating on whether I should call Aaron—until I hear someone sit down next to me. I look beside me and, as if my mind made him materialize, there is Aaron.

  "What can I get you?" the waitress asks, sliding a piece of pie in front of me.

  "Just coffee. To go." He turns back to me.

  I take a bite out of the pie, trying to be nonchalant and not shout about the investigation.

  "It's been a hectic day," he says. "But I was thinking about calling you."

  "I've thought about calling you, too," I say. "I heard about Junior. My supervisor briefed us this morning. And already told me if we get called in on the case, I won't be the agent assigned to it."

  "It's not 'if' anymore, Teresa," he says. "What do you think of Agent Donovan?"

  "Good guy. Little weird. His family's all funeral directors. He tends not to over explain things, or even explain them. Abrupt. He's more blunt than he needs to be, and not always sensitive to people's feelings."

  "I'm familiar with that," he says. "It shouldn't be a problem."

  "Has Donovan already been assigned to the case?" I ask, thinking about his meeting with Rhoda. Would they send him in alone or would they just assign him with somebody other than me?

  "No," Aaron states. "But I'm going to ask for him. I think it would be better if we had someone on the case who is at least a little familiar with Wyatt. Greg and I have questioned people around town, including Junior's sister, and nobody has any clues to who could have killed him. It's frustrating."

  The waitress returns with Aaron's coffee in a Styrofoam cup. He throws down enough cash for it and my pie.

  "Take care." He leaves without another word.

  Chapter Forty

  Aaron, 2015 (Sunday morning)

  WALTER LAPONTE IS dressed in a suit that is likely worth more than I make in a month. As he stands in the large Anchorage District Office, he seems smaller than he does on TV, though he's six two.

  "So, you truly think this mysterious killer will show up at my speech?" he asks.

  "I think it's a possibility."

  "Don't you think that would be rather stupid of him?" he asks. "There will be dozens of witnesses and…now, apparently, most of the police force."

  "It wouldn't be the first time a politician was shot in front of a crowd," I say. "In fact, that's usually how it happens."

  Walter LaPonte fixes his tie and glances at me through the circular mirror on his wall.

  "You know how much I appreciate you and your police force," he states. "But this seems to be an overstep. The presence of policemen could harm my image."

  "I'm fairly sure that being dead could harm your image as well," I say. "Mr. LaPonte, I haven't been able to ask you this…and it may seem odd that I'm asking now…but do you know anybody who would have a grudge against you? Perhaps someone who knew quite a bit about your sister's death?"

  Walter turns around to face me. "Everyone in Wyatt knew about my sister's death. The media talked about it quite a bit."

  "Yes, I remember that," I say. "I just find it strange that someone would kill your friend's niece in the same fashion as your sister was killed, and then your best friend was killed—"

  "Junior and I were close, but I wouldn't say we were best friends. Maybe someone just hates the Duff family."

  "I thought of that, too," I say. "But that doesn't explain why Brianna's murder looked a lot like your sister's murder."

  "My sister's death was an accident," Walter says, a note of finality in his voice. "That case is closed and I would prefer for it to stay closed. I have lost everyone in my family. Let them rest in peace."

  I nod. "I understand. But you should realize that if it's connected to Brianna's murder, I'll have to reopen her case."

  "Brianna's murder isn't related to my sister's murder." He heads toward the door, but at the last second turns around to look at me. "Chief Grant, if this is what you think it is…that someone killed in order to smear my campaign…than I suggest you don't help them along by dragging my sister's murder into any discussion."

  "I'm just trying to do my job."

  "Well, your job concerns solving recent criminal cases, and my sister's death isn't recent. So, let it be."

  He opens the front door and the sound of reporters flood the building. Cameras flash as I step out and there are cameramen pointing their video cameras at Walter. There are policemen and FBI agents evenly distributed within the crowd.

  Teresa is on the right side, partially hidden by a large video camera. She smiles at me, so I wink at her, though it might just end up looking like I'm blinded by the flashing lights.

  "Hello everyone!"

  Walter waves and walks down toward the crowd. He begins shaking hands with a few of the interviewers while I gaze around the crowd, searching for anyone that appears anxious or out of place. Walter could be right that the killer wouldn't be stupid enough to show up here, but the killer seemed to go out of their way to ruin Walter's announcement, and murder seems like a good permanent solution.

  Teresa sidles up next to me. "I have guys on top of some of the buildings, making sure that the killer isn't on any of the roofs or the top floors."

  I shake my head. "Damn. I forgot that he uses a rifle and can shoot from a distance."

  "It's all right. I've got it cove
red," she says. I gaze up at the buildings surrounding us. Some of them have to be fifteen or sixteen floors high.

  "Do you think he'll show?"

  "No," she says.

  I turn to her. "Really? You're usually not that certain about things."

  "Well…I can't officially work on this case except for this, since it's all hands on deck, but I made up my own profile for the killer," she says. "And he wouldn't be so reckless to kill Mr. LaPonte out in the open. I'm not sure the killer is even ready to kill him, yet."

  "Because…he's grown a conscience?" I guess.

  "No, because he seems to be trying to torture LaPonte. First, he killed a girl in the same way as LaPonte's sister died, which is a way to remind everyone that he was a suspect in a murder, and bring up an old wound. Then, he kills LaPonte's best friend. He's making LaPonte suffer."

  "The killer could actually be a female," I tell her, remembering what Lyra told me. "He or she is about five four, so it's either a short male or an average height female."

  "Female serial killer," she mutters. "That would stray quite a bit from the norm. Do you think with Nick's injured arm, a woman could have strangled him?"

  "I don't really want to think about him right now."

  "Well, you might have to," she says. "You didn't hear this from me, but the FBI might be investigating you soon."

  "Me?" I ask. "Why?"

  "You were the last one to talk to Junior, and you were angry about Nick's death."

  "That doesn't mean I would kill him." I hiss.

  She shrugs. "You don't need to convince me. I tried to defend you, but they needed a suspect, and they landed on you."

  LaPonte has begun to address the media, talking about how great it has been being a representative of Alaska, but I'm not paying attention to him. "So, you're certain I didn't kill him?" I ask.

  "Of course I am."

  "Wow," I say. "I…I don't know if I would even be that certain myself if I didn't know better. I mean, if I had more evidence that he was involved, I may have killed him, but he acted truly confused when I talked about Nick."

  "So, we'll just have to find another connection between our three victims," she says. "Though, when I say we, I can't really mean the two of us, because neither of us would be allowed to investigate Nick's murder."

  "I'll find a way," I say.

  She takes my hand and squeezes it. I squeeze hers back. We both turn to Walter.

  "I am incredibly excited to announce that I will be running for governor! I want to serve my community as much as possible, and I can do that so much better as governor than as a representative. I hope everyone sees the good in my heart and understands that I will only do what is best for the community. I will take any questions now."

  Almost all of the reporters raise their hands.

  "Yes?" Walter asks, pointing to a man in a black suit with a teal tie

  "Since the murder of Brianna Cull and Patrick Duff Junior—"

  "I won't be answering any questions about the ongoing police investigation." Most of the reporters' hands go down. "I will say that I know there will be questions for why I am running after two tragedies in a row—both people connected to me. I can tell you that I thought about not running. But, I realized with some changes to this state, tragedies like these could be prevented. If we bring some morality back into the great state of Alaska, we could stomp out the crime that has crept into people's backyards. I want to help bring this change. These tragedies have only pushed me to want to make this state better than it already is. I could not stand aside and allow some politician who did not care about Brianna or Junior to become governor, and continue to not care about the individuals who make up Alaska. I care. I care more than anyone could imagine."

  Teresa leans toward me as Walter answers a question about the issue of homelessness.

  "What is Judge Latham doing here?"

  I turn to look at where she is gazing. Judge Latham is indeed here. I hadn't noticed him, since he's at the edge in the front of the group and he's wearing similar clothing to everyone else—black suit with a black tie. He might as well have been attending a funeral.

  "I think they're friends," I mutter. "Either Walter supported Latham or Latham supported Walter…I don't remember."

  She shakes her head. "It's just weird that everyone from Wyatt knows each other."

  "It's a small town."

  "Too small," she says. "With a body count that's had a sharp increase lately."

  "We'll catch the killer." I promise her. "And Wyatt will return to a sleepy old town."

  "I doubt it," she says. "Once a town has felt tragedy…nobody remains the same."

  "I know," I say, thinking about my family members that seem to be getting picked off one by one. "It's amazing that it's taken this long for people to start going crazy."

  My whole body goes rigid as I see a flash that looks like the sun hitting against the metal of a gun on the eighth floor of the building across from us, but I realize it's just the sun reflecting off a metal desk. I suppose it's better to be safe than sorry because even the most innocent reflections can turn out to be the most deadly.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Sarah, 2015 (Monday afternoon)

  THE MEMORIAL SERVICE for Brianna is very informal, and very insular—as someone who did not attend Saint Anne's, I feel out of place, even though I know the girls in Brianna's class. Truth be told, I've felt out of place ever since I was kidnapped, but today, I feel more isolated than usual. I suppose death is an especially strange concept in my mind when the dead never stop speaking to me.

  "I don't even like roses," Brianna mutters as a group of girls set red roses on her casket. "What a cliché. Are they going to start playing some overly sentimental song from the '80s now?"

  The carvings of Biblical tales on the walls add to the eeriness, specifically the violent nature of them. There's Jesus' crucifixion, David cutting off Goliath's head, and a very graphic depiction of hell.

  It's amazing that there hasn't been a Catholic serial killer in Wyatt, yet.

  My father puts his hand on my back and leads me toward the altar, which almost feels like a parody-like wedding.

  "Mr. and Mrs. Cull," he says. "I am so, so sorry for your loss. If there is anything my family can do, please, just ask. Brianna was such a beautiful, kind young woman. I'll miss seeing her at The Charcoal Grill."

  "Thank you, Judge Latham," Mrs. Cull murmurs. "We appreciate that you came here."

  "Of course."

  "I'm sorry for your loss," I murmur. She gazes up at me. I expect to feel something—guilt, shame, or remorse—but when I look into her brown eyes, all I can see is Brianna's eyes. And I have no sympathy for Brianna. She tattletaled on me to my father. She was a pawn in my plan to get rid of Junior, Walter, and my father, and, quite honestly, she represented the kind of girl I could have grown up to be if my circumstances were different. If I didn't have a violent father, a sociopathic brother, or if I hadn't been kidnapped. I could have led a charmed life like Brianna, but I didn't. Why did she get to have it easy?

  Well, I stopped that.

  I continue to say the right things, make the right gestures, and hug the right people—everyone except the priest and gangly old man who hollers every time he talks. After a few rounds of these same gestures and empty words, I am almost mimicking my father. He doesn't hug anyone, but I use the same phrases as he does and our body language is similar—the raised eyebrow as someone speaks, the slight turn of the head so our attention is never completely on the person we're speaking to, and his hand gestures are sharp and abrupt as he talks. I never noticed that, though I've hated him for the last five years of my life, I've still somehow turned out like him.

  That's a shame.

  He hasn't said much of anything to me today except for mentioning there was going to be a memorial service for Brianna today, that he was attending it, and he would offer me a ride if I needed one, with the strong suggestion that I should need a ride and I shoul
d go. If I'm a cynic, I would say it's the control freak in him and if I'm not, I would say it's because he wants to do something nice for me since he hasn't said much about the fact that my coworker died.

  I truly don't want to be here, but essentially everyone has showed up. There's a line of people trailing outside of the church, onto the sidewalk, and around the corner. Wyatt is a small enough town that if by some miracle someone didn't know Brianna or her parents, they knew someone who did and they were coming in a supportive role. Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if this became some notable day in Wyatt history. There's always an article about the deaths of Debbie and the other girl who died in the Green Fire Dance Team bus accident, Jacklyn Delforte, on July 1st and there's always an article about Aaron Grant's family dying in the house fire on September 23rd. The forest fire a couple of months ago that killed six people will likely become an annual remembrance as well.

  Summer and autumn are simply not good months for Wyatt, which is amusing to me since winter is supposed to be the season of death.

  I wonder how many people here know that Junior is dead. The Charcoal Grill was closed yesterday and today, but some people might not know why. I'm sure my father is aware of it. Mr. and Mrs. Cull must be, too, because Junior is Mrs. Cull's brother. I'd assume that Representative LaPonte knows, but he is one of the few people that isn't here. I suppose after his announcement yesterday, he's busy, but I would think he would show up, at least for the sake of appearances.

  Chief Grant must know by now. He's one of the few people in the church that I haven't talked to—mainly because I'm avoiding him as much as possible. I don't need an interrogation, and I don't need his pity over the fact that Nick is dead. I don't want to fake sympathy over Nick's death, either. I really don't want to show any emotions. Emotions are useless and annoying, though that doesn't stop me from feeling stricken. I'm not stricken with grief, but anxiety over how these three deaths will unfold. The last two weren't very well planned out. Debbie was right, I should have thought them out more, but Nick knew too much and I needed Junior to be punished.