Victoria's Destiny

by L. J. Garland

  He’d rammed the keys into the ignition, started the SUV. “You mean Marco Polo?”

  “Yeah. We stumble around yelling Marco.” He’d gestured toward the departing van. “And each body is a Polo.”

  River stared at the clock on his desk, the thin black secondhand arcing around in a never-ending circle. Soft elevator music poured through the handset and into his ear. He grabbed a pen and wrote on the blotter.

  Polo.

  Kent had been the Valentine Killer, and he was dead. The copycat knew the word, so he had to have known Kent. Might have worked with him.

  “River Chastain.” Captain Suarez’s familiar voice came over the phone. “How are you, mi amigo?”

  “Doing good.” He frowned. Another lie? “You holding up?”

  “Fine, fine.” A short pause filled the line. “My guess is this isn’t a social call.”

  “No, it’s not.” He closed his eyes, rubbed his temple. “I’ve got this…case.”

  Suarez grunted.

  “It’s very similar to the, um….”

  “Valentine Killer?”

  River’s eyes popped open, the word he’d written on the blotter his first sight. Polo. “How…?”

  “There’ve been a few other calls, mi hermano.” Suarez sighed. “Your captain sees the similarities. Just making sure you’ve got all the facts.”

  Well, hell. River expelled a quick breath. He couldn’t blame Captain Connors for being thorough.

  “I know. It’s mierda,” Suarez growled. “Two cases so alike, different states, the same detective on both. What are the chances? I told your Captain Connors you were a great detective and Savannah was fortunate to have you.”

  He tapped his pen on the blotter. “What’d he say?”

  “He said he already knew,” Suarez rumbled.

  “Okay.” Sparse relief trickled through him. His captain trusted him. Good. But the similarities were too huge to ignore. “So, what happened to Kent’s body, buried?”

  “Cremated.”

  River jolted. “Burned?”

  “No family came to claim him after the coroner printed, cut, poked, and zipped. His will specified cremation. El cabrón.”

  Cremated. Well, Kent can’t fake that. “What happened to his parents?”

  “They died when he was twenty. Car accident. Kent was an only child. Just him, thank God.” The indistinct sound of someone speaking to Suarez filtered across the line. “Okay. I’ll be there in a minute. Listen, River, your captain checked on the revenge angle, but as far as I can tell, there’s no one to do it.”

  “I’m getting that.”

  “Hate to cut you short, but I got a meeting I have to get to.”

  “Okay.” He realized Suarez had given him quite a bit of information. He could have let any officer take the call but had chosen to handle it personally. “And Cap?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problemo, mi amigo.” He chuckled. “And next time, we’ll talk about how much you miss Texas.”

  Even though Suarez couldn’t see him, River nodded. “Sounds good.”

  After he hung up, his gaze moved to the word he’d written on the blotter. Kent’s dead. Cremated. No family to take revenge. So, that leaves friends and associates.

  The words Matthew had spoken to him in The Yellow Rose bar floated back to him. You’re in the middle of something, Mr. Chastain. Your life is about to change in ways you can’t imagine.

  His teeth clenched. The more he thought about it, the less Matthew’s message sounded like a warning and more like a threat.

  The phone rang, and River jerked up the receiver. “Chastain.”

  “Well, don’t you sound all professional?” Vicki’s sultry voice flowed through the line. “Sexy. I like it.”

  “Vicki.” His pulse jumped. Just the thought of her elicited images of her naked body in his bed, hair tousled. Glancing up, he noticed Dauscher returning from CIU.

  “I know you’re busy, so I won’t keep you. I just wanted to know if you’d like to have dinner tonight.”

  His partner sat at his desk and shuffled papers, pretending to be busy.

  “Sounds good,” River answered her.

  “Great.” Her reply came on a rush of breath. “So, whenever you get off work, just come by, and I’ll be ready.”

  “Sounds good,” he repeated.

  His partner’s mouth twitched.

  “I’ll see you then.” River ended the call.

  “Already whipped.” Dauscher smirked and studied the papers in his hands.

  “Asshole.” River leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers behind his head. “You already have a great woman. Why she chose a slob like you, I’ll never know. Hell, she makes pancakes for you. The rest of us have to work at finding what an unappreciative jerk like you already has.”

  Laughter rumbled deep inside the big guy’s chest. “Man, I know what I got. Wendy’s the perfect girl for me. Pancakes are just icing.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Chastain!” a deep growl boomed through the bullpen.

  River’s head shot up. The captain waved him over from his office doorway.

  “Sit down with the boss.” Dauscher arched an eyebrow. “Nice knowing you.”

  “You, too.” River shoved to his feet.

  “Hey, say something nice about me.”

  “You? You’re golden.” He strode past his partner’s desk. “It’s me he wants to talk to.”

  As he crossed the bullpen, it seemed all eyes were focused on him. He ground his molars. Damn, it’s like being a rookie all over again. He paused in the doorway. “Captain Connors, you wanted to see me?”

  “Come in, Chastain.” The captain gestured toward him. “Close the door and have a seat.”

  He did as told, easing into one of the two leather chairs facing the desk.

  The older man focused on his computer monitor, his wide, dark forehead furrowing. He typed something on his keyboard then grunted and sat back in his chair, turning his deep-brown eyes on him. “How do you like Savannah, Detective?”

  “I like Savannah just fine, sir.”

  “Good. Though I’m sure it’s quite a change from Austin.” He tapped his finger on the desk. “You settling in all right, need anything?”

  “Everything’s good so far.” He gestured toward the bullpen. “Dauscher’s showing me the ropes.”

  The captain arched a black eyebrow. “Heard you two caught a case.”

  “Yes, sir.” His timing is impressive. He pulled his phone from its holster and brought up the password-protected case files. “Twenty-year-old Penny Newhouse was found murdered behind the downtown cinema. She drove a carriage for history and ghost tours and was a fashion major at SCAD. The second vic was found on the Riverwalk.” The girl’s face flashed in his mind as he tapped the screen, accessing the latest report. “We just got an ID on her. Cher Rondo. Twenty-two years old. Single and worked as an office assistant at an independent realty agency. As far as we can tell, the two women didn’t know one another.” He took a breath. How many times have I said this next part? He met the captain’s gaze. Only difference is the man sitting on the other side of the desk. “The coroner confirmed both women’s hearts had been removed.”

  Connor’s jaw tightened. “And?”

  “At both scenes, the killer drew a satanic symbol using the victim’s blood.”

  The older man grimaced. “You’ve seen all this before, haven’t you, Detective?”

  Shit. “Yes, sir. The Valentine Killer. He murdered nine women before we got him in a cave out in Hill Country. Dead. But you know all this, sir.”

  “Damn straight I do,” he barked. “And this is looking a lot like Austin to me. I’m reassigning you.”

  River bolted to his feet. “You can’t do that, sir.”

  “I can and I will.” His dark eyes narrowed. “Son, don’t think you can waltz into my house and start making the rules. I call the shots.”

  “I g
et it, Captain. But Dauscher and I have been on this since the start—”

  “We have plenty of qualified detectives to run this case.”

  “I have no doubt.” He gritted his teeth, tried to restrain his anger. He can’t reassign me. “But which one of them knows more about this guy than me?”

  “You knew Kent Rowton, too, and never realized he was the killer. Your own damn partner.” He shook his head. “Give me one good reason why I should trust you on this.”

  He shouldn’t. “Because he’s taken another girl.”

  The man slammed his hand on the desk. “And we lost a damn good officer. Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Because he made it personal.”

  His black eyebrows shot up. “Personal? How so?”

  River ran a hand through his hair. “He left a note on my desk.”

  The captain’s gaze swung toward the bullpen. “Your desk?”

  “Yes, sir. Dauscher’s already taken it down to CID.” He gave Connors a hard stare. “This guy’s a Valentine disciple. He’s got the rituals down to a T. And he’s already taken another woman. So, who would be better on this case?” He jabbed his finger toward the bullpen. “A detective who is going to spend weeks getting caught up on all the details? Or me?”

  Captain Connors gave him a dark stare. “How did you know about the kidnapped woman?”

  “Her name is Kelly Finch, and I got a tip.”

  “A tip.” Sarcasm laced his tone.

  Vicki. Aw, hell. No way I’m saying psychic. He’ll laugh my ass out of the precinct. “The point is the information was solid. If this copycat is hellbent on carrying on the Valentine’s work, then I’m the one for this case. I know how he works, and now, I’ve got an inside track.”

  The older man’s jaw worked as though he were chewing over his decision. His focus shifted toward the bullpen and back again. “Since one of my best detectives is already on the case with you, I’m going to leave things as they are. You keep me informed every step.”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  “Well, what are you standing here for?” he growled.

  “Yes, sir.” He opened the office door.

  “Chastain.”

  River turned. “Sir?’

  “Welcome to Savannah.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He strode through the bullpen amid the drone of phones, computers, and conversations. When he sat in his chair, he looked across at his partner. “What?”

  Dauscher shrugged. “Just wondering if that hole in your pants is where the captain chewed your ass.”

  Probably saw me through the window. He smirked. “Only ’cause I made the mistake of saying something nice about you.”

  “Funny.” The big guy tapped his pen on his blotter. “So, you going out with her?”

  River sat up, grabbed the computer mouse, and moved it, clearing the screen saver. “Who?”

  “The girl you were talking to on the phone earlier.”

  River checked his watch. “That’s the plan.”

  “So, what’re you waiting for?” Dauscher dropped the pen on his desk. “I’ve got things covered here. Take off.”

  “Just as soon as I finish this one thing.” As he’d seen Lenny do at the diner, River brought up a translation website. He typed in the Latin words on the copycat’s message and clicked on the translate button. “Bingo.”

  Brows raised, Dauscher leaned forward, his eyes filled with interest. “What’s up?”

  “Vita Eternus?” River gestured to the computer monitor. “It’s Latin for life eternal.”

  “Life eternal?” His nose wrinkled. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “No idea.”

  “And polo?” Dauscher shook his head. “Is the guy planning to play polo forever?”

  Guilt shot through River. He wanted to tell his partner what the word meant in regard to the Valentine case, but it was just too crazy. It was a term he and Kent had used, just the two of them had known about it. And it appeared the copycat did as well.

  Dauscher had no idea how right he was. The killer planned on murdering for as long as possible.

  “Go on, get out of here.” Jerking his thumb at the door with one hand, he reached for the ringing phone on his desk with the other. “Dauscher.”

  Car keys in hand, River followed his partner’s advice and headed toward the parking lot. He strode across the asphalt, thoughts of Vicki’s supple skin and soft lips filling his brain. Beautiful, smart, and cursed with an ability she never wanted. He slid into the Malibu and started the engine.

  Has she told Becca and Lenny they’re on the killer’s list?

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  On the sidewalk, Jamie stared up at the Savannah-Chatham Metro Police Department. Hands clenched, he took another step toward the door and stopped. What if I’m wrong? I have no actual proof. He gritted his teeth. Just because there was a drop of blood in the sink, that doesn’t mean it belonged to Mrs. Gretzner’s missing toy poodle. And keeping a neat bedroom isn’t a crime.

  Jamie pivoted away from the police station and headed back to the parking lot. Rounding the corner, he headed for his beat-to-shit, dark-blue Chevy Camaro. He paused, ran a hand through his hair to get it out of his eyes, and stared at the car he’d bought in Texas five years earlier. A good investment at the time, it just needed a little work. On February fourteenth, the day after he’d made the purchase, the first murdered girl had been found. Mangled. Heart missing.

  The last week of February, he’d rebuilt the engine, and the second girl had been discovered in an ally, her heart gone as well. The act of violence had been so heinous the media had jumped on it. With the two murders committed in February—the first on the commercialized holiday—and both hearts taken, they’d dubbed the culprit The Valentine Killer.

  Two months later, Jamie had saved enough to recover the seats and replace the carpeting. Two days after he’d finished the job, another murder. The remains of a high-school girl had been dumped behind a donut shop.

  Then the damned transmission had started slipping. He’d barely been able to shift into Drive. After he’d gotten the car back from the shop, four days passed before the next girl had been found in a local park.

  At the time, Jamie had sworn off any more repairs. If he quit fixing up the Camaro, then maybe girls would stop dying. With the engine and transmission both rebuilt, he’d decided to gas it up and drive until the damn thing fell apart.

  But of course, the Valentine Killer hadn’t stopped. A total of eight girls had their hearts removed before he’d ridden shotgun in the coroner’s van to the outskirts of Hill Country to pick up the Valentine Killer’s body.

  Which he’d dropped.

  He shuddered, still unable to remember exactly what happened in the cave.

  Turning, Jamie walked back to the police station. It didn’t matter he possessed no evidence. If he was wrong about Brent, then fine. But if it turned out he was right, then his coming forward might matter a great deal. Hell, if a roommate or next-door neighbor had come forward with concerns about the Valentine Killer, maybe some of those girls would still be alive.

  Jamie pushed through the police department entrance and approached the desk. A thin, dark-skinned woman with large brown eyes looked up from the computer terminal.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yes.” Jamie pushed his bangs off his forehead. “I, um, need to talk to someone. An officer.”

  “Okay.” Her gaze narrowed as though weighing the importance of his request. “What’s it regarding?”

  “Well, I know it’s going to sound crazy.” He forced a smile in an attempt to calm his nerves. “I think my roommate might be doing stuff he, uh…shouldn’t.”

  “Are we talking drugs, prostitution, theft? What exactly?”

  “I’m not sure.” Twisting to peer over his shoulder, he scanned the bored faces of the couple sitting in chairs against the wall. Why were they here?

  “Sir.” The female officer’s cur
t tone drew his attention. “You need to be more specific so I can direct you to the right person.”

  Jamie moved closer, and the woman in uniform tensed. Damn, does she think I’m going to attack her? Forcing another smile, he placed his hands on the counter where she could see them.

  “I didn’t want to broadcast it.” He spoke in a hushed tone and tilted his head toward the bored couple. Leaning forward, he stared the female officer in the face. “I don’t know for sure, but I think my roommate might be involved in a murder.”

  Her brown eyes widened, and she reached for the phone. “Yeah, I got a guy down here you need to talk to.” She glanced at Jamie then at her computer monitor. “Okay. I’ll send him up.” She replaced the handset and turned to him. “Go up those stairs to the next floor and sit on the first bench to the right. Someone will take your statement.”

  “Thank you.” With a nod, he headed for the stairs. A bead of sweat snaked between his shoulder blades. No turning back now.

  On the next floor, he located the bench and sat. No sooner had his butt hit the hard, polyurethane-coated wood than an officer approached. Tall and built like a defense lineman, the guy strode toward him with an air of serious professionalism that would compel any criminal to think twice.

  “Detective Dauscher.” He stopped in front of him. “And you are?”

  “Jamie Bennett.”

  A uniformed officer trudged past them, pushing a skinny guy through the foot traffic. Shiny metal handcuffs dangled from the dude’s thin wrists. Gaze focused on nothing, his head lolled about while the officer steered him down the hallway. How would the guy make it down the stairs without breaking his neck?

  “Mr. Bennett.” Detective Dauscher’s gruff tone brought Jamie’s attention back to the matter at hand. He gestured toward the doorway he’d just exited. “If you’ll come this way, we can sit and talk in a more private area.”

  Following directions, Jamie walked down an aisle in the middle of a sea of desks. Detectives and officers moved about. Phones rang. An indistinguishable buzz of conversation pervaded the room while other people gave statements, made complaints, or sat mute and handcuffed.

  Unnerved by his surroundings, Jamie sank onto the heavy wooden chair adjacent to the detective’s metal desk. How many people have sat here before me?