His gut screamed at him. Something was wrong. Lucy was in trouble.
Problem was, he’d told no one about Sabrina or even where he was going when he left Jessup. What little family he had left were long used to him tossing what few possessions he owned in his duffle and leaving as abruptly as he came. Only one person knew where he was, but he trusted Lark with his life. No way would he betray him. He glanced at his watch. The call came through an hour and forty minutes ago.
He hung up and dialed Lucy. The phone rang and rang. No answer.
Calm down. Panic is the enemy. He took a cleansing breath and dialed a different number. This time the call was answered on the fourth ring.
“Wander-Inn, this is Tom.”
“Tom, it’s Michael. I need a favor.”
Twelve
When he was finished, he gathered his clothes and put them back on. The blood and gore, dried stiff, abraded his skin, but he didn’t mind. He dragged Lucy to a corner of the basement and laid her out. Finding an open bottle of bleach above the washer, he washed her thoroughly.
Once she was clean, he wrapped her in the freshly-laundered sheets he found in her dryer and concealed her beneath a pile of old boxes. She’d eventually be found, but by then the bleach would have done its job. Any DNA he might have left on her would be long gone.
The muffled sound of Gene, still singing in the rain, drifted down the basement steps, and he sang along while he worked. He brought the chair and Lucy’s house dress back upstairs and rummaged under the sink. He found more bleach, a bottle of ammonia and a bottle of lighter fluid. He rolled up the makeshift tarp he’d laid out on the kitchen floor and placed it in a trash bag along with the dress. He poured the undiluted ammonia onto the kitchen floor and chair. While ammonia didn’t destroy DNA, any evidence gathered there would be corrupted by the chemical and rendered useless. The ammonia was strong-smelling, so he opened a few windows for ventilation. The early afternoon breeze made the chore of cleaning up his mess almost pleasant.
Castoff was a problem, and he silently chided himself for losing control while he wiped down the walls. His actions would do nothing to eliminate the blood evidence but it didn’t concern him. He knew Lucy’s home would eventually become a crime scene but the longer things appeared normal, the better.
Finished cleaning, he took the other bottle of bleach and the trash bag into the bathroom with him. In the shower, he washed himself with the lavender soap he’d smelled on Lucy’s skin and it made him smile. After his shower, he used the bleach to clean the tub and dumped the remainder down the drain. He added his clothing and the soap he’d used to the bag and pulled on a fresh pair of gloves.
Wandering down the hall in a towel, he found the room he knew O’Shea slept in when he was in town. The room was sparse. The only thing that made it Michael’s was a framed photo of Frankie and his parents.
He opened a dresser drawer and found what he was looking for. The jeans were a little long, but they’d do for what he needed. In the closet he found an old sweatshirt and pulled it on before tossing the towel he used into the bag of clothing. Down the hall, the kitchen phone began to ring. Even without the benefit of caller ID, he knew who it was.
Michael O’Shea to the rescue.
The idea of O’Shea as anyone’s savior made him laugh. He ignored the phone but understood what it meant. If O’Shea was worried, he’d find a way to check on her. There was no way of really knowing what Lucy had told him.
Time to finish up and leave.
He swiped the lighter fluid off the counter and emptied it into the bag. He carried the bag into the living room, and set it next to the small, brick fireplace.
He thought of the girl he’d picked out for today. She was a plump little waitress from some backwoods town in Oklahoma. He’d been priming the pump for weeks now, chatting her up, flirting with her. He had her panting after him—one smile was all it’d take to get her to follow him anywhere. Just the thought of her made him sick to his stomach.
She was nothing. Less than nothing, compared to his Melissa. She wouldn’t do … no one else would ever do again. Not now that he knew she was out there.
Finding her wasn’t going to be easy.
He stood at the bookshelf and scanned its contents. He was looking for something … there. It was tucked away, safe, on a high shelf. He picked it up, marveling at how light and delicate it felt in his hand. He’d been there when Lucy gave it to Melissa. A birthday gift—he remembered it like it was yesterday. It was the first day he’d ever seen her up close. The first time he’d ever looked into her eyes and realized she belonged to him. He palmed the treasure and slipped it into the pocket of his borrowed jeans for safekeeping.
Back at the fireplace, he crouched down and removed the screen. There was ash and cold cinder in the hearth. The smell of a recent fire drifted up to his nose. He used the small shovel to clean out some of the ash to make room for the bag. Reaching back, he scraped the shovel toward the front of the fireplace and pulled out what looked like a piece of charred paper. He almost dismissed it as nothing more than kindling, but when he pulled it from the ash, he felt it was a heavier stock than newspaper. It took him a few seconds to realize what he was holding. An envelope. Or at least part of one. Lucy had thrown an envelope into the fire.
He turned it over, eyes darting here and there, looking for anything that would tell him where, or who, it came from. He carried it into the kitchen and found the letter where he’d left it on the counter. He spread it out and laid the charred scrap next to it. The return address was burned away, as was most of Lucy’s, but there was enough to make a comparison.
The handwriting was the same.
He could feel Melissa’s blood pounding away inside him. Guiding him, showing him the way. The scrap was badly burned, but the corner that held the postage stamp was still intact. He rubbed away some of the char and soot, revealing the postmark faintly visible beneath.
San Francisco, California.
He felt a smile spread across his face. He’d found her.
Thirteen
The arrest warrant for Adam Tillman came in while Sabrina and Strickland were eating Chinese takeout at their desks. The minute the paper hit his desk, Strickland jumped up—ready to go. She tossed her carton of Kung Pao in the trash but didn’t move from her seat. As wrong as it was, she’d been hoping their investigation would hit a snag. They’d have their suspect in custody by the end of the day, and she’d have no excuse to use as leverage to squeeze another day’s reprieve out of Richards. This time tomorrow, she’d be on vacation. Just the thought depressed her.
She looked at her watch. It was noon, straight up. Almost five hours since she talked to Nickels, and she hadn’t heard from him since. She debated on whether she should call but decided against it. Hounding him about O’Shea’s records was the wrong thing to do. If Michael was nothing more than a potential blind date, she wouldn’t be so eager to delve into his background.
She was beginning to think he couldn’t help her … or maybe he just didn’t want to. Helping sniff out a potential date for the woman you had the hots for didn’t usually rank high on a guy’s to-do list. As much as she hated it, she had no choice but to wait it out. Calling Nickels only added a layer of complication she didn’t need.
“What’s the matter with you, Vaughn? A warrant comes in, you usually hit the ground running, dragging me behind you.” She looked up at Strickland. He was standing next to her desk, staring at her like she’d just told him she had a contagious disease. What was the matter with her? The list went on and on. “What? Did the extra chili paste in your Kung Pao fry your brain? Warrant. Arrest. Tillman. Now.” He waved the piece of paper in her face. She shot him a dirty look and stood up.
“Keep your panties on. Tillman’s as dumb as they come. He’s not going anywhere.” She retrieved her SIG from the bottom drawer of her desk and clipped the holster to her
waistband, pretending not to notice the look Strickland was giving her. She recognized that she was barely holding herself together, that Strickland could see there was a problem. She hadn’t told him about her forced vacation yet, but he knew something was wrong. She opened her mouth to tell him, but it snapped shut when his face fell into a wary glare.
“What?” She glanced over her shoulder and felt her stomach sink. Behind her, Sanford was steam-training his way through the bullpen, taking the express route toward her desk.
She looked at her partner and slammed the desk drawer closed. The loud bang did nothing to distract him. “Hey. Strickland.” He ignored her. Shit. “Christopher.” She’d never called him by his first name before. The strangeness of it must’ve been what made him look at her. “Not a word. No matter what he says. Got me?”
He looked away from her, continued watching Sanford stalk toward them. He shook his head. “Sorry partner, no promises.”
Double shit. This was going to be a train wreck.
She pushed her chair into her desk and turned around just in time to greet the Sanford Express. He ground to a halt in front of her desk and glared at her.
“What the fuck did you say to Richards?” Several inches taller, he loomed over her, his face a collection of harsh lines and jutting bones, twisted with rage.
Behind him, Sabrina saw Nickels standing in front of a rapidly growing crowd, a grim expression on his face. Of course he’d show up now. He’d probably been dogging Sanford all day, waiting for him to make his move.
Catching her eye, Nickels inclined his head in silent question. Did she want him to intercede? With a barely perceptible shake of her head, she told him no. He conceded, but she could tell it cost him a hell of a lot to keep out of it.
“He asked me if I wanted to lodge a formal complaint against you, and I told him it wasn’t necessary,” she said.
“Bullshit. He suspended me. Three weeks without pay. Three weeks. What the hell am I supposed to do?”
“Maybe you should take the time to get your head straight.” She looked him in the eye, aware almost every badge in the precinct was crammed into the Homicide bullpen, and her desk was the eye of a storm.
Sanford took a step forward, fists clenched. “You still haven’t learned to keep your mouth shut and mind your own fucking business.” He gave her the up-down, letting his eyes travel slowly from her face to her feet. His gaze popped back to her face. “Maybe it’s about time someone taught you a little life lesson.”
She held her ground. It’d take a hell of a lot more than anything Sanford could dish out make her squirm. She didn’t know what she did to attract assholes, but it sure seemed like they found her wherever she went. “You got the last one for free. You swing on me again—I’ll kick your ass.” She gave him the warning in a low tone only he could hear.
“You think you’re so smart, but you’re nothin’ but a dumb bitch with a badge and a raging case of dick-envy.” He drilled his finger into her chest, and it took all she had not to snap it off. She was on thin ice with Richards. The only reason she wasn’t getting the boot was because her paperwork hit his desk, and not Mathews’s. If she lost it in front of the entire department, she was as good as gone. Not even Richards would be able to save her. This job and her family were all she had. She couldn’t afford to lose either one.
“You need to think about what you’re doing,” she said. She wasn’t sure whether she was talking to Sanford or herself.
“Fuck off, Vaughn,” Sanford muttered. “Don’t act like you give a shit, alright?”
“I cared enough to stop that punk from turning your head into a spaghetti strainer,” she said, instantly regretting it. The last thing she needed to do was bring up what happened.
“Who asked you to?” The words were said low—only she heard them, and they set off an alarm. It was suddenly obvious why he’d been so angry. Why he was still angry. She hadn’t saved his life. She’d stopped his suicide.
“Sanford—”
He ignored her. “Why’d you lie to Richards to get me suspended?”
“I never lied. I didn’t have to,” she said and watched his scowl deepen into a snarl.
“Someone told him I was drinking again, which is a lie.” He stepped even closer. Sabrina instinctively dropped her leg back, shifting her weight to the balls of her feet, and waited for him to take a swing. Before he could, the sea of blue parted and Richards waded through, followed by Mathews.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Richards said to Sanford.
Before Sanford could answer, she said, “He was just apologizing for the other day.” She gave Sanford a look, warning him to shut the hell up. “It’s all good. Sanford and I are square.”
Richards looked like he knew he was being fed a line of bullshit, but he swallowed it anyway. “Good. Glad to see you two work it out.”
“Okay, party’s over!” Captain Mathews shouted over the crowd. “If you aren’t assigned to this department, exit now. Everyone else, back to work!” He gave her a frustrated once-over before he stalked back to his office and slammed the door.
“Get out of here,” Richards said to Sanford. He flicked a glance at her and walked away.
Sanford caught the exchange. “This isn’t over,” he said before he backed away from her.
“Yeah, I figured.” She moved around him to follow Richards. She hurried to catch up and she reached out, touched the sergeant’s arm to stop him. “Sarge, wait.”
He turned around and looked as tired as she felt. “Vaughn, it’s done. Leave it alone.”
“Three weeks unpaid? Sir, I told you I was fine. Don’t bounce him out just because he has a big mouth. He’s a good officer, he just—”
He produced a business card. “You’re loyal Vaughn, even to people who don’t deserve it, but this is his shit creek, not yours.” He pushed the card into her hand. “Keep your paddle. You’re gonna need it.” Before she could say another word, he left her standing in the middle of the precinct. She looked down at the card. It belonged to a department therapist. It was like he’d handed her a live snake.
“Hey.”
She jammed the card into her pocket and turned to see Nickels a few feet away. She’d forgotten he was even there, but seeing him stirred up a whole different set of problems. He motioned her to follow him. She shot a look at Strickland, found him leaning against her desk, staring at her. He gave the warrant a shake: Can we do some police work now? She held up a finger and nodded. He threw his hands in the air and took a seat at her desk, kicking his feet up on its top. He gave her a shit-eating grin that raised her hackles. He knew she hated it when he put his feet on her desk.
She turned her back on her partner and followed Nickels. They walked down the hall toward Homicide’s interview rooms. He pulled her into an alcove housing a few vending machines and an industrial-size coffee urn.
Nickels gave her a long, hard look. “You want to tell me what’s really going on?”
She forced herself to hold his gaze. “What are you talking about? Sanford? You tell me. You’re the one who got Richards all riled up this morning—”
“Fuck Sanford. Don’t play dumb, Vaughn. It’s insulting.” He sounded angry, but it was more than that. She held onto her bluff and said nothing. He laughed—a nasty, pissed-off sound.
“Okay. Fine. I’m talking about Michael O’Shea. Ring a bell?”
“What about him? I told you it was no big deal. If you can’t drum anything up, then whatever. I really didn’t want to go out with him anyway,” she said. She was digging herself a hole but there was no turning back now.
“Really? Okay, you want to cut me out? Go ahead, but let me tell you how it went down. I called a friend, who called a friend, who called a friend that’s still in the service—I drop O’Shea’s name, and it’s all good. One minute we’re bullshitting about baseball, waiting for his
computer to catch up, and the next I’m told there’s no file available. I ask the guy to run it again, just in case, and he puts me on hold. After fifteen minutes, I figure I’m getting the Army shuffle, and I hang up. Five minutes after that, my cell rings.”
“Who was it?” she said, suddenly sure she didn’t want to know.
“I don’t have a clue, but I can tell you whoever it was, wasn’t Army. I’m told my inquiries are unwelcome and further investigation will result in immediate and unpleasant consequences. Now, I’m going to ask you again. What the hell is going on?”
It felt like all the air had been sucked out of the alcove they were standing in. What the hell was happening? Who was Michael O’Shea? What had he become?
Whatever was going on, she needed to end Nickels’s involvement. Now.
“Huh. Guess my mystery date was a dud. Oh well, thanks for trying.” She moved around him and went for the coffee. She’d already downed a gallon of the stuff today, but she needed something to keep her hands busy.
“Dud isn’t the word I’d use. Scary son of a bitch might be closer to the truth.” Nickels reached out and grabbed her by her arm before she reached the coffee. He gave her arm a small yank. “Damn it, Sabrina. Talk to me.”
She looked down at where he held her arm and deliberately raised her gaze to his to give him a warning look. “Don’t,” she said and slowly pulled her arm out of his grasp.
“Shit.” He took a step back and squeezed his eyes shut for a second, the picture of frustration. “I’m sorry. I just—”
“Don’t be. Sorry if I got you jammed up.”
“I’m not jammed up—”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“I wasn’t jammed up. I was shut down. Forcibly. Threats were insinuated. You’re not stupid, Sabrina. Quit acting like you don’t know what I’m talking about.” He laughed again at the blank look she gave him and took a step away from her, hands in the air. “Okay, I surrender. You want to play it that way? Fine. But whoever this Michael O’Shea is to you, be smart and stay away from him.” Then he was gone.
Carved in Darkness Page 7
