Carved in Darkness

by Maegan Beaumont

  Fourteen

  It had been over an hour since he’d talked to Tom and still no word. Michael was beginning to worry he’d sent him into a situation he couldn’t handle. He was just a regular guy. Hell, his idea of home defense was a Louisville Slugger. Not someone he’d prefer to send into a potentially dangerous situation, but there was no one else to call. When his phone rang, he answered it without hesitation, but it wasn’t Tom.

  “Tell me something—are you out of your fucking mind?” It was his friend Lark.

  He stifled a sigh of frustration. The last thing he needed was Lark’s dramatics. “It probably depends on who you ask.”

  “I’m being serious, asshole. This whole Charles Bronson, Death Wish thing you got going on is beginning to wear thin,” Lark said.

  He began to pace, in no mood to play. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Does the name Devon Nickels mean anything to you?” Lark said.

  Michael stopped pacing. He knew Sabrina would come after him. He just hadn’t counted on her being this creative or resourceful. He figured she’d just pull his juvi record and make a few calls. Maybe track down a few of his old probation officers, maybe even call his Aunt Gina. Instead, she’d sicced her ex-soldier boyfriend on him. He was impressed. He hadn’t even known she remembered he’d been in the military. He wasn’t someone she used to pay much attention to.

  “Should it?” He’d play it careful until he knew more.

  “No? I’m sorry, how about Staff Sergeant Devon Nickels. He was an armory gunner in the Gulf.” Michael said nothing. Lark was baiting him, but he wasn’t biting. “Still don’t know him? Huh … that’s weird, because he knows you. He flagged your service jacket this morning,” Lark said, practically biting each word in half.

  Too bad there was nothing to flag. His records were locked down. Gaining access would take a hell of a lot more juice than Staff Sergeant Devon Nickels could muster.

  “Look, Lark—I don’t have time to play around.” He looked at his watch. Where the hell was Tom? “If you’ve got something to say, just spit it out.”

  “When I agreed to this crazy Lucy and Ethel scheme of yours, I distinctly remember you telling me contact would be kept to a bare minimum.” Lark knew about Frankie and, for reasons Michael couldn’t figure out, had offered to help find the man that killed her. He also knew about Sabrina and had been instrumental in keeping tabs on her.

  “She made me this morning.”

  “You’ve been doggin’ this chick for over a month now and all of a sudden you get made? Give me a break O’Shea—you’re better than that.”

  “We had a … situation. It’s no big deal. Everything is under control.” The lie came as easy as breathing.

  “It better be, because if your girl keeps sniffing around, we’re all in trouble. And when I say trouble, I mean dead.”

  He didn’t have to elaborate. The organization he and Lark worked for was very sensitive when it came to information—any information—being made public.

  His phone buzzed. He had another call. It was Tom.

  “I’ll take care of it, don’t worry. Gotta go.”

  “Goddamn it, O’Sh—”

  He clicked over to Tom. “What do you see?” he said.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary. Her car is gone, and there’s a note on the door. It says she drove to Shreveport to see her sister.”

  The note did little to put him at ease. Lucy’d been using the same three or four notes over and over. She kept them in a kitchen drawer by the door. If she left, she just fished out the appropriate one—gone to town, gone to church, gone to Shreveport—and clipped it to her screen door with a clothespin.

  “What’s going on, man?” Tom said.

  “I called her, and she didn’t answer.” At least that much was true.

  Tom laughed. “Come on, Mikey. You know how much she hates the phone.”

  “It’s the first of October. She wouldn’t ignore me. Not today.”

  Silence settled across the line while the implications sank in. October first wasn’t just another day for either of them.

  “Do you want me to go in?” Tom said. He wasn’t surprised Tom knew where she kept her spare key—shit, half the county knew. Lucy did mending and alterations out of the house she now lived in. If you wanted to pick up or drop off things to be fixed or altered when she wasn’t going to be home, the answer was always the same—“The spare key is under the potted daisy.” He often wondered why she bothered to lock her door at all.

  “No.” If something was wrong, having Tom go inside would be disastrous. He’d leave all kinds of prints while potentially contaminating any real evidence that might’ve been left. The police chief would have Tom in a cell before sundown. Shit. He sat on the bed and rubbed a rough hand over his face. He couldn’t believe what he was about to say …

  “You’re going to have to call Carson.”

  Silence stretched out for a few seconds. “You can’t be serious.” From the sound of Tom’s voice, Lark wasn’t the only one who thought he was insane. He dropped the phone to his shoulder for a moment. He couldn’t tell Tom why he was worried. He couldn’t tell him anything. He lifted the phone to his ear.

  “I am. Do it,” he said.

  “You don’t think—”

  “I think we need to find Lucy. She could be in trouble, and he’s the only one who might be able to help her.” He understood Tom’s feelings about Jed Carson—he harbored a few of his own—but he couldn’t let them get in the way. Not when it might mean Lucy’s life.

  “What if he’s the one who hurt her?” Tom said exactly what he’d been thinking. Jed Carson, Jessup’s police chief, just happened to be Michael’s number one suspect in his sister’s murder.

  Fifteen

  The picture of fifteen-year-old O’Shea popped up on Sabrina’s screen along with the mile-long list of juvenile offenses. She hit Print.

  She was out for at least a week. Probably two. This was her only chance to gather whatever information she could about him. She’d go over it at home, hopefully find something she missed.

  “You’re killin’ me, Vaughn. Tillman’s stewing in the tank. We found the murder weapon and the shoes he wore that night. Dumb shit never stood a chance.” Strickland threw up his hands and mimicked a three-point swish.

  She laughed. When they finally got there to serve the warrant, Tillman didn’t answer. Big surprise. She’d gone around to cover the back of the house and caught sight of Tillman’s size ten slipping over the neighbor’s fence. She’d chased him down while Strickland followed by car. When he finally caught up to her, she had Tillman pinned against the block wall she’d pulled him off of. Their suspect was cuffed and Mirandized before Strickland had even thrown it in Park. “By the way, I love the way you toss the term we around so loosely,” she said, but she was joking. She didn’t mind doing the footwork. She didn’t run eight miles a day for nothing.

  “Hey, I’m the brains of this outfit—you’re the muscle.” He grinned when she rolled her eyes. “Seriously, let me buy you a beer. I owe you one.”

  “I can’t. Sorry, partner.”

  “Okay, how about you owe me.” On their way back to the station, guilt got the better of her. So she’d told him about her “forgotten” vacation. He’d been less than pleased and now seemed hell-bent on taking full advantage of her guilt.

  “I did the arrest report and cleaned your desk. What more do you want?” she said, gesturing toward his now empty desk.

  “Doesn’t count. You always do that,” he said, shuffling papers into a folder in a half-hearted attempt to look organized. “Come on, you can insult me the entire time just so I don’t get the wrong idea and assume you might actually like me.” He stood to pull his suit jacket up his arm and across his shoulders.

  His offer reminded her she was supposed to have drinks wit
h Nickels. As angry with her as he was the last time she saw him, she seriously doubted he’d even speak to her, let alone allow her to buy him a beer.

  “I can’t. It’s taco night, I’m on cheese-grating duty,” she said. Michael’s juvenile arrest record sat in the printer tray, waiting for her to retrieve it. Which she couldn’t do with Strickland breathing down her neck. He knew something was going on with her, and he knew it went far beyond what happened with Sanford. He’d been shooting her looks all day, like he wanted to say something but kept deciding against it. She had the feeling asking her to go for a drink was his way of getting her into a more relaxed environment so he could pick her brain.

  He looked at her and cocked his head to the side. “I’m trying to envision you in a Betty Crocker apron and a shoulder holster.” He righted his head and shook it. “I can’t see it.”

  “Which is why I’m the designated chopper, grater, and slicer,” she said. “Sometimes, Val lets me stir.” She popped her collar, and he laughed.

  “You’ll make someone a wonderful cop someday.” He switched off his computer. “Last chance … ”

  She just smiled and shook her head, silently urging him to leave. They’d just closed their case and hadn’t caught another. There was no legitimate reason for her to print anything. If she pulled the file while he was still there, he’d want to know what she was working on. He’d pester and insist on being let into the loop. Michael O’Shea was one loop he was safer being kept out of.

  Muttering something about bullshit and pantywaists, he pushed his chair in. He stopped for a minute, glared at his newly cleaned desk, and shook his head. “You won’t be here tomorrow.”

  “Nope.”

  “You know what this means, don’t you?”

  “You’re gonna have to do your own paperwork?”

  “Exactly. How friggin’ depressing.”

  “I’ll be back before you know it. Go, drown your sorrows. Have a few for me.” She waved him off. Just as he turned to leave, a uniform dropped by her desk to let her know Sanford had been spotted in the parking lot. The news stopped Strickland dead in his tracks.

  She gave him a vague smile. “Go on, I can get one of the guys to walk me out,” she said.

  “Yeah, you could.” He plopped down in his chair and leaned back. “But you won’t.”

  “Really, Strickland—”

  “I’m not leaving this building without you,” he said, his tone stubborn enough to give her pause.

  She stood up. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

  He just stared at her.

  “I’m not afraid of Sanford.” The petty insistence she heard in her own voice was like an ice pick in her ear.

  Strickland nodded. “Yeah, I know.” He laced his fingers together before propping them behind his head. The definition of I’m not going anywhere. “Which makes you bat shit crazy.” It was no secret Sanford fought dirty; how he’d managed to hang onto his badge was a mystery.

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “Yup, I know that, too.” He looked at her and smiled. “But I’m your partner, which means I’m watching your back whether you want me to or not. Now, are you going to walk or am I pulling a caveman and dragging your ass out of here?”

  In the three months they’d been partners, she’d come to know that look. He’d sit there all night rather than leave without her. “Fine. You win. But touch me, and I break something important.” She scooped up O’Shea’s file and jammed it into her bag before shouldering it.

  He watched her swipe the papers off the printer tray. “What’s that?”

  “None of your business, Lancelot.” His coddling was almost more than she could stand.

  He gave her a deadpan expression. “Perhaps you’re confused about how a partnership is supposed to work—let me break it down for you. We help each other. Trust each other.” He leaned forward in his chair and glared up at her. “We tell each other when we decide to commit career suicide and pursue suspects off the clock.” He delivered the last line in a low tone meant for her ears only.

  Her stomach did a slow roll, tickling her tonsils on the upswing. “What are you talking about?” she said, but it was useless. Strickland was a pit bull. Once he caught the investigative scent, there was no shaking him. It was what made him so good at his job.

  “You’re good. Really good, but I know you lied to me this morning about the junior dirtbag you were checking out on your computer.” He smiled and pointed at her. “I don’t know what you’re doing.” He stopped smiling. “But whatever it is, I know you shouldn’t be doing it alone.”

  “I told you—”

  “A lie. I know this because I refreshed the search history on your computer while you were off playing grab-ass with Nickels. That kid you were running background on is thirty-five years old,” he said without an ounce of remorse.

  “You did what?” Her tone was loud, and she cast a quick glance around the room. Several of the remaining inspectors were openly staring at them. Just get him out of here before he really starts running his mouth. “Get up, let’s go. People are staring.”

  He stood and gave her a look that said after you and fell into step behind her, herding her toward the elevator. Once the doors slid shut, she turned on him. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  “I think I’m your partner. And I think you’re in trouble.”

  She scoffed. “Trouble? Really? Jump to conclusions much?” She shoved her hands in her pockets and rocked back onto the heels of her boots.

  “Okay then. Let me look at the file. What was his name? Michael O’Shea? If it doesn’t have his name on it, I’ll let it go.” He nodded and rolled his eyes when she didn’t move. “Right. Trouble. Capital T.”

  “You’re wrong.” She couldn’t even look at him.

  “I’m wrong? I might look like a mouth-breather, but I’m a fucking bloodhound when it comes to this shit. I know something is going on with you. You’ve been on edge for weeks now. At first I chalked it up to us working out the new-partner kinks. And then I thought maybe it was that shit with Sanford.” He leaned against the wall of the elevator and crossed his arms over his chest. “But that’s not it, either.” He jerked his head toward her bag. “Whatever’s going on, I’d bet my pension it’s got everything to do with that file full of nothing you shoved in your bag.”

  “Why do you even care?” she said.

  He looked at her like she’d slapped him in the face. “I don’t know what pisses me off more: the fact you’d have the balls to ask me that, or that you genuinely don’t know the answer.”

  “What I do on my own time is my business, not yours.” God, she was such a bitch.

  He opened his mouth like he was about to say something but clamped it shut and looked away from her. He worked his jaw, like he was chewing on a mouthful of words he wanted to spit out. Finally, he looked at her again. “You’re right. Your personal life isn’t any of my business. But if I were in trouble and pulling a sphinx? You’d ride me till I caved, and don’t try to tell me otherwise.”

  “There is no trouble. The file means nothing. He means nothing.” She looked at him, that familiar tightening in her chest making it hard to look him in the eye.

  “People don’t lie over nothing, and you know it.” He made it easy on her by averting his eyes for a moment but when he glanced back at her, he looked more hurt than angry.

  She suppressed the urge to reach out and shake him until his teeth rattled. “You need to let it go, Strickland.” For your own safety. The military wasn’t usually in the business of scrubbing the records of its discharged soldiers. Whatever Michael O’Shea was into, it was dangerous. Too dangerous to let her partner get mixed up it in.

  “Sorry. Not gonna happen.”

  “I don’t need—”

  “Yeah, I know. You don’t need me in your business. Well, tough s
hit because that’s exactly where I am.” He leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. “When things get crazy, I know I can count on you. You’ve got my back. You just won’t let me get yours. That doesn’t work for me.” She could tell it was something he’d wanted to say to her for a while. She looked away. She’d been about to say, I don’t need to worry about you too.

  She lifted her shoulder in a half-assed shrug. “I’ve got some personal stuff going on right now. But it’s not something I want to talk about.” It’s not something I can talk about.

  Strickland studied her face for a moment and relaxed. “That’s the first truthful thing you’ve said to me all day,” he said. He uncrossed his arms and nodded. “I can take a lot of shit, Vaughn. Being lied to isn’t one of them.”

  When she made Homicide, Sabrina told herself it didn’t matter who they stuck her with. That she didn’t care. Suddenly, she realized she cared a great deal. Strickland was close to her age and still had the drive needed to solve cases. He cared—not only about the people they tried to help but about the people he worked with. She couldn’t have asked for a better partner, but she couldn’t change who she was, and telling him the truth about Michael was out of the question. She nodded and dropped her gaze. “I’m not good at relying on people.”

  “I get that, but if this partnership is going to work, you’re gonna have to try, ” he said.

  “Okay,” she said, and his face lost its pissed-off look. For fifteen years, lies had been her stock and trade. She didn’t remember telling the truth being this hard.

  The elevator dinged and the doors slid open on a deserted lobby. As soon as they reached the parking lot, he nipped her keys out of her hand. She let him open her door and check the back seat. “Wanna call the bomb squad?” she said.

  “Nah, Sanford isn’t the bomb-making type,” he said, moving aside so she could slide behind the wheel. “See, quick and painless.” He shut her door and handed her the keys.