“Yeah, I was being an asshole,” he says. “Just wait around. That part of me will come back any minute.”
“I can help,” Sean says, standing up.
Tobias looks over at me and I can read his expression.
“I know, I know,” I say. “The asshole is back. Let’s put him to work.”
* * *
The other policemen have dispersed to deal with their own cases—I suspect it’s partly to avoid being in the library—so it’s just Tobias, Sean, and me in the library’s conference room. Even though there’s significantly fewer people in here than before and we’re evenly spread out—I’m at one end of the long steel table in the center of the room, Sean is on the other end, and Tobias is in the middle—it still feels crowded and I swear I can feel the testosterone raising the temperature several degrees.
Since our last victim had a case in a courtroom, I figured our best chance to find the next victim is to look at legal cases involving property, cheating spouses and others that could be considered to involve thievery. If we happen to stumble upon the right case, it will all be worth it.
Unfortunately, I hadn’t realized how many court cases we would have to go through and we have only looked at ones that went to court in the last month.
“Okay, here’s an interesting one,” I say, pointing to the documents in front of me. “This guy alleged that his wife was cheating on him, which would make it so he wouldn’t have to pay alimony, but he could never prove it. Later, though, his wife proved that this guy was cheating on her with a stripper and had solicited sex from multiple prostitutes. Apparently, this guy was a pillar of the church, so that sounds like the kind of hypocrisy our killer would love.”
“That could be it,” Tobias says, browsing a different case. “But he wouldn’t be the victim—if the killer was choosing anybody to crucify, it would be the stripper or the prostitutes since—if we have to look at it this way—he already belonged to somebody else.”
“True,” I agree. “But a stripper and prostitutes would still be in this guy’s lane.”
“How about this case, though?” Sean asks. “This man—Jerry Pickford—had a property dispute with the church next door. The pastor of that church accused Pickford of using his two dogs, a Doberman and a Rottweiler, to frighten patrons of the church after the church refused to allow him to build a fence on what they considered part of their land. That would make Pickford the one who desires something he doesn’t have.”
“Unless it’s the church who is lying about where their property line ends,” Tobias says. “I have a case over here where a guy stole several sheep from a farmer. That could be seen as religious—the whole thing with Jesus being a shepherd. Maybe the killer sees some metaphor with Christians losing their religion to sheep being stolen.”
“That’s a very vague connection,” Sean says.
“Are you willing to risk this guy’s life just because it doesn’t have an obvious connection to religion?” Tobias counters.
“We can send officers to talk to all of these defendants,” I say. “It’s fine. We’ll figure out if any of them have had someone stalking them or any threatening messages. We’ll figure out what happened in their cases. The killer seems to be focusing on the police now, so hopefully he’ll be too distracted to find his last victim for awhile.”
“I’ll call some of the officers and tell them to check these people out,” Sean says. Tobias and I hand our cases to him. He leaves the room, closing the door tightly behind him.
“We can’t be certain that this will be his last victim,” Tobias says. “For all we know, he’ll begin killing in order of the Ten Commandments all over again. He could begin a whole new set of rules for himself. This guy—The Son—isn’t a sane person. We can’t assume anything.”
“I’m not assuming anything,” I say. “I just meant the last victim of this set of rules he’s made now. We’re not going to let him kill another person. We’re going to catch him.”
“Your optimism is charming, but ineffective if you’re not prepared.”
“We haven’t failed before, Tobias,” I say.
“At least not in our professional life,” he mutters. Before I can respond, his phone rings. He answers it. “Hello? Great…okay…can you spell that out? …Right. So, why is that important?”
He jots notes down on one of the manila folders in front of him and hangs up. He looks back up at me.
“So, apparently Lucas’s body had something that the forensic technicians thought was weird. It’s called polyurethane. It has multiple uses, including being used for car seats, furniture, sealants for construction jobs, surfboards, varnish, and wheels. They thought it was too much to be a coincidence and it was only in places like his arms where the killer would have come into contact with him. There was barely any on his hands, so…our killer likely has a blue-collar job. It doesn’t make our suspect pool manageable, but it at least makes it smaller.”
I stand up. “Good. I’ll go tell Sean that. It might slim down who we should concentrate on for our defendants.”
I rush to the door, not giving him time to respond. I know what he heard—I’ll go tell Sean—and he’ll see it as some kind of condemnation against him. He’ll think that I prefer to go to our Captain instead of talking to my partner, but it’s really just that Sean is my boss and he’s the one telling the other officers where to go. At least, that’s the reason I tell myself.
I nearly bump into Sean as I turn around the corner. He grabs my upper arms, steadying me. It makes me think of what the forensic technicians must have seen on Lucas—it was only in places like his arms where the killer would have come into contact with him—but it also makes me think of what it feels like to be held and cared for.
“Sorry,” he says. “I’m not good at slowing down. There should be an express lane in here.”
“Tobias just got a call from one of the forensic technicians,” I say, ignoring his comment—his undeniable charm. “They found something called poly…polyurethane, I think. They found enough of it on our victim—except for his hands—for there to be a strong possibility that it was transferred from the killer’s body to the victim’s. We need to look for people who work in construction, the manufacturing of furniture or cars, including people who just work on certain parts of cars like tires or seats, and people who use varnish, and people who build surfboards.”
“That’s a good chunk of the population in Detroit,” he says. “But I’ll keep it in mind. But, now that we’re alone, I wanted to ask you something.”
“Is it about my parents again?” I ask. “Because that’s really not the happiest conversation piece for me.”
He smiles. “No, sorry about that. I didn’t mean to push you into talking about something you don’t want to talk about, but I was just so fascinated that we had this moment in our histories that connected us. But, no, my question is if you want to get dinner tonight.”
“You’ve already asked me this before,” I say.
“I know,” he says. “But now we’ve talked a couple more times.”
I shake my head. “You’re my boss.”
“I also know that,” he says. “I’m full of knowledge that way. But that rule about not dating your boss, it’s kind of like jaywalking. Nobody really cares. Lauren, don’t worry about it. Forget that I even asked. I just thought we had something between us, but like I said, I don’t want to pressure you into something you don’t want to do. It was selfish of me to ask, but I just find you to be…incredible. I’m going to walk away now and, hopefully, I’ll forget this slightly embarrassing moment ever happened.”
He leaves the library, the door closing behind him. I feel heat rising under my skin and also a sense of unease. I can’t start dating again this soon after my break-up with Tobias—I don’t even want to. But Sean is a breath of new air and it feels nice to simply be able to breathe.
Chapter Five
Tobias
Original Mercy Church is one of the plainest churche
s in Detroit. It’s made of oak or some similar kind of wood and, unlike most churches around here, there isn’t some kind of spire to make it seem taller. It’s a humble church, which honestly makes me like it a bit more than any other church I’ve seen.
And right beside this church is a house that looks a lot like an oversized outhouse. It’s made of some kind of dark wood, there aren’t any windows in the front, the door looks like a mash of planks, and the whole house seems to be sinking into the earth.
I envy people with normal 9-to-5 jobs sometimes.
I knock on the house’s door. It opens a few seconds later. Jerry Pickford is a skinny man with oversized glasses and I have to assume he’s wearing a sweater with a large smiley face crocheted into it for irony’s sake.
“Hello. You’re Jerry Pickford, aren’t you?” I ask.
“I am,” he says. “I’m sorry, but I really hope you’re not another member of Original Mercy Church. I have no need to be yelled at or prayed for. I’m Christian and I really don’t think God is going to send me to Hell for being willing to stand up for what is rightfully mine.”
“Uh, no,” I say. “I’m not part of the church. I’m Detective Rodriguez. I just need to ask you a few questions.”
“Really?” he asks. “The church hired a detective?”
“No,” I say. “I’m here for something completely different. Well, it may be slightly relevant to your legal case, but not directly.”
He shrugs. “Ask what you need to ask, but I only have about five minutes before I need to get to work.”
I look him up and down. “Uh, can I ask where you work?”
“I do art restoration at Intricate Life,” he says. He gestures at his sweater. “Nobody ever sees me, so they don’t care what I look like and I do my best to take advantage of that.”
“I see,” I say, though I don’t at all. If nobody ever saw me for my job, I’d still never wear that sweater. “Anyway, I wanted to ask if you have noticed anybody following you or any other weird occurrences lately?”
He snorts. “Are you kidding? If you know about the church, you must know that they aren’t just going to leave me alone. I’ve had Bible verses painted onto my garage. I’ve had people knocking on my door all of the time to shout at me about how I’m a selfish pagan or atheist or that they’re going to pray for me because they think I’m going to Hell. I’ve felt like people are watching me at times, but that kind of happens when you file a lawsuit against a church.”
“Have you filed a complaint about what they’re doing?” I ask.
“Of course I have, but nobody cares because they think I’m just trying to win the lawsuit.” He gestures at the church as people begin to pour out. “Great. You can be here to witness this because I’m sure a few will come over and shout some curses at me. They’re very Christian like that.”
As I glance over, a man with bright blond hair catches my eye. It’s Peter, with Lauren’s grandmother. He must sense me staring because he turns in my direction. I wonder if he was born blind or if he has some instinct from when he still had sight to look toward something he wants to see. I thank God for his blindness—a terrible thing for me to do, but I can’t stop my need for self-preservation—until Lauren’s grandmother follows his gaze and sees me too. She waves. I wave back.
I can’t just ignore them. Lauren’s grandmother already dislikes me. I find her dislike of me a bit overly judgmental considering she’s been married three times, but if I ever want Lauren back, I have to stay in the good graces of her remaining two family members.
“Well, thank you,” I tell Jerry Pickford. “If you could tell the police what’s been happening, it’s still good to have a record of it somewhere. Somebody might be back later to ask you some questions. When are you finished with work?”
“I usually get home around seven or eight,” he says.
“Great,” I say. “Again, thank you for your time. I’m sorry about your situation.”
I turn and walk over toward Lauren’s grandmother and Peter.
“Hey, Peter, hi, Mrs. Moore,” I say, stopping in front of them. “What are you two doing here?”
“This is our church,” Peter says, gesturing to Original Mercy Church. “What are you doing here?”
“Investigating,” I say. I nod toward Jerry’s house. “I’m guessing you know about your church’s problem with Jerry Pickford?”
“Yes, it’s a bit ridiculous,” Peter says. “The church should have just allowed him to build the fence on our side of the property. We don’t use the yard that often, so it makes no sense to be so combative about it.”
“Maybe,” I say. “I don’t know too much about the case.”
“Where’s Lauren?” Mrs. Moore asks. “I haven’t seen her since my birthday. Is she working too hard?”
“She’s working really hard,” I say. “Do you guys not know what happened yesterday?”
“Yesterday?” Mrs. Moore asks. “What do you mean?”
“A crucified body was behind her apartment building,” I say. “She didn’t tell you?”
Mrs. Moore nearly falls in shock. Peter must sense her shock because he grabs her, managing to expertly find her arm, and steadies her.
“What? I can’t believe she wouldn’t call us. Where is she staying? Is she staying with you? That’s not really proper, but why would this serial killer do that? Is this killer obsessed with her like that other killer was, the one obsessed with video games?” she asks.
“I don’t think so,” I say. “It happened last night, so I don’t know where she’s going to stay tonight.”
“Why wouldn’t she stay with you?” Mrs. Moore asks.
“Apparently, she didn’t tell you that we broke up a few days ago,” I say.
She gapes at me. “No!” she nearly shouts. “She didn’t tell us any of this! I’m going to have to call her.”
She pulls out her phone and walks away from Peter and me.
“So, any other news about my half-sister I should know?” Peter asks.
“I think our boss, Captain Hotchens, is interested in her. And she might be interested in him,” I say.
“Ouch,” he says. “Don’t worry about it, Tobias. I have a feeling you two will end up together. This is just a bump in the road.”
“I’m pretty sure something isn’t a bump if it lasts this long. It’s more like the car that represents our relationship has driven straight into the ocean and it’s not going to come back out.”
“It’s just a cliché,” he says. “But I still think that’s all it is. One day, you two will be an old couple, laughing about this moment.”
But he’s wrong. I can feel my life shifting underneath my feet. Something terrible has entered our lives and it’s not going to leave until there’s such a deep wound in our relationship that it would take a miracle for it to survive.
And speaking of wounded relationships, I should be driving to go see my father right now.
* * *
Lauren: It’s all good. We’re just checking the other lawsuits all day. Give your father my well wishes.
I slide my phone into my jacket pocket, my finger tracing around it as I gaze around the room filled with families and couples reuniting for “Family Day” at Thousand Polaris Rehabilitation. Some of the residents of the rehab look thrilled to see their families while the others appear sullen and annoyed. My father hasn’t appeared yet—I assume he’s still in one of the rooms—which, quite honestly, makes me feel aggravated because my mother has been twisting her hands since she got into my car for the drive over, and I’m afraid that she’s going to rub her skin right off.
“It’s okay, Mom,” I assure her, though I’m not sure what she’s nervous about. That her husband has changed? That he hasn’t changed? That he and I will get into an argument like we always do and embarrass her?
The air in the room seems to thicken and I can’t seem to get enough air in my lungs. That’s how I know he’s here. I gaze across the room, searching as if I’m t
rying to find a killer, but instead my eyes land on my father.
His hair is combed back and parted, which he hasn’t done since he retired, and he’s wearing black pants with a blue button-up t-shirt. He looks more composed than I’ve ever seen him.
But that doesn’t mean he’s changed.
He strides over to us. As soon as he’s within a foot of my mother, he opens his arms and embraces her.
“Kate, you look good,” he says, taking a step back. “A bit tired though. The neighbor’s dog hasn’t still been bothering you, has he?”
“No,” she says, blushing like she’s a freshman that caught the attention of a senior in high school. “They’ve kept him quiet through the night.”
He turns to me and takes a step forward, as if he’s going to hug me, but stops and thrusts out his hand instead. I shake it.
“Tobias,” he says. “It’s good to see you. How’s work going?”
“It’s…hectic,” I say.
“I heard about the bomb,” he says. “I’m glad you got out safe.”
I nod. He’s polite, though it still feels like there’s a wall between us. Maybe this is the best that our relationship will get. I’ll never have the TV sitcom father, but this is reality. Sometimes people aren’t meant to be paternal.
Like father, like son.
“Thank you,” I say.
He gestures over his shoulder. “In half an hour, we’re all supposed to convene here for a speech and then we all share stories about recoveries and everyone talks about their feelings, but right now, we’re just supposed to spend time together.”
“We can do whatever you want, David,” my mother says.
“I was actually wondering if I could talk to Tobias privately for a few minutes,” he says.
I raise an eyebrow. Usually, my father and I avoid being alone together. The people in our lives have acted as a buffer and prevented us from saying the uglier things we want to say.
“Of course,” she says. She points to the entrance doors. “I’ll just be outside, checking out the garden. It looks like they have some unique specimens out there.”
Vengeance of the Son (A Trinity of Death Romantic Suspense Series Book 3) Page 4
