She listened to his tirade and eased up on the gas. Her knuckles were white against the steering wheel, so she loosened her grip as well. She hadn’t even considered how this all might affect Silas. He was Death, after all. She never imagined a Grim Reaper with emotions before. At least, not very real, very human ones.
“I’m sorry,” she finally said. “I hadn’t thought about how this whole thing might make you feel. Still, now we have two dead women. The question is whether they are related.”
“Possible, but somehow I doubt it,” he said, looking out the passenger window at the night enshrouded trees as they zoomed past. “Andrea Alvarez, I still believe, was a random casualty of the Hand of Cain. Courtney Abeling, on the other hand, was a deliberate assassination. Probably because she knew the person in possession of it.”
“Swell. So, we have two killers to hunt down now. It would have been nice if the person who killed Andrea was the same as the one who killed Courtney.”
“The M.O. isn’t even close. Whoever killed Andrea was going for the sensational. Nude on the beach with a knife sticking out of her back that didn’t kill her. This new murder was the spitting image of efficiency. There was no showmanship to it at all. Two murders by two very different hands.”
She had to admit, his logic was sound.
“Okay. Are you sure you can’t just divine up answers to this stuff with your magic Death powers?”
He offered a sad laugh. “If I could do that, there would have been no need to enter your world and solve these murders. I could have used my ‘magic’, as you call it, and simply removed the one who possesses the Hand. Even in the spirit realm, my knowledge is limited. Here, in this form, I’m mostly just like you. Only difference is I have knowledge of the spiritual world and its inner-workings that you don’t.”
“So that’s a no.”
He smiled. She really did like that smile. It was a good smile, even when it was sad.
She glanced at the clock on her dashboard. Almost five in the morning. Spencer Blakely would be at the newspaper by now preparing for deliveries of the morning edition. She slowed to a near stop in the road and made a careful U-turn to head back to town. Time to make Mr. Death a happy camper and go talk to their number one suspect in the Andrea Alvarez murder.
30
THE SUMMER HAVEN CHRONICLER
FRIDAY, 5:33 AM
“Are you saying we can arrest him, even though we still don’t know exactly how Andrea was killed?” Silas asked as she pulled into the parking lot of the newspaper.
The building glowed from the inside; its glaring fluorescent lighting shined through the large pane windows like a lantern in a pitch-black cavern. A swarm of moths and mosquitoes hovered in thick clouds near the entrance.
“We can’t charge him yet. I have to wait for the state attorney to give me authorization for that.” She smiled and hoped it looked devious. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t take him down to the station for a few hours to sweat him out while we search his office and residence for evidence.”
“You think we have enough for warrants?”
They got out of the car and started making their way to the front entrance.
“I was thinking about this last night before bed. You and I both know what we’ll find when we take a look in that display case in his office. I think that’ll be enough to convince a judge.”
His perpetual grin widened. “So, you do like him for the murder?”
“He’s the one who makes the most sense.” She took hold of the front door and pulled, but it wouldn’t budge. “Crap. Locked.”
She placed her hands against the glass and peered inside. No one, not even the spritely elderly receptionist was within view.
“Chances are they’re in the back at the loading bay,” she said, walking toward the corner of the building. “Delivery drivers and such would be back there for their morning paper run. I’m betting that’s where we’ll find Blakely.”
The two crept toward the back of the building. When they’d been inside the newspaper two days earlier, Becca had noticed security monitors in his office, watching the exterior of the building with electronic eyes. If the journalist had been anywhere near the monitors when she and Silas pulled into the parking lot, there was no doubt in her mind he’d know why they were there.
Becca kept her hand near the holster of her weapon, just in case the journalist decided to surprise them. As they approached the rear of the building, something dashed out from the corner of her eye. Instinctively, she drew her gun, but it was unnecessary. A shadowy figure bolted away from the loading bay, running toward a privacy fence on the far end of the property. Becca took off after him, running at full speed.
“Becca, wait!” She heard Silas calling after her but was too focused to process the words and continued her pursuit.
It was too dark to get a good look at whoever was fleeing from her, but she guessed it was Blakely. He came up to the fence and went into a running slide, feet first, and scrambled under a gap between the fencing and the ground. It was a move she would have never imagined an overweight middle-aged man like Blakely capable of making.
“Crap, crap, crap!” She hated runners. She ruined more uniforms because of them.
She followed the figure under the fence, came to her feet, and looked around to see a cozy little residential neighborhood nestled behind the newspaper’s office. She recognized it.
Clairmont Heights.
But knowing where she was offered no benefit to her. The runner was nowhere to be seen.
Becca had patrolled the little subdivision a few times. She knew the roads, but not well enough to be aware of all the potential hiding spots an absconder might use to elude the police.
“Dispatch, this is Unit 101.” She breathed heavily into the radio mic fastened to her collar. She’d let herself get out of shape since taking over the chief’s position. It was something she’d need to rectify. “I need two units to respond to Clairmont Heights.” She looked around for street signs, then added. “Have them meet me at the corner of Lexington and Hamilton.”
“10-4,” replied the dispatcher. “Units are 10-50x to you now.”
Units were en route with emergency lights running for a faster response time. Good.
She tried catching her breath as she searched the sleeping neighborhood. A dog barked somewhere to the south. Motor vehicle traffic rumbled from the Interstate a few miles to the west.
She turned in place, searching for any sign of the runner, but he was nowhere in sight. Neither, for that matter, was Silas. She looked back at the fence from which she’d crawled, but he wasn’t there.
Great. Way to have my back, partner.
Keeping her gun at the ready, she paced the length of Lexington Street, peering into every deep shadow she could find. Moments later, the area was lit up by a swath of brilliant red and blue lights and two patrol cars—one of hers and one from the sheriff’s office—pulled up beside her.
“Drive around,” she told them. “Look for anyone out and about. We’re looking for Spencer Blakely, the owner of The Chronicler.” The two patrolmen took off in opposite directions, shining their spotlights into yards as they passed. They, along with Becca who was still on foot, continued the search for another thirty minutes before calling it quits. She ordered the officers to go to Blakely’s residence and to stay there in case he turned up. When they drove off, Becca crawled under the fence again, and headed to the newspaper building.
“And then I told him, ‘That’s not a gun in my pocket. It’s a rabbit!’,” Silas said to the Hispanic-looking delivery driver as she stepped onto the loading dock. They both burst out in raucous laughter at the punchline, which only worked to annoy Becca even more than she already was.
Jokes. He’s telling jokes. That’s just great.
Silas Mot, her so-called partner, had abandoned her when she might have needed him most. He’d flaked while she risked her own life in pursuit of a suspected killer and now she found him hangin
g back, trading one-liners with their suspect’s employee.
“Ah, Becca!” he said, when he noticed her approach. “You’re back.”
“No thanks to you.”
His head tilted curiously, then he seemed to shrug the comment off and gestured to the driver. “I’d like to introduce you to Pedro. Pedro Gonzalez. He’s one of Blakely’s drivers.”
Pedro, a rotund man of Mayan descent with a wide, genuine smile, wore a brown jumpsuit with his name patch stitched just above his left breast pocket. His thick head of jet-black hair was covered in a matching brown baseball cap with mesh backing. A typical trucker’s hat.
“Buenos dias,” Pedro said to her cheerfully.
She nodded a polite hello, but kept her reply directed at Silas. “I kind of figured he was a driver. His uniform was pretty much a dead giveaway.” She glanced around the loading bay. Several trucks sat idling at the docks with the other drivers lounging around smoking, drinking coffee, and chatting with one another. “Question is, why aren’t they driving now? Why aren’t they delivering the papers?”
“Because,” Silas said with the dramatic flair of a sideshow magician, “there are no papers to deliver! Apparently, Blakely didn’t come to work this morning to run them. The drivers, being union, get paid whether they drive or not, so they decided to hang here for a while and just enjoy their morning.” He patted Pedro on the shoulder. “Gave me some time to chat with Pedro here, who has some wonderful stories to tell about his employer, don’t you, Pedro?”
“Si, si,” Pedro said, nodding enthusiastically.
“In fact, he’s seen a few interesting things around here lately. Like Blakely and Ms. Alvarez arguing a few nights before her murder.” Silas rubbed his hands together as he spoke, his excitement for the case renewed after his somber demeanor over the death of the bartender earlier that morning. “And…”
“Silas, hold on…”
“And…” He interjected, not allowing her an opportunity to speak. “…it apparently turned violent at one point. Pedro saw Blakely hit Andrea in the heat of it all.”
Becca’s protest evaporated. She looked at the driver. “Really? You saw him get violent with her?”
“Si.” The man continued to nod like a life-sized bobble head. “Es muy mal. Senorita Andrea, she was sad after. Estaba llorando. She crying very much.”
“Would you be willing to testify to this?” Becca asked.
The driver squinted and she got the distinct impression he didn’t understand the question. Silas said something in perfect Spanish and the man’s eyes widened. He shook his head emphatically and offered a string of unintelligible words in response.
“He’s afraid of losing his job,” Silas explained. “He assures me that he and his family are here legally. However, he’s the only one working right now and the only one able to support his wife and eight—” His train of thought broke off and he looked back at Pedro. “Ocho?” The driver nodded cheerfully once more. “His eight children. If he testifies, he’s afraid he’ll be out of work and his family would starve.”
She sighed. “Well, it doesn’t really matter. Not that you seem to care, but Blakely got away.” Becca nodded to the fence. “He slipped underneath and I lost sight of him.”
“Well, I yelled at you to stop. You were wasting your time.”
“First of all, I wasn’t paying attention to you. I was too busy chasing down a suspect,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “Second, wasting my time? Really?”
“Yeah, really. My powers might not be as potent as they normally are, but one thing I have in spades is excellent night vision. I could tell right from the start the man you were chasing wasn’t Blakely.”
“What?”
Silas chuckled. “Yeah. That was Jorge.” He looked over at Pedro and winked. “And he was here illegally. He saw you and your uniform, thought you were the INS coming to deport him, so he took off.”
Becca felt her blood begin to boil. Granted, she was still miffed at having been awakened for the third night in a row. She also might still be harboring an unjust grudge against Silas for all three of those nights. But for crying out loud, why did he have to be so infuriating?
“So, does Pedro have any idea where his employer is at this moment?”
“Not a clue. But I’m not finished telling you all the awesome stuff Pedro has seen around here.” He was practically popping with excitement. “You’ll never guess who has been a regular visitor to The Summer Haven Chronicler since around the time of Andrea’s supposed curse.”
“Who?”
Silas scowled, shaking his head. “Ah, come on. Guess.”
“Silas, just tell me.”
“Okay, fine. Pedro said he started seeing a pretty, but plump blonde lady coming by here late at night a few weeks ago. She’d always come in the early morning hours, after Blakely had finished with the morning press run and the two would go back into his office with the door closed. No one knows what they were up to, but all sorts of speculation about a torrid affair were flying around.”
“A blonde? What blonde?”
Silas was practically beaming. He held out his hand. “Let me see your phone.”
She hesitated, then tentatively handed the phone over to him. A moment later, he was flipping through her text messages until he came to the one he was looking for and held it up for Pedro to see.
“Is this the woman you were talking about?”
Pedro’s eyes widened as he nodded his head adamantly. “Si. Si! Es ella! That is her.”
Becca’s mind reeled at the information. The photo Silas had showed the driver was the sketch of Elaine Shepherd, the woman who’d tried to have the death curse placed on Andrea.
31
SUMMER HAVEN POLICE DEPARTMENT
FRIDAY, 8:05 AM
Awaiting the warrant to search the newspaper, as well as Spencer Blakely’s residence, Becca and Silas returned to the police station to catch their breath as they planned their next move. Becca had left Silas sitting at Linda’s desk while she went over to the break room to fill up her ‘World’s Greatest Chief’ mug with the sluggish brown liquid her officers had the audacity to call coffee.
Silas reclined in a chair next to Linda White’s desk with his feet up on another chair. He knew Becca was exhausted. The human body needed sleep to function. And though he had no way of truly understanding the effort of will she must have been enduring just to keep her eyes open, he nevertheless sympathized with her.
Then, he was struck with a pang in his chest. A heaviness he’d never experienced before, but he knew with no uncertainty that the humans called the feeling ‘guilt’. His mind had drifted from Becca’s arousal prematurely from bed to that of the murder of Courtney Abeling, which, in turn, had twisted his gut like a pretzel. It was because of him the lovely young woman was dead. So much potential, now evaporated into the ether like his body had just a few hours before.
Of course, he knew the guilt was misplaced. First, it was, indeed, her Time. There was nothing he could have done to prevent it. But also, he had not pulled the trigger on her himself. That had been someone else. He assumed it had been the same thugs that had attempted to kill him, which meant that the ultimate culprit was the one trying to usurp his throne. The one who held the Hand of Cain.
He sighed, staring up at the florescent lights of the institutionalized ceiling and absently flicking his wrist to send his yo-yo into an ‘Around the World’ move.
“Did you grow a goatee?” Linda, who’d just walked into the station, said as she sat down at her desk. “I like it. It totally gives you that refined British gentleman look.”
He gave her a weak smile of thanks. He was in no mood to be charming at that moment, but he did appreciate her compliment. He supposed he would keep the facial hair a little while longer, just for something different.
“My dear Linda,” he said, spinning the yo-yo back up into his palm and pocketing it. “You are a ray of sunshine in an otherwise gloomy day.”
>
She blushed in response, then proceeded to boot up her computer to prepare for the day of work. As she did so, Silas let his eyes roam around the bullpen, taking in the organized chaos buzzing around the room. He watched as cops, from both the police department and the sheriff’s office, entered and exited, answered phone calls, and chatted with each other while drinking fresh coffee. It was shift change and the night crew were working at filing their reports while the day crew busied themselves with briefings of the previous night’s activities and gathered the necessary gear required to tackle the coming day.
It was, as they say, a hotbed of activity and, for a brief moment, Silas enjoyed just a moment of reprieve to ‘people watch’. The department was impressive in its diversity. Of the five uniformed officers coming on duty, two were Hispanic and one was African-American and a woman.
Silas watched as they came out of the briefing room, chatting with each other while making their way toward the exit and to the back-parking lot where most of the cruisers were kept. Most wore the standard blue uniform of a typical patrolman. Two, however, wore more formal attire comprised of long sleeves, shining black leather shoes, and gold bars on their sleeves. Supervisors, obviously. Though Silas wasn’t sure how, as mortals, they could tolerate being out in the hot Florida sun wearing such attire. For him in his jet-black suit, it was no big deal. His body wasn’t real. It didn’t get hot or cold, sweaty or chilled.
But for these police officers, the heat could be brutal and he pitied them.
1 Death Warmed Over Page 17
