Coveted: Saint Cecilia Slayings Book Four

by Blanco, N. Isabelle

  Just thinking it makes me sick to my stomach. This entire situation does. And I haven’t even been drinking as much as I normally would. Although, sadly, without my main fixation available to me, I fear it’s only a matter of time before I succumb again.

  God. I’m so fucking weak.

  To make matters worse, as I’m sitting here at my desk, stewing in my own futility, my partner sends me a message.

  To my personal cell.

  It’s bad enough she’s running forty-five minutes late, but the subject of her message is one neither of us can afford to be investing energy on.

  Ruby: Okay. Fine. I’ll admit it. I haven’t been sick. I’ve been looking into matters. You really need to make time to discuss this Blackstone issue with me because it’s a problem. Trust me. A HUGE problem.

  Fuck my life.

  Why this sudden obsession with his comings and goings? I loathe the guy as much as anyone here, find him fishy as fuck, yet what’s happening with him is in no way as important as catching the Slayer. Something I inform my partner of forthright.

  Me: It’s insane we keep rehashing this. I’ll admit something is up with him, but you do realize you’re slacking on our actual case? The one involving a mass murderer loose on our streets? I’ve tried to be patient with you, Ruby, but this is fucking ridiculous.

  Ruby: I knew you wouldn’t fucking listen to me! A real partner would. Forget it. I’ll handle it alone then.

  Is she freaking serious? A “real” partner? That’s rich considering she’s also my partner and I haven’t been able to count on her with this case for days now. I’m furiously typing out my response, one that mentions she can definitely expect a partner change, when she finally comes storming into command like a bat out of hell.

  Lips set in thin, harsh line, she shoots me the most lethal of glares upon approaching and slams both her purse and all her files onto her desk, earning us several side glances from our colleagues.

  Ignoring their questioning stares, I stop typing and observe her as she drops into her chair with a huff, immediately turning her back to me.

  “Save the speech, Quinn,” she grits before I can so much as open my mouth. “I don’t care to hear a single word of it. When I crack this, you’re going to feel mighty stupid for doubting me.”

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  Eyes clamped tightly, I have to breathe through the flurry of anger that begins boiling at the surface. She’s got some damn nerve, and honestly, I’ve about had enough.

  She doesn’t think I’m a real partner, wants to do her own thing instead of focusing on what duty calls for?

  Fine, then so be it.

  She can do it alone or drive someone else mad with this nonsense.

  On a deep breath, I rise to full height and make my way around her desk, dropping my hands onto its hard surface. Ruby glowers as I dip my head and our stares align. “A speech isn’t necessary,” I growl quietly. “At least not on my part. Porter may feel inclined to deliver one once I request a new partner, though.”

  And with that, I push myself away from her workspace and stalk to the Cap’s office.

  I don’t need to sneak a peek to know her mouth is popped open in shock. It’s clear she didn’t think I’d actually go through with it, despite the fact I’ve already threatened her with such drastic measures once.

  Knock, knock!

  I wait patiently outside the door for Porter to call me in. Not only is he on a call, but I’m also not sure what exactly I’m going to say to the man once I get in there.

  The truth for starters, my subconscious grumbles.

  Well, yes, I’ll have to tell him some of it, but I can’t reveal it all. I may be livid with Ruby, but I won’t be responsible for her losing her job. She can fuck that up all on her own.

  “Come in,” Porter yells seconds later as he slams the phone back onto the console.

  Another deep breath and I’m inside, shutting the door behind myself.

  He motions to the chairs before his desk in offering and reclines into his own seat. “How can I help you, Quinn, and make it quick—I’m due on a call with Thayer in five.”

  Falling into one of the seats, I lean forward onto my knees and shake my head with a sigh. “I need a partner change, Cap.”

  “A partner change?” He asks confusedly.

  I nod. “As soon as possible, please.”

  Porter lets out a sigh of his own and gives me a look that says I’m about to be highly disappointed. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because all detectives are paired up. There isn’t anyone I can just switch you with . . . unless you’d like me to saddle you with a rookie detective who you’ll be responsible for training while still working the case.”

  Fuck.

  Squeezing my lids together, I drop my head, letting it hang between my slumped, defeated shoulders. Why me? Why did I have to get stuck with her?

  Granted, she’s been a lot easier to deal with on that front since I lashed out at her in front of L’Auvent. In fact, she hasn’t tried anything at all. But this obsession with Nathaniel is out of hand, and her lack of awareness on how detached from the case she is has become a problem for me.

  “What’s going on, Quinn? Why the sudden need for a new partner?” Porter asks after several silent moments.

  Lifting my head, I look him square in the eye and shrug. “I don’t think Saunders is cut out for this case. She’s highly distracted, unmotivated—no matter how much fire I blow up her ass. I can’t afford to have—”

  “What exactly is distracting her?”

  Cue another lie in three, two . . .

  “I don’t know. She won’t tell me. I’ve asked her relentlessly and she refuses to communicate. Her head isn’t in the game and I can’t afford to have her just straggling along. I need someone who’s going to be up to speed if we have any hope of getting close to catching the Slayer again.”

  Porter presses his lips in a disconcerted line and exhales. Profoundly. “I agree, Quinn, I really do. However, as I said, there’s nothing I can do. Unless you want to take on a rookie, or join Blackstone and Lee or Santos and Ramos as a third wheel, it’s out of my hands.”

  “I’ll pass,” I say, my tone beaten. “But could you, perhaps, talk to her? See if you can get her on the ball again?”

  Cap nods just as his extension begins chiming away. “I’ll see what I can do,” he agrees, picking up the receiver. “Porter here.”

  I take that as my cue to leave and swiftly exit his office. While I didn’t get the outcome I was hoping for, I do feel somewhat hopeful his imminent chat with Ruby might help steer her back in the right direction.

  Speaking of Ruby, she’s paler than a damn ghost when I get back to my desk. I have to stifle another sigh as she eyes me through her peripherals, clearly awaiting news on the partner change front.

  I don’t say a single word to her, just take my seat and start jotting down notes for the day. We have plenty of people to question and with her late arrival, we’re already off to a shit start. I can almost guarantee we won’t have time for a real lunch today.

  Or time to check up on Kiera again.

  I shove the thought to the back of my mind. Kiera and her disappearing act will, unfortunately, have to wait until later. I need to get my partner back up to speed first.

  “Then the mother of the child said, ‘As the Lord lives and as you yourself live, I will not leave you.”

  – 2 Kings 4:30

  Groaning, I roll over in my bed, squinting up at the ceiling.

  I lied. Kiera and her disappearing act couldn’t wait till later. Well, at least not much later. As soon as I got home last night, I was back at it, sending message after message.

  God. So many messages.

  All unanswered. Perhaps it has to do with my being too direct, getting to the point. Seriously, what did I expect. It’s clear that girl is running from something serious and bad, and se
nding a message that says “You’re going to tell me what you’re so afraid of confessing” really doesn’t help matters.

  It’s witness questioning tactics 101. I’ve been trained on this for years. You don’t go straight into the bad cop, forceful routine until left with no choice.

  Especially when dealing with what might be a victim of some form of trauma.

  I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, groaning again. I’m becoming a fucking stalker. A bonafide stalker. I’ll probably be knocking the DuBois estate door by tonight.

  Colossal error. Especially with Gerard acting as wary as he is.

  Attempting to push all thoughts of tracking Kiera down to the back of my head, I reach for the remote and turn on the TV. There’s still a good hour left before I have to be at work. Too much time to mull this bullshit over.

  The news flares to life, an image of a crashed bus dominating the view. “The Broadway inbound 47 bus was merging toward the Ruggles Street at Huntington Avenue bus stop when the other vehicle swerved in its way, slamming into the side of the vehicle and pushing it sideways onto the sidewalk. The full scale of property damage is unknown at the time, as well as casualties, but what we do know is that some of the passengers were already reported dead upon impact.” The image cuts to the side of the bus—the flaming side of the bus, where the other vehicle is embedded up to the windshield.

  Thank God Ma wasn’t on that bus. She prefers to take that line when traveling around town.

  That’s my first thought.

  A random thought.

  A triggering one.

  Because as I watch that news footage of that burning bus and the bus stop that was pummeled by its weight, my heart drops into my stomach.

  My stomach into my feet.

  I reach for the crucifix around my neck, only to curse when I find it missing.

  There’s no way Ma was on that bus. None. I’m panicking for no reason. Assuming the worst. My mother wouldn’t even have a reason to be on the bus this ear—

  She had the appointment with her primary today.

  Fuck!

  Scrambling for my phone, I shoot up in bed and frantically dial my mother’s old-fashioned, flip phone. Three tries later, I’m still getting her voicemail and I’m on my feet, tripping over myself to get dressed. “Come on, Ma. Come on . . .”

  On the fourth try, I finally hear her pick up, sirens and loud voices in the background; confirming my worst suspicions before we can even speak. “Ma! Where—”

  “The owner of this cell phone is currently unconscious, but stabilized. We’re awaiting the arrival of another ambulance to take her to the hospital,” a woman says.

  I’m already out the fucking door, all but flying down the stairs to the first floor. “I’m her son. How do you know she’s stabilized?”

  “I’m an EMT. Off day. Thank God I was near the accident.”

  My heart breaks into a million shattered pieces as I imagine my imperfect, serious mother—my old, frail mother, although she’ll never admit it—injured. “Please,” I rasp, slamming the key into the ignition of the car. “Make sure she’s okay until they get there. I’m on the way.”

  “Definitely doing my best.”

  Although this woman said my mother is stable, that comment doesn’t inspire confidence.

  Peeling out of my parking spot, I slam on every light, alerting other drivers that I’m on the force and they need to get the fuck out of my way.

  The area of the accident is blocked off when I get there, police, ambulances, and fire trucks scattered throughout. Of course, the infamous police tape is in my way, and the urge to just drive my car straight through grabs hold.

  Instead, I haphazardly park in the first space I find, near the police tape, and shoot out of my vehicle. Due to the fact I had my sirens blaring as I approached, several of the regular POs are already turned in my direction as I get closer.

  Eyes bouncing off all the ambulances, I bring out my badge just long enough to let them see my fucking face on the ID. “My mother was on that bus. You need to let me through.”

  The police tape is immediately lifted and I’m ushered through. Both officers say something to me, but I’m already rushing to each ambulance, heart pounding in my ears.

  We have our differences and they run deep. We really do. But, God, if something happens to my mother . . .

  I pass by what’s maybe five ambulance, doors open as injured people are rushed into the interior. Multiple others are already speeding away from the scene, their own sirens blaring, on their way to take people to the hospital.

  Fuck. What if Ma is in one of those?

  I rip my cell out of my pocket. Dialing her number is a struggle. My hands are shaking so bad, focus jumping between the numbers and ambulances—

  The sight of my mother, sitting up in a gurney in an ambulance, robs my legs of strength.

  For a second, I don’t believe it’s her. Slamming to a halt, I stare and I stare . . .

  She lowers her hand from her bruised forehead, saying something to the paramedic attending her.

  I’m running in her direction out of nowhere, one thought repeating obsessively in my head. Thank you, God. Thank you, God. Thank you, God. “Ma!”

  My sixty-seven year old mother turns in my direction, squinting. “Maverick?”

  I slide to a stop in front of the lip of the ambulance, barely stopping myself from jumping up there and taking her in my arms. “Ma. Thank God. I was so worried when I realized you’d gotten hurt.”

  My mother wasn’t always the softest of women. Raising me mostly on her own left her hardened. My father? Not going there. Yet there were a few moments here and there, where her motherly love shone clear through.

  This is one of them; her eyes soften and she reaches out her thin, veined hand. “Maverick. My son. I’m fine. I was just telling—”

  “Oh no, you don’t,” I cut in, scowling. “You’re going straight to that hospital and getting checked out.” My mother has no problem with doctors, but hospitals? She’d rather die then end up in one.

  Not on my watch. Not ever, if I have a say.

  That infamous stubbornness I inherited flashes across her face. “Maverick, it’s just—”

  Ignoring her, I turn to the EMT. “New England Baptist, right?” It’s the closest hospital to this location.

  The young man nods. “You can ride with us.”

  My police vehicle is parked at a weird angle, but fuck it. I step onto the ambulance as the paramedic makes room.

  “Now wait a moment,” my mother, with her bruised forehead and the blood dripping from a small cut on the side of her head, objects. “I have a say.”

  “Lay back, Ma. I’ll be with you the whole time. It’ll be fine.” I sit on the side bench and press her shoulder down gently.

  “Ma’am, I have to take your blood pressure.”

  She tsks under her breath but holds her arm out sullenly so he can place the cuff around it.

  Glaring at me the entire time, I might add.

  Choking with worry—and what I suspect is an overload of unresolved stress at this point—I still throw up another round of thank yous to God, overcome with gratitude. That bus was fucking burning on one side, for the Lord’s sake. And my mother was on it. My almost seventy-year old mother.

  The one I haven’t been the greatest son to because our old resentments.

  As the ambulance speeds away from the crash scene, I grasp her hand and send out a promise to God next. As a thank you for my mother making it off that bus alright, I’m going to try harder. I might never understand her sick devotion to a man so unworthy of it, yet that doesn’t change anything.

  She’s my mother and I’m damn well lucky to still have her. That’s suddenly more clear than ever before.

  “But each person is tempted when they are dragged away by their own evil desire and enticed.”

  - James 1:14

  Mom is fine.

  Well, as fine as an elderly woman who was i
n an accident can get. The doctor who checked her out put her on some pain meds to alleviate sore limbs and any bruising that may pop up. He also suggested bed rest for the next seventy-two hours. As you can imagine, she wasn’t too happy about that, but didn’t seem inclined to argue with the good doctor or myself, surprisingly enough.

  After she was cleared for discharge, I took her straight home and ended up spending the night. She insisted that wasn’t necessary, but I waved her off. If she for one second thought I’d leave her in her condition—whether severe or not—she clearly doesn’t remember what type of man she raised.

  Staying at mom’s, though, with memories of my father still proudly displayed all over the place, ensured sleep was the last thing I’d be doing. I got two, maybe three hours before my alarm went off. I’m positively exhausted; concerned, too, that my mom may try to do more than she should while I’m on the clock, but I’ve dragged my ass to the command regardless.

  The first thing I notice after stepping off the elevator into homicide is that Porter’s door is closed and everyone is whispering. A few more steps and I realize it’s Ruby sitting in his office. My shoulders creep up to my ears as I stalk further into the room and make a nonchalant beeline for my desk.

  Shit.

  She’s in there ‘cause of me.

  Not that she doesn’t deserve it, because she does, but still. Despite how annoying Ruby has been in the past and how goddamn difficult she’s been lately, I can’t lie and say I don’t feel remorseful for my hot-headed, caught in-the-moment tantrum.

  She wouldn’t be in there getting her ass chewed out if I’d just kept my cool.

  Then again, Ruby needs a reality check. This obsession with Blackstone seems to get worse by the day and it’s gone on long enough. I need her here, in the moment, helping me nail the Slayer—not worrying about where Nathaniel is going when he clocks out for the day.

  About twenty minutes later, my partner finally emerges from Captain Porter’s office. She doesn’t appear to be out of sorts, leading me to believe Porter wasn’t too hard on her, but she doesn’t seem happy to see me, either.