Sylver and Gold

by Michelle Larkin

  London lifted a remote from a bracket on the wall and switched on the TV. Preset to a music channel, soothing jazz sounded through speakers that were built into the walls. “This is obviously the main cabin,” she said. “And down there”—she gestured to the left—“are the galley, head, and forward berth. There’s a small office, another head, and a second berth to bow over there.” She gestured to the right.

  “Who’s giving birth to a head?” Reid asked.

  “Sleeping quarters on a boat are called a berth. The head is the bathroom.” London walked toward the rear of the boat. “I’ll be right back. Make yourself comfortable at the dinette. I’ll make us some lunch in a minute.”

  “Meet me at the dinette for tea at high noon,” Reid said under her breath in a snobbish tone.

  “I heard that,” London called out from the other room. “The dining area is called the dinette on a boat.”

  “Why can’t you just be normal and call it a table?”

  “If you’re going to be a frequent visitor, you should really brush up on your boat lingo.”

  With Mug at her heels, Reid descended the short staircase, stood in place, and looked around the kitchen. The galley, she corrected herself. Granite countertops, dark mahogany cabinets, stainless-steel refrigerator and microwave. There was even a miniature dishwasher. “Who said I want to come back?” she asked, taking a seat at the table.

  “Figured this could be our new hangout since you’re being so weird about your house.” London emerged with a fuzzy blue blanket draped over one arm and a ceramic dog bowl in hand. After filling the bowl with water from the kitchen sink, she set the bowl and blanket on the floor for Mug. He watched her with interest as she withdrew a box of dog biscuits from a nearby cabinet. “Would you like a treat?”

  Amused by London’s hospitality, Reid watched as Mug graciously accepted a large biscuit, lay down on the blanket after much circling, and munched away contentedly. She glanced around, curious as to why London had dog biscuits on hand. Clearly, there was no four-legged companion in residence.

  “I have a friend with a dog who stays here sometimes,” London said, watching her.

  Was the rookie seeing someone? Reid suddenly felt uncomfortable in London’s private space.

  “We’ve been best friends since junior high,” London explained, grabbing two waters from the fridge. “He lives in Vermont and comes to the city once a month on business. He always brings Buckley. Hence, the treats.” She tossed the bottle of water to Reid. “Do you like Brie?” she asked.

  Reid nodded, feeling a sense of relief wash over her. Maybe London wasn’t seeing anyone. But why should she care?

  London slid out a griddle from a hidden compartment in the wall. With a skill and grace that Reid found mesmerizing, she whipped up two Brie paninis in minutes. She added some fresh-cut apple slices to their plates and carried them to the table. “I always brainstorm best with food in my stomach.”

  Reid just stared at her plate. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had cooked for her.

  “I’ll admit I was tempted, but I promise I didn’t spit in it. This time.” London set a napkin in her lap and took a bite of the panini.

  She realized she was still staring at her plate like a moron. Mug lapped up the crumbs from his dog biscuit and pierced her with curious eyes, looking back and forth between her and the untouched panini. Hearing the phantom taunts of her colleagues from afar, she followed London’s lead and plopped a napkin in her lap.

  The panini was delicious. It tasted even better because London had made it.

  “I think it’s fair to assume the killer has been stalking you,” London said, downing the last bite of her sandwich with a long drink.

  “Agreed.” Reid was loath to admit it, but she had already come to the same conclusion. “Except he’s not our traditional stalker. He doesn’t get off on following me or watching me.” If someone had been tailing her, she would’ve noticed.

  “He gets off on listening.” London nodded. “An audio stalker. He uses technology to eavesdrop on his victims.”

  “And technology is everywhere. He likes the idea of making me feel like no place is safe.”

  They both eyeballed London’s laptop on the counter. “It’s turned off,” London assured her. “But it’s probably best to be paranoid at a time like this.” She carried her laptop into the bedroom, shut the door, and took a seat at the table across from Reid. “Run me through your phone call with the killer.”

  Reid did, editing any reference the killer had made to her ability to communicate with the dead.

  “He actually said you’re more comfortable with dead people?” London paused and met her gaze. “Is that true?”

  “Maybe. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not much of a people person.”

  “But how would he have known that?”

  Reid shrugged. “Haven’t figured that out yet.”

  “And he said he enjoys his time with the dead differently?”

  She nodded, remembering his words. I’ll let you in on a secret, Detective Sylver. I, too, am more comfortable with the dead. We just enjoy our time with them a little differently.

  “I hate that my brain even went there, but what if he’s a mortician or an undertaker, and he, you know…”

  “Has sex with dead bodies?” Reid finished. “Yeah. I wondered the same.” There was a long silence as she struggled to figure out exactly how this all came together.

  “I’m trying my hardest not to ask this question, but there’s no way around it.”

  Jolted from her thoughts, Reid looked up.

  “Do you have any sexual fetishes”—London sighed—“involving the dead?”

  “Seriously?”

  “It just occurred to me—maybe that’s your secret. Is that why you don’t allow anyone inside your house?”

  “Because I’m busy doing the wild thing with dead people?” Reid asked, dumbfounded.

  “Maybe you’re into zombie pornography, and you have photos of naked dead people all over your house.” London leaned forward on the table. “If that’s the case, now’s the time to come clean,” she said in all seriousness.

  “I hope you’re joking. But if you’re not, the answer is no. That’s beyond gross.” She put her hands on the table. “My secret has nothing to do with a sexual fetish of any kind. Let’s focus here. Less speculation about me. More on the killer.”

  “And therein lies the problem. In his mind, the two of you are intertwined. Learning as much as I can about you will shed more light on him.”

  Reid found herself dancing precariously close to revealing her secret. Although tempted, she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. There had to be another way to figure out who this bastard was.

  The beeping pager hijacked her attention. She glanced down as the ME’s number flashed across the pager’s window. This was unusual. With a deep breath to steady her nerves, she dug the borrowed cell—an old flip-style phone—from her pocket and started dialing.

  “Hey, where’d you get that?” London asked. “I thought we had to ditch our phones.”

  “We did. Todd from Computer Crimes slipped it to me on the down-low.”

  London frowned. “He didn’t give me one.”

  “You didn’t ask.”

  “Neither did you. I was there with you the whole time.”

  “I didn’t have to ask. Todd and I have been working together a long time.” She shrugged. “He read my mind.”

  London crossed her arms, looking offended. “How long is this going to last?”

  “How long’s what going to last?”

  “This whole shut the rookie out of the boys’ club thing.”

  “There is no boys’ club. And, if there was, I wouldn’t be in it.” Reid raised an eyebrow, wondering if it had momentarily escaped London’s attention that she was, in fact, a woman.

  “Whatever. You know what I mean.”

  “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I grabbed one for you,
too.” She reached into her other pocket and dug out an identical flip phone.

  “Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?”

  “Why didn’t you just call this a table?”

  London caught the cell as Reid slid it across the table. “You really are impossible.”

  “Now, if you don’t mind, I should give Fred a call back.”

  “Fred?”

  “The ME. He just paged me.”

  “Us.”

  “Huh?”

  “He called us. We’re working this case together now, remember?”

  “Right. Please accept my apologies, O wise and experienced partner.”

  “All is forgiven,” London said perkily.

  Shaking her head, Reid punched in Fred’s number and put it on speaker. “It’s Sylver.”

  “And Gold,” London chimed in.

  Reid sighed. One of them had to change her name.

  Chapter Twelve

  Curious as to what the ME had to say, Reid cleared her throat. “What’s up, Fred?”

  “Haven’t finished the autopsy on the second vic yet but wanted to give you a heads-up on something peculiar.”

  Whatever it was, it had to be more than just peculiar. She could think of only two other times Fred had called her in the last thirteen years—neither of which had been work related. He’d simply called to beg her to pitch for his team in the annual softball tournament hosted by the BPD.

  “Both bodies are devoid of blood and internal organs.”

  “Come again?” Reid said.

  He cleared his throat. “Both’ve been drained of fluids. Internal organs were removed.”

  “What the—How?”

  “Killer made a Y-incision. Ribs and collarbones were cut and the organs removed.”

  “Everything?”

  “Everything.”

  “What about the brain?”

  “Gone. Scalp was peeled forward, a section of the skull was sawed out, and the brain subsequently removed.”

  Reid remembered a time when these details kept her appetite at bay for days. Now they were just a part of the job. Like a pediatrician who, over time, developed immunity to slimy-nosed patients, she’d built a tolerance over the years for all the juicy wonders of a dead human body. She’d also attended enough autopsies to realize the killer seemed to know exactly what he was doing. “Hesitation marks?”

  “Not a one,” Fred replied. “Also, the body was embalmed. Results haven’t come back yet, but the substance appears consistent with standard embalming fluid.”

  She and London locked eyes. Looked like their theory about the killer being a mortician or undertaker was right on the mark.

  London stood from the table and carried their dishes to the sink.

  “One more thing you should know.” Fred cleared his throat again. “Killer penetrated both victims vaginally.”

  Reid leaned forward. “Before or after he killed them?”

  “Definitely postmortem. Semen was present in both bodies. That’s the only fluid he left behind.”

  “Sick sonofabi—”

  London chucked her half-empty water bottle across the room. It smacked Reid in the forehead, halting her midsentence.

  “Anything else?” Reid asked, considering whether or not she should retaliate. With something heavier.

  Fred was quiet for a moment. “Fundraiser’s this weekend. If you’re looking for a new team, I’ll make a spot for you.”

  “Thanks, Fred. But Boyle already got to me. I’m playing for him now.”

  “Damn.”

  London turned from the sink. “Playing what?”

  “Softball,” they both said in unison.

  “Ooh.” London hurried over and sat back down. “Can I play, too?”

  Fred hesitated. “You any good?”

  “Pitched all through high school and college. Broke a few records,” London boasted.

  Unsurprised, Reid massaged the growing lump on her forehead.

  “Then welcome to the Toe Tags. First practice is Wednesday. I’ll send the team info in an email—”

  Reid pressed a button and ended the call. “Oops. Finger slipped.”

  “You’re just jealous because I’m in the boys’ club now.”

  “Jealous of you playing for Fred?” Reid laughed. “Did you happen to catch the name of your new team?”

  “The Toe Tags. I think it’s funny.”

  “Suit yourself. My team name is way cooler.”

  London stared at her, suddenly quiet. “Well? Are you going to tell me what it is?”

  “Packin’ Heat,” she said proudly.

  London rolled her eyes. “Lame with a capital L. You’re going down.”

  Reid felt her smile falter. “You’re not allowed to trash-talk. You haven’t even met your team yet.”

  “They could be the worst team in the tournament.” London shrugged. “Wouldn’t matter.”

  “You’re that good?” She frowned. “No one’s that good.”

  London flashed a knowing smile. The rookie’s confidence was unnerving. “Guess you’ll find out when we send you home packin’, with a big fat zero on the scoreboard.”

  She mentally reviewed the team roster, one by one. Boyle had landed all the best players. London—and her distastefully named team—didn’t stand a chance. She almost felt bad for the rookie. “Care to place a small wager?”

  London didn’t flinch. “You took the words right out of my mouth. What do you have in mind?”

  “We win, I get to cuss whenever I want and still drive Boyle’s truck.”

  “If we win, you invite me over to your house for pizza and a movie. I pick the movie.”

  “You’re on.” Reid reached across the table to seal the deal. Like taking candy from a baby. “So, what do you know about necrophilia?” she asked, her mind returning to the case.

  “That it’s gross beyond comprehension. Aside from that, not much. You?”

  She thought for a moment. “I think it falls in line with our profile of the killer so far.”

  London nodded. “He likes to play it safe. He utilizes whatever technology is available to stalk, monitor, and interact with his victims from a distance. What better way is there to keep a safe distance than having sex with a corpse?”

  Reid was confident they were on the same page now. “Why would he want to have sex with someone who was dead?”

  London wrinkled her nose in disgust. “He doesn’t want to be seen.”

  “And why would he go to such lengths to keep himself hidden?”

  “We only hide what we’re ashamed of. He’s afraid of being judged.”

  Reid suddenly knew what she and the killer had in common, why the killer had targeted her.

  “You just figured something out. I can see it on your face,” London said, scooting forward. “What is it?”

  She had never told a soul about the physical abuse she’d endured as a child at the hands of her grandmother. How could she speak of it here? Now? With a woman she barely knew?

  Obviously intuiting that something had changed, London reached across the table and set her hand over the top of Reid’s arm. “Talk to me, Reid. Whatever it is, I promise it won’t leave this room.”

  * * *

  London watched as Reid struggled to reclaim her poker face. The vulnerability that she’d been sensing from the beginning resurfaced, like a mysterious sea creature rising briefly to the surface for air. It was clear to her now that Reid was not only aware of this vulnerability but worked hard keep to it below the radar.

  Whatever it was, it had something to do with this case. For that reason—and that reason, alone—London decided to push Reid just a little bit harder.

  * * *

  Reid took a deep breath and met London’s unwavering brown gaze. “I’ve never told anyone before. I have no idea how he would’ve found out.” She let the silence breathe to further punctuate the moment. “I’ve been attracted to corpses my whole life. That’s why I’m in homi
cide. I thought about becoming a mortician, but being alone with all those dead bodies every day would be too tempting. I’ve never had sex with one, but I’ve come close. It’s hard. I fight the urges every day.” She looked at the floor and sagged her shoulders, feigning defeat. Somehow—she had no idea how—she managed to keep a straight face.

  “Oh. My. God.” Without warning, London threw her arms in the air. “Me, too!” she shouted excitedly. “I’ve had a thing for dead people since I was a kid! I can’t tell you how good it feels to get that off my chest.”

  Even with her Academy Award–worthy performance, London hadn’t fallen for it. Reid shook her head. This rookie was smart and funny.

  “Try again.” London sighed. “The truth, this time.”

  If she wanted to solve this case and lock the killer behind bars before he hurt anyone else, it was time to put her cards on the table. Not all of them. But some. She chose her words carefully. “My parents died in a car accident when I was four. My grandmother raised me. She wasn’t really a kid person. Knocked me around some.” Reid knew that was an understatement. From the time she’d set foot in her grandmother’s house, she remembered knowing her grandmother didn’t want her there. The woman was thorny, impatient, and unkind. Tension in the house mounted when Reid was repeatedly caught talking to her dead parents. At age five, she finally confessed to her grandmother that she could see and talk to ghosts. That’s when the abuse started.

  Beatings, long stretches without food or water. She shuddered at the memory of being locked inside that damn metal dog crate in her grandmother’s pitch-black basement where all she heard was the relentless scratching and scurrying of nearby rodents. An avid smoker, her grandmother’s favorite form of punishment was burning her with a lighter or, better yet, with the butt of a cigarette. Reid’s back and stomach were covered with scars—too many to count.