Sylver and Gold

by Michelle Larkin

  The tension finally broken, London threw her head back and laughed.

  Reid had to admit, it felt good to lay everything on the table so they could sift through the pieces together. Better than good, actually. For the first time in her life, she felt like she had someone beside her who truly knew her. Which was crazy, she realized, because they’d met just days ago. “Anyway, now you know everything I do.”

  “Everything?”

  “All my skeletons are out.” Reid sighed, feeling cleansed for the first time in a long time. Maybe for the first time ever.

  “Good.” London nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Now it’s my turn to share a secret with you.”

  * * *

  London’s mind was still reeling from the fact that Reid could actually communicate with spirits. She never in a million years would have guessed that was Reid’s big secret. She hadn’t even realized such a thing was possible. Being able to hear a message from her nana was the most beautiful gift she’d ever received.

  Reid had demonstrated unfathomable courage by sharing the secret behind her success as a homicide detective. It was time for London to show her the same courtesy and trust.

  She took a deep breath. Part of her could hardly believe what she was about to divulge. She’d never told a soul, aside from her parents. After they disowned her and froze her out of the family, she promised herself she’d take this secret to her grave.

  * * *

  Reid listened intently as London opened the closet to reveal her own skeletons.

  “I was eighteen. I’d just graduated from high school and was heading to Harvard in the fall. Bill Sullivan threw a huge end-of-summer party at his mansion every year. My parents and I had been attending his parties as far back as I can remember. We always stayed overnight in his guestrooms.” London hesitated. “I remember the party. I remember Bill handing me a Shirley Temple at the end of the night. We talked for a while about Harvard, and I remember suddenly not feeling well. Headache, nausea, confusion. He acted concerned and walked me to my room. I remember nothing after that until I woke up the next morning.”

  “Someone spiked your drink,” Reid said. “Sounds like Rohypnol.”

  “That’s what I thought, too.” London nodded. “I woke up naked. It was obvious someone’d had their way with me. Even so, I doubted myself, questioned my recollection of events, and eventually brushed the whole thing off and made myself forget. Until eight weeks later when I discovered I was pregnant.”

  Reid was stunned. She sat in rapt attention.

  “When the pregnancy test came back positive, I could hardly believe it. I’d already come out to my friends during my junior year but just hadn’t gotten around to telling my parents yet. I’d never had a boyfriend or had sex with a man—at least, not consensually. I kept telling myself it wasn’t Bill. He was my godfather. He’d known me since I was a baby. I finally told my parents. I told them everything I remembered, well, except my suspicions about Bill, but they didn’t believe me. They said I was making it up to avoid taking accountability for my own irresponsible behavior.”

  “Have they met you?” Reid interjected, furious.

  “My parents must have said something to Bill because he met me on campus one day. He said he believed me—that something had happened without my consent. But he swore up and down he would never do such a thing because I was like a daughter to him. He vowed to find out who did it and encouraged me to consider getting an abortion. He even offered to pay for it. I was still trying to decide what to do when I had a miscarriage. Bill was so solicitous, so obviously relieved. And I was even more certain then that he’d assaulted me, so I confronted him.”

  Reid found herself irrationally hoping London would say she’d told her parents the whole truth about Bill. In an ideal world, they would’ve hired someone to beat his ass and then prosecuted him to the fullest extent of the law. But she knew, without a doubt, it hadn’t happened that way. Because Bill Sullivan was currently serving as the elected governor of Massachusetts.

  “Bill lurked around my life for a few weeks after. One day he met me outside a friend’s house and threatened to ruin my father if I dared to go public with my story. He said he had evidence that my father had committed tax fraud and would serve prison time if that evidence came to light. He said I should tell my parents I’d made the whole thing up about getting drugged.” London shrugged. “So that’s what I did.”

  “And they disowned you?” Reid asked, incredulous.

  “Not exactly. I also told them I’d had an abortion and was a lesbian. They raised me as a strict Catholic, and I’d basically committed every damnable sin in one fell swoop: sex before marriage, lying to my parents, abortion, and homosexuality. Who could really blame them?”

  “Me,” Reid stated matter-of-factly. “They’re your parents. They should’ve known you better than that.”

  “At the time, I knew my coming out would be too much for them to handle, which is what I wanted. I needed to distance myself from them so I could live the life I wanted. Essentially, I’d killed two birds with one stone. Bill and my parents were both out of my life.”

  “Did you like your parents?”

  “Of course. I loved them. Still do.”

  “Well, then, I think the more fitting expression is, you threw out the baby with the bathwater. You got rid of Bill—a great decision, by the way—along with your parents.”

  “I know. I still miss them.”

  “Have you told anyone else about this?”

  “No.” London shook her head. “You’re the first and only. After you shared your two biggies, I figured it was time for me to share mine.”

  They locked gazes in the darkened car. The moment was intense. It reminded Reid of a childhood friendship she’d once had. They’d pricked their fingertips to draw blood and then pressed them together to seal their friendship. Something told her she and London had just done the same. She put the car in Drive. “Care to accompany me to the governor’s mansion to bestow a proper ass-whuppin’ that’s long overdue?”

  London grinned. “I would love to say yes, but our time would be better spent elsewhere.”

  Reid couldn’t imagine another way she’d rather spend her time right now. Not only would it teach the governor a lesson, but it would also give her the chance to let off some steam.

  “Let’s head back to the precinct,” London said, already buckling her seat belt. “We have a shot at finding Mug if we can figure out the connection between Gil and the killer.”

  London was right. She owed it to Mug to do everything in her power to find him and bring him back home. They’d been sitting in the car for over an hour. There was still no sign of her best friend. Part of her was afraid to leave the spot where he was stolen. What if the killer planned to return Mug to this very same place later on tonight, and then arrived to find her gone? Would that piss him off even more? Send him over the edge?

  Reid realized she wasn’t thinking rationally. By allowing her action—or inaction—to be dictated by fear, she was playing right into the killer’s hands. It was foolish to believe anything she did or didn’t do at this point would affect Mug’s outcome. The killer had already made up his mind. Nothing she did now would change that.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Reid stepped into the elevator with London and pressed the button for the fourth floor. It felt strange not having Mug by her side. Like an extension of her own body, he’d diligently assumed his post on her left for years. There was a deep and indescribable void without him that caught her off guard. She swallowed the lump at the back of her throat.

  London reached out and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll find him.”

  She met London’s gaze and squeezed back. “We better.”

  When they stepped off the elevator, the floor was dark and quiet. A lone janitor was shuffling down the line of desks in the center of the room, emptying small wastebaskets into a large yellow trash can on wheels. Everyone had already gone home fo
r the night.

  Reid walked over to her desk and flipped on the computer. First thing she intended to do was run Gil’s name through the Department of Children and Families. If he’d been abused as she suspected, the abuse had, quite possibly, occurred when he was in the system. Maybe that’s where Gil and the killer had met. She turned to London. “What if they’re not killing as a team?”

  “And killing separately?” London shook her head. “Doesn’t seem likely—not with Gil’s fragile psychology.”

  “No, I mean…what if the killer isn’t showing possessive tendencies at all?” She perched on the edge of her desk to face London. “What if he’s trying to protect Gil?”

  “Like an older brother,” London finished, following her train of thought.

  Reid picked up the printout of Gil’s record. There was no one listed for next of kin. He’d been placed in foster care at eight years old. “Wouldn’t necessarily have to be blood related.”

  “Maybe they met when they were kids, and the killer thinks of him as a brother.”

  “Could be they were in the foster system together. Both abused. Both helpless to do anything about it. One gave up and turned submissive. One turned—”

  “Into a vicious serial killer,” London finished. “I think you’re on to something.”

  “We,” Reid corrected her. “We’re on to something.”

  They turned in unison at the sound of a cell phone ringing across the room. The janitor slipped a phone from his coveralls, answered, and threw a questioning glance in their direction. He ambled over. “You Detective Sylver?”

  Reid nodded, her hand moving to the gun on her hip. She’d seen this particular janitor here for years. But suddenly, everyone was suspect. The realization that the killer had probably been stalking her—watching her and listening in on her private conversations for God knew how long—hit her and hit her hard. The world would never feel quite the same again. She felt fear and anger doing battle inside her, both vying for alpha status. But she’d be damned if she let them take over when so much was on the line.

  The janitor took a step back, carefully set the phone on the edge of her desk, and held his hands up defensively. “No clue who it is, but he’s asking for you.”

  Reid picked up the phone and hit Speaker. Her heart raced as she thought about Mug. “Sylver,” she answered in as calm a voice as she could muster.

  “This is getting old,” the killer said. “To stay in touch and communicate effectively, we need phones.”

  “Me not having a phone doesn’t seem to be an obstacle for you,” she said, massaging his fragile ego to make him feel superior.

  “You’re right. It’s not. I could track you anywhere. It’s just more of an annoying inconvenience. To be perfectly frank, it’s siphoning my time from other activities that I find more enjoyable.”

  “Such as?” She knew from experience that small talk not only served to put a perp at ease, but it could also reveal information that might prove helpful later on.

  “You must know about my preferred activities by now. I’m sure the ME has filled you in on the details.”

  This seemed like an invitation to talk about his necrophilia, but she’d have to handle him with kid gloves. With Mug still in his possession, she couldn’t afford to say anything remotely offensive. He clearly wanted as much power over her as possible. If she had any hope of catching this sonofabitch, it was important she let him have that power. People who were intoxicated with power, like those drunk on alcohol, inevitably let their guard down and were more prone to making mistakes.

  “He did,” she said, careful to keep her tone neutral. “He said you rid both bodies of all organs and fluids before depositing your own.”

  Looking rather pale, the janitor backed away and sat in a nearby chair.

  “Depositing my own?” the killer asked mockingly. “How poetic. You should be the one taking that creative writing class, not O’Leary.”

  She clenched her jaw. So he’d been listening in on her conversations at the precinct, too. How many cases were now compromised as a result? “What term would you prefer me to use?”

  “Detective Sylver, I freed both bodies of all their organs and fluids and then christened them with a gift from my own body.”

  An interesting choice of words to be contemplated later. “Why them?” she asked, curious to hear his answer.

  “Why not?”

  “You know what I like about talking to dead people?”

  “What?” he asked, taking the bait.

  “They don’t judge me. They don’t ask questions about my life or pry into anything personal. There’s always a safe distance there because I’m the one in control. They’re the ones coming to me for help, and that’s the way I like it.” She thought for a moment, the brief silence heavy with anticipation. “Were you trying to help them?”

  “They were looking for redemption, so I gave it to them.”

  “Redemption for what?”

  “But I say unto you, that whosoever looketh on a man to lust after him hath committed adultery with him already in her heart.”

  London grabbed a piece of paper, scribbled something, and held it up for Reid.

  Matthew 5:28. But he changed woman to man.

  Nodding, Reid remembered the Gospel of Matthew perfectly. She recited the next verse from memory. “And if thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell.”

  “I’m impressed. You know your Scripture.”

  Good. She’d earned his respect. This was as good a time as any to ask for something. “What should I call you?”

  “I already told you. You can call me The Giver.”

  “No. Too weird for me.” She sighed. “If we’ll be chatting on a regular basis, I need a name. Your real name.”

  He was silent for so long that she wondered if she’d pushed too hard. “Matthew,” he whispered.

  Her knee-jerk reaction was not to believe him. Having just referenced Matthew in the Bible, he’d probably just grabbed the first name that occurred to him. But she remained quiet and gave herself a beat or two to let the name settle. Something told her he was telling the truth. “Matthew’s a nice name.” She was flying by the seat of her pants now. “You can drop Detective Sylver. Just call me Reid.”

  “You haven’t even asked about your stupid dog.”

  “Figured you’d bring it up when you were ready,” she said nonchalantly. Her back bristled at the word stupid. Mug was anything but.

  “It’s damn ugly, Reid.”

  “I know. That’s why it’s mine.” Objectifying Mug felt like a betrayal, but she knew it was important to follow the killer’s lead. Humanizing Mug would mean she cared about him, effectively canceling the rapport she’d just built with Matthew. He was a psychopath, through and through—incapable of experiencing empathy, compassion, or even the most basic of human emotions. He was obviously intelligent and most likely aware of this abnormality in his own psychology. Dangling her feelings in his face when he didn’t have any would only highlight his inadequacies and anger him. She was also making the point that she’d taken Mug in because he was an outcast. A reject. Just like he was. If she could accept something as ugly as Mug, maybe the killer would believe she could accept him, too.

  “Why didn’t you just put it out of its misery when you had the chance?”

  “You should know by now I don’t do something just because other people think I should.” She waited for a beat before going on, letting her words sink in, letting Matthew relate. “I’d never throw something away because people think it’s ugly. Something so ugly is beautiful in its own way. Like a rare piece of art. It’d be a shame to throw it away just because it’s different.”

  He breathed into the phone.

  Reid knew this was the make-or-break moment for Mug. The killer was now contemplating Mug’s fate.

  “Go home, Reid,
” he said.

  She heard a click, and then he was gone. With a quick look at London, she set her finger over her lips. She tossed the phone back to the janitor and grabbed a notepad from her desk drawer. Heading home, she wrote as London looked on. Have a feeling he’s returning Mug.

  London grabbed a pen off a nearby desk and wrote a reply. I’m coming with you.

  Reid shook her head. Go home. Sleep. But be careful. Eyes and ears open. Meet at my place, 7 a.m. Start fresh tomorrow.

  London looked skeptical. What if he comes after you?

  He won’t.

  London frowned, apparently unconvinced.

  Check in at 3.

  How? No phones.

  Email, Reid proposed.

  London thought about it for a moment and nodded. Coming over if I don’t hear from you.

  The last thing she needed was a beautiful late-night visitor to her home. That would only distract her from the case. Careful going home, Reid warned her. Instincts told her London was more at risk of becoming the killer’s next target than she was. She didn’t think he wanted her dead, but she sensed he was conflicted. It was clear he wanted to exert power over her and make her suffer. At the same time, he also wanted her to relate to and accept him. He wouldn’t harm her—at least not until he figured out exactly what it was he wanted from her.

  You, too, London wrote back. Hope Mug comes home safe. She set the pen down and stepped closer, wrapping her arms around Reid.

  Taken aback by the unexpected gesture, Reid froze.

  London whispered in her ear, “I promise you won’t spontaneously combust if you hug me back.”

  “I might…if you squeeze me any harder,” she whispered back, choosing, against her better judgment, to return the tight embrace. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had actually hugged her.

  “Sorry.” London finally released her, straightened Reid’s sweatshirt like a mother hen, and searched her face. “I’m just an email away if you need me, partner,” she whispered.