Sylver and Gold

by Michelle Larkin

  Boyle and London nodded.

  High chance Golds will be his next target.

  London’s eyes grew wide.

  That’s how we’ll catch him. Wait for him to strike.

  London grabbed the pen from her. NOT using my parents as bait!

  Boyle walked around his desk, slid a drawer open, and withdrew his own notepad. When? he wrote, trusting her instincts and skipping right to the chase, rather than asking why Reid believed the killer would target the Golds.

  Today? Tonight? Soon.

  He put the pen to his lips, thinking. Marino, Boggs, Garcia, O’Leary, and I will sit on their house. We’ll keep them safe. My word. He looked to London, waiting for her stamp of approval.

  Sylver and I go, too.

  Reid set her pen to the paper. Too risky. Killer might spot us. This is our chance to get him.

  Stay close to residence, Boyle wrote. But not too close. I’ll keep you posted every step. When he shows, I’ll sit on him until you get there. Your collar.

  Nodding, London finally conceded. They all locked eyes.

  Boyle put his hand in the middle of their circle, palm down. “Team name?”

  London didn’t hesitate. “Team Miranda.”

  When Boyle and Reid just stared at her, she said, “Miranda rights. Get it?”

  Reid exchanged a glance with Boyle. “Sad,” they said in stereo.

  “I was thinking more along the lines of Pulverizing Predators,” Boyle said.

  “Or Demonic Destroyers,” Reid added.

  “Terrifying Terminators,” Boyle went on.

  “Dangerous Deathstompers,” Reid said. She could do this all day.

  She and Boyle waited, awkwardly holding hands as London stared at the floor in thought. “I’ve got it,” she said, finally looking up.

  “Took her long enough,” Boyle whispered. “Better be good.”

  “Wait a minute.” London craned her neck, peering through the office door. “We need the others in here to make it official.” She hurried out of the office.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “Do we just wait here, holding hands until she comes back?” Boyle asked.

  Reid shrugged. “I guess so.”

  They stood in silence.

  She rubbed the tops of Boyle’s knuckles. “Your hands are very soft.”

  “Cetaphil lotion.” Boyle reached over with his free hand and pulled a green-and-white plastic jar out of his desk drawer. “Keeps my hands moisturized. But it’s unscented, so I don’t smell like a girl.”

  She nodded, impressed.

  London finally returned with Marino, Boggs, Garcia, and O’Leary in tow. “Hands in, everyone.”

  “What for?” Garcia asked suspiciously.

  Reid rolled her eyes. “Team cheer.”

  “Cool.” O’Leary nodded exuberantly.

  “Is this a new thing you’re starting, Lieutenant?” Boggs asked. “Because it’s kinda weird.”

  Marino interjected, “What’s our team name?”

  “Gold was just about to announce that if you’d all shut up for a minute,” Reid said impatiently. Her arm was getting tired.

  One by one, they piled their hands over hers and Boyle’s. All eyes turned to London.

  “Ready?” the rookie asked.

  They all nodded.

  “Our new team name is…The Good Guys,” she announced excitedly.

  They all frowned, quiet as a silent fart.

  “It lacks the intimidating quality that we value in a kick-ass team name,” Boyle said finally. “But it’s not bad.”

  “Actually, I kind of like it,” O’Leary admitted.

  “Hell, we are the good guys,” Marino bellowed.

  “Everyone except you,” Garcia joked.

  “Okay, then.” Boyle counted out, “One, two—”

  “Wait a minute,” O’Leary said. “Are we saying Go, Good Guys or Go, The Good Guys?”

  “Are you shittin’ me, O’Leary?” Boggs asked. “Didn’t you ever play Little League when you were a kid?”

  “No,” O’Leary answered honestly. “No one ever wanted me on their team.”

  They all discreetly exchanged glances.

  “This is my first team cheer.” O’Leary shrugged. “I want to get it right.”

  “Well, that’s just—”

  “Sad,” London interjected.

  “I was going to say pathetic,” Garcia said, “but let’s go with sad.”

  “Remind me to give you a hug later, man,” Marino joked.

  “Go, Good Guys just sounds better.” Boyle winked at O’Leary. “On three. One, two, three…”

  “Go, Good Guys!” they cheered in unison, lifting their hands in the air and grinning like idiots.

  * * *

  Reid, London, and the rest of the Good Guys left their phones at the precinct, stopped by Computer Crimes to grab some surveillance equipment, and headed off in unmarked cars. They weren’t taking any chances with the killer’s hacking and tracking skills.

  Mug looked on from the back seat as Reid selected a spot on the map on the outskirts of the Golds’ neighborhood. They’d park and lie in wait, getting periodic updates from the rest of the team. Reid glanced at the clock on the dash: 3:12 p.m. Depending on when the killer decided to strike—nighttime, most likely—they could have a long wait ahead.

  She hoped he wouldn’t grow suspicious about their whereabouts and postpone his murderous plans. She doubted he possessed the self-control to hold back, even if he wanted to. Instinct told her his rage was approaching a climax, which could only be expressed through extreme violence. He needed to take his anger out on someone. Assuming the Golds were suitable substitutes for his own childhood caretakers, she felt confident he’d go after them with a fury.

  Everything was riding on her instincts—they’d never let her down in the past. She glanced at London. She just hoped her instincts weren’t being clouded by the woman beside her.

  London was in the driver’s seat today. Despite the ten-year fallout with her parents, Reid could sense London was more than a little nervous about their safety. The rookie needed to be behind the wheel and in control if the shit hit the fan.

  London broke the heavy silence. “We don’t even know what the killer looks like.”

  “He’ll be the one wearing a mask and wielding a pointy weapon.”

  London braked at a red light. “Do you think Bill Sullivan saw his face?”

  Reid said nothing. She knew where London was going with this.

  “Because I was thinking, it might be a good idea if you—”

  She headed London off at the pass. “No.”

  “You didn’t even let me finish.”

  “I already know what you’re thinking.”

  “You read minds, too?” London focused her eyes on the road as the light turned green. “That must come in handy.”

  “I can’t do what you’re asking. It’d be too hard.”

  London nodded. “But could you? I mean, if you wanted to?”

  She’d talked to plenty of homicide victims over the years—gang members, Mafia, murderers, rapists. She realized leading an exemplary lifestyle wasn’t a prerequisite for spiritual communication. “He’d probably come if I opened the door,” she admitted, reminding herself of the promise she’d made to London never to lie to her again.

  “All I’m saying is if he has important information about the killer, now’s the time to find out. My parents’ lives are on the line here, Reid.”

  She shook her head. “That was a low blow.”

  “I know, but it’s true. We’re using my parents as bait right now. I’ll blow even lower to keep them from getting hurt.”

  Reid stared at London from the passenger’s seat. “Did you just offer me a blow job?”

  “I guess I did, didn’t I?” London laughed at her own expense. “That was a poor choice of words.”

  She understood why London wanted to use every tool available to them. If things went sideways and
the Golds ended up hurt—or worse, dead—the rookie detective could look back and find comfort in the fact that she’d left no stone unturned. London was their loyal daughter and protector to the end.

  “If I open that door, Bill will be here in the car with us. You okay with that?”

  London nodded. “Creeps me out a little, but I’ll manage. Just make sure he sits in the back so Mug can keep an eye on him.”

  All she had to do was envision Bill Sullivan’s face and open the door inside her mind. She angled the rearview mirror and caught his reflection in an instant. He was now sitting in the back seat beside Mug. It always surprised her that Mug didn’t startle at the sudden appearance of a spirit. He reacted no differently than if a light was switched on to illuminate a dark room. It was almost as if he knew spirits were just harmless manifestations of energy. Mug chuffed under his breath to let her know they had company.

  Didn’t expect to be invited back so soon, especially by you, Bill admitted.

  Reid didn’t bother turning in her seat to address him. She could hear him perfectly inside her mind. “I need to know if you saw the killer’s face.”

  I saw him. Got an up-close-and-personal view.

  “Can you show me?” An image of a young man hovered in her mind, his expression contorted by rage. The left side of his face was badly scarred with the distinct imprint of an iron—the pointed end resting just above his cheekbone. This scar was made even more prominent by the absence of eyebrows and hair on his head. He probably shaved as a precaution against leaving any trace evidence behind. She couldn’t tell if he had any other scars because the rest of his body was hidden beneath stark white coveralls—much like the Tyvek suit she wore upon entering a crime scene. Like an artist’s apron, the coveralls were spattered with bright red blood. In an instant whoosh of information, she knew Bill’s last moments had been excruciating.

  A fitting end to the life I led, he said sadly, his regret palpable.

  “Anything else you can tell me or show me that would help us find who killed you?”

  He kept calling me Harold. Told me I had no right to touch him like that.

  Looked like her theory about the killer was right on the mark. He’d been physically and sexually abused—but not by a woman, as his first two victims suggested. Perhaps Harold’s wife was aware of the abuse and did nothing to stop it. That would explain the killer’s anger toward older women. It would also explain why he’d removed their eyes. See no evil. The puzzle was beginning to come together now.

  Can you please tell London how sorry I am?

  “No.” She turned in her seat to look directly into the eyes of Bill Sullivan’s spirit. “How dare you try and make amends after all this time?”

  “It’s okay, Reid.” London reached out to touch her arm. “Let him speak his piece.”

  “Too late. He’s gone,” she lied, silently kicking herself for breaking her promise to London. She told London about Harold and the scar in the shape of an iron.

  “Either he and Gil shared the same foster parents, or his were no better than Gil’s.” London shook her head. “How do people get away with that kind of abuse? Especially when there are marks in places where everyone can see?”

  “You’d be surprised,” she said, remembering the adults in her life who’d turned a blind eye when she was a kid.

  London reached out for her hand, entwining their fingers. “Your grandmother abused you because she didn’t like that you communicated with spirits.”

  Reid nodded. “The beatings started after I told her I could still see and talk to my parents.”

  London gave her hand a squeeze. “I know nothing about talking with the dead, but can’t you just summon your grandmother’s spirit, like you just did with Bill, and talk to her about your history together? I bet she regrets what she did to you and wants a chance to apologize.”

  Almost immediately after Reid’s grandmother had passed, she’d felt the old woman knocking on the door inside her mind, pleading for contact. Reid had flat-out refused to let her in, telling herself that particular door was cemented shut. Forever. But it didn’t keep her grandmother from trying. Even now, she felt the old woman’s unmistakable presence. Lying in wait like a patient and very hungry lioness.

  Reid shook her head. “Sorry isn’t in her vocabulary.”

  “But what if dying changed her?” London asked. “I believe everyone changes the moment they set foot on the other side, regardless of the choices they made while they were living. I’ve always imagined that being here in this life is like taking a test, a test you never got the chance to study for. You take the test blind and get most of the answers wrong. But as soon as you cross over—bam!—you get all the answers at, like, warp speed, and you’re no longer left guessing.”

  London’s theory pretty accurately depicted the changes spirits seemed to undergo on the other side. At least that was her take after having communicated with them for so long. Whenever a spirit provided her with information on a case, other bits and pieces inevitably crept in. She’d labeled these miscellaneous stowaways as unintentionals. Images, words, sounds—sometimes entire strings of perfectly preserved memories that played inside her mind like previews to a movie—often accompanied the answers to her investigative questions. These unintentionals readily conveyed a spirit’s gratitude and love for those they left behind, along with regret, loss, lessons learned, and heartfelt apologies. Spirits never imparted these messages directly to Reid. They simply drifted out like swirling tendrils of fog as each spirit stepped through the doorway in her mind.

  “I’m sure your grandmother is very sorry for what she did to you,” London went on. “I was raised Catholic, but I don’t believe in hell. God wouldn’t throw us away like trash and cast us into hell to suffer for all eternity because we made some stupid mistakes, not even for the big mistakes. Not the God I know.” She shrugged. “Talking to her could bring you some closure, Reid. Maybe, just maybe, it would allow you to heal and find some peace while you’re still here in this life.”

  On the heels of London’s words, Reid found herself reconsidering her decision to keep the door sealed shut. Food for thought. “He asked me to tell you how sorry he was,” she admitted. “And the bastard never left.” She threw a thumb over her shoulder. “He’s still there.”

  London didn’t flinch. “Tell him I forgive him.”

  “Just like that? After everything he did to you? Your parents haven’t talked to you for ten years because of him,” she said, shaking her head.

  “My parents need to take accountability for their own choices in life. And Bill needs to take accountability for his.” London glanced over with a sad smile. “Sounds to me like he just did.”

  She deserved so much better from me, Bill said.

  When the air grew still, Reid turned to check the back seat. Mug was alone.

  * * *

  London took a deep, cleansing breath. Closure. After all these years, she’d finally gotten the closure she needed with Bill. And she had Reid to thank for that.

  She wished the same for Reid. She was obviously carrying so much hurt, anger, resentment, and shame over the abuse she’d suffered at the hands of her grandmother. If only Reid would use her gift to help herself, it would feel like the weight of the world had been lifted—much like what London was feeling right now. She decided then that, no matter what, she would continue poking and prodding until Reid agreed to have one last chat with her grandmother.

  At the very least, Reid deserved to know what it would feel like to remove that leaden boulder and trek the rest of the way up the mountain with an empty backpack.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  They parked on a side street about a mile from the Gold residence. Reid withdrew the laptop from the case at her feet and turned it on, wirelessly connecting the phone and earbuds they were using for the stakeout.

  She inserted the tiny earbud and handed London hers. “Team Alpha and Omega here,” she said aloud.

  O’Lea
ry’s voice sounded over the earbud, “What I’d like to know is, who’s alpha?”

  “Mug,” they replied in unison.

  “Been working together less than a month, and already they’re finishing each other’s sentences,” O’Leary said. “Reminds me of us, Boggs.”

  O’Leary and Boggs were opposite in every conceivable way, right down to the color of their skin. But they were the best of friends. Where one went, the other was sure to follow.

  “Only difference is, I don’t like you, O’Leary.”

  “I’m not that crazy about Sylver, either,” London admitted. She punched Reid playfully on the arm.

  “Everyone in position?” Boyle asked.

  “Here,” came Marino’s reply.

  “Yo,” Garcia said.

  “The eagle has landed,” O’Leary called out. “I repeat, the eagle has landed.”

  “Suspect’s in your line of sight?” Boyle asked.

  “No. Mr. and Mrs. Gold just got back from grocery shopping. I’ve just always wanted to say, The eagle has landed.”

  “Everyone knows the eagle in this case would be the killer, dummy,” Marino griped.

  “Eyes and ears open, team,” Boyle reminded them. “All joking aside, the sonofabitch we’re after is one clever…um…”

  “Sonofabitch?” Garcia finished for him.

  “Thanks, Garcia. I was having a brain fart there.”

  Hours passed with no sign of the killer. The day grew dark. Reid reached in the back seat and rubbed Mug’s neck. “Hey, Lieutenant. Thanks for Mug’s new collar, by the way.”

  Boyle didn’t answer right away. “I didn’t get him a collar.”

  Reid froze. The collar could have come from only one other place. She suddenly felt very conspicuous in their unmarked car.

  “You thinking what I’m thinking?” Boyle asked.

  “Same page.” She was already unbuckling Mug’s collar to confirm her suspicions. A small device had been stitched into the fabric. Probably a GPS tracker or an audio / video surveillance device…or both. Damn. So much for the element of surprise. “We’ve been compromised.”