Where the Truth Lives

by Mia Sheridan

  He stared at her still image a moment longer and then rewound the video again, this time pulling both images up side by side and watching them play simultaneously. He watched Liza enter the building, and something caught his attention on the closed door of the upper floor. He rewound it, watched it again. “What in the world?” he muttered. A chill traveled down his spine. What did that mean?

  “What were you doing, Liza?” he asked the mostly empty room.

  His phone rang, startling him.

  “Hello?” he snapped.

  “Yo,” Ransom said. “Are you at home?”

  “No, I’m at the office. Going through video.”

  “Oh.” He sighed. “Welp. Put that aside and get down to McMicken and Nagel. I’m on my way now. A DOA just got called in. The eyes are missing. They appear to be filled with a black substance.”

  Shit.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The entire block was lit up. Police lights rotated like strobes, causing the fog to pulse an eerie muted red.

  A crowd of civilians had already gathered, a motley looking crew of those who conducted their business in the hours between dusk and dawn and not the other way around. There was a whole segment of society that woke up once most folks had long gone to bed for the night. Some were good, some were not. Most were just trying to survive.

  “Hey, Ransom! Ransom!” a skinny girl with tall boots and a short skirt called. “Ransom, I know that guy,” she said. “The one in the alley.”

  Reed walked behind Ransom as he approached the girl. “Yeah? Who is he?” he asked, gesturing for her to step aside.

  She did, walking unsteadily on her high heels. She glanced around her but everyone’s focus seemed to be on the crime scene crew working around a prone figure down the alley in front of them. She held out her hand. “Can I get some cash first? My baby needs diapers.”

  Ransom pulled a twenty out of his pocket, keeping his gaze on her. She picked at a meth sore on her cheek as her eyes darted down to the money. “His name’s Toby. He deals down on Mohawk.”

  “Toby what?”

  The girl sniffed, wiped at her nose. “I don’t know. Just Toby.”

  Ransom regarded her. “You messed up with drugs again, Sheena?”

  Sheena shook her head. “Nah. I’m trying to get my kid back.”

  “I thought you said your kid needs diapers.”

  “He does. He’s with my mom and I’m gonna drop some off. I’m in a program now.”

  “Yeah? That’s great. Stick with it.”

  She nodded. “I will. Hey!” She looked back and forth between Ransom and Reed, smiled in a way that made Reed think she’d forgotten what a real one looked like and was just moving her muscles in some half-remembered simulation. “If you have any more questions, you know where to find me, right, Ransom?”

  Ransom gave her a half-hearted wave and walked toward the yellow caution tape protecting the scene and Reed followed. “Sheena,” Ransom muttered. “She used to work as a CI when I was undercover.” He blew out a breath. “Fucking sad.”

  Reed didn’t disagree. Mostly, he was sad for that baby she’d mentioned.

  They headed down the alley. The scent of rot hit Reed’s nose and he grimaced.

  “Hey, Carlyle. Davies,” a criminalist named Maria Vasquez greeted. After saying hi to her and the other team members close by, Reed swore softly, bending down next to the dead man lying against a pile of garbage bags so tall, it looked like they might topple over at any moment. It smelled to high heaven.

  “Hell of a crime scene, huh?” he muttered, noting the sludge on the ground where bags of trash had leaked onto the pavement. The techs would be there all night bagging rat excrement.

  The criminalist next to him sighed but didn’t comment.

  Reed took in the sight of the murder victim. He looked just like Steven Sadowski had, mouth open, empty eye sockets filled with black paint dripping down his stubbled, sunken-in cheeks.

  Reed reached in his pocket and pulled out a pair of nitrile gloves he’d grabbed from his trunk. He snapped them on before pulling the collar of the man’s shirt down. “Ligature mark on neck,” he said.

  “Looks like the cause of death,” Maria noted as the second criminalist shot a photo next to her, Reed squinting from the flash.

  “Have you checked his pockets?” Reed asked.

  “We checked for a wallet. There was one in his jacket pocket. No ID, just a wad of cash, and some pills wrapped in plastic. It’s all over there in an evidence bag.” She gestured toward a collection case nearby.

  “Have you checked down his pants?”

  Maria glanced up from her work. “We usually leave it to the ME to undress the victim.”

  “Check down the front of his pants for me, will you?”

  Maria shrugged, pulling the man’s track pants down slightly. There was a handkerchief with something wrapped in it sitting on his groin. Maria pulled the handkerchief out and set it on top of a paper evidence bag. When she unwrapped it, they all stared down at a pair of eyeballs, muscle and flesh hanging from the edges in torn clumps. Reed cringed.

  “Well then. That’ll haunt my dreams,” Ransom said. “Is there supposed to be some kind of message here? Why not just put the eyeballs in his pocket or something? Why down his pants?”

  “Relating his eyeballs to his . . . other balls?” Reed murmured.

  “Yeah? How so?” Ransom asked, sounding genuinely interested.

  “I have no idea. I’m just throwing out random theories.” Reed addressed Maria, “What about the back of his neck? Can we get a look?”

  “Yeah. I’ll hold his head and you push him toward me,” Maria instructed.

  Reed pushed while Maria held the victim’s head steady and Ransom leaned in next to Reed. A red circular brand could be seen standing out starkly against the man’s pale, lifeless skin. “Same leaf,” Reed said. Ransom took out his phone and shot a quick photo of the brand and then Reed and Maria positioned the body back where it’d been.

  “Same killer,” Ransom said. “No doubt.”

  “No doubt,” Reed agreed.

  As Maria picked up each detached eyeball and placed them in an evidence bag, Reed noted that they looked far neater than Steven Sadowski’s had looked.

  Fuck.

  The killer was already improving his craft.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Liza rubbed her temples, attempting to massage away the stress and fatigue of a long day where nothing had seemed to go right.

  A knock sounded at her door. “Dr. Nolan, Detective Davies is here to see you.”

  At the mention of his name, Liza’s heart lurched and then picked up an erratic pattern. Reed. She’d convinced herself she wouldn’t see him again and was irritated by her own excited response to his unexpected visit. She took a deep breath and smiled placidly at her secretary. “Of course. Have him come in.”

  Carol nodded and disappeared for a moment and when she returned, Reed was behind her. He entered her office and Carol closed the door behind him.

  “Hi,” she said, standing and walking around her desk. She held her hand out and he took it in his. An awkward pause ensued as they both stared at their hands. She dropped hers and their eyes met. The graceless distance seemed so stupid to Liza suddenly. Here they were, two people who had been about as physically intimate as two people could be and they were nervous to shake each other’s hands.

  “Hi,” he said back. He did this thing with his expression, a sort of self-deprecating half-smile that made her heart do an unexpected flip. The man was incredibly gorgeous and smart, so why wasn’t he cocky? Arrogant? What had made him so . . . intuitive? Thoughtful?

  She had to remind herself again that she didn’t want to know.

  Liza indicated the seating area near the window. He took a seat in one of the chairs, and she sat across from him.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call first,” he said. “I hope I’m not interrupting you.”

  “No. It’s fine. I’v
e seen my last patient of the day. I was just doing some paperwork.”

  He nodded, his eyes moving over her features as though he was making note of something he could see in her expression that she wasn’t saying with her words. Did she look tired? Overwhelmed? Probably. She hadn’t been sleeping well. She’d like to blame it solely on the horror of finding her mutilated boss, but she knew it was more than that. She had woken, shaking in cold sweats more than once, remembering Steven’s grotesque corpse. Equally though, she hadn’t slept well since the night spent with the man sitting in front of her. Prior to the murder, she’d woken up sweating for an entirely different reason, and those memories had calmed her . . . and excited her.

  “I have a few more questions.”

  “Oh. Of course. Okay.”

  He pulled several photographs of orange pill bottles out of his pocket and handed them to her. Liza frowned, taking them from his hand and reading the close-ups of the partial labels, most of the information peeled off. “What are these?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me. I spoke to someone in poison control but figured you might have some additional information.” He scratched at his jaw. “I also wanted to know if you recognized the names on those prescriptions.”

  Liza shook her head. “I don’t recognize the names.” She looked up at Reed. “I do know these drugs, as they’re used to treat mental conditions, though I should note that psychologists aren’t licensed to prescribe any medication.”

  “Yes, I realize you don’t prescribe medications, but many of the patients you work with must be on them?”

  “Most of them, yes. Treating mental illness can often be a multipronged approach. It just depends. And there are certainly conditions with a biological basis that can only be treated with medication.”

  Reed sat back, studying her for a moment. “Can I ask a more personal question?”

  She raised a brow. “You’re nosy aren’t you, Detective?”

  “Sort of goes along with the job.” He gave her that self-deprecating smile and her tummy tightened.

  She glanced away and let out a smile on a breath. “I suppose it does. Yes, you can ask a personal question.”

  “Is there a reason you went into psychology as opposed to psychiatry?”

  Liza relaxed, giving him a wry tilt of her lips. “Are you asking why I chose the field of study less based on science than on wild theories and fuzzy speculation?”

  Reed chuckled and raised his hands. “Whoa. Not at all. I have deep respect for both fields of study.” He paused for a moment. “I sometimes think medications can cause more harm than good when they’re used to mask emotions that are at the root of a problem.” He shrugged. “Or that they’re meant to be a temporary fix to something that requires more long-term solutions.”

  Liza nodded. “Yes, absolutely. The truth is, both fields can be hit and miss in their own ways. And we’re dealing with the human mind and a whole bevy of unique experiences. There are endless variables.”

  Reed smiled. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Liza gave a short laugh, thinking about what he’d asked. “I guess I simply prefer to focus exclusively on treating mental and emotional suffering with behavioral intervention.” She tilted her head. “Psychology can be similar to detective work. It’s sort of like searching for the lost. If you can figure out what turns they took, how deep they went, you can find them and ultimately help lead them home.” She leaned forward. “Somewhere in there, Reed, in the midst of all those twisted pathways and shadowy corners is . . . where the truth lives. Find that, and you find them.”

  “And then the real work begins,” he said softly.

  She blinked at him. He got it, he really did. “Exactly,” she answered.

  He was gazing at her so intensely and she felt exposed suddenly, as though he’d heard something she hadn’t meant to say. “And of course, I have to be nosy sometimes too,” she said, attempting to lighten the moment.

  He laughed. “I guess you do.” They smiled at each other for a moment before he said, “You love it. Your work.”

  “Yes. Very much. I’ll be honest, there aren’t many moments of triumph, but when there are, it’s like . . .” She felt a buzz in her chest, the desire to convey to him how those rare moments felt. Her eyes widened as she gathered her thoughts, sitting forward and opening her mouth to speak when she suddenly realized she was at risk of getting carried away. She grimaced, leaning back as her pained expression morphed into a short laugh. “Anyway, I could obviously go on and on. But you’re here for a reason and my dissertation on mental health strategies is not that reason.” But as Liza smiled across at him, she realized that, though it was a topic she was passionate about, she enjoyed talking to him in general, and it was clear to her that whether they were joking with each other the way they had the first night they met or talking about serious topics, she wanted more of it. She wanted to know what baseball team he liked, and whether he’d ever been to the ocean. She wanted to know if he read books or liked movies, and what he thought about first thing in the morning. And somehow she knew he’d have interesting things to say about all of it.

  I like you, Reed Davies.

  Dammit.

  It wasn’t fair, because she couldn’t have any more of him than she’d already had. And it wasn’t enough.

  Reed sat back, regarding her. It was like he knew what she was thinking. Liza cleared her throat, her hand moving unconsciously to the collar of her button-down blouse. She tugged at it and then realized what she was doing, her hand fluttering away. His gaze lingered on her throat for a moment and she knew he’d seen the thin pink scar. Her stomach cramped. “Anyway,” she said, picking up one of the photos from her lap, “This is a barbiturate that’s commonly prescribed for patients with anxiety and sleep disorders.” She picked up the next two. “Both of these are benzodiazepines, which are usually used for serious panic attacks.” She picked up the last one. “And this is an antidepressant.”

  Reed nodded as she passed the photos back to him. “Thank you.” He pulled up something on his phone and turned it toward her. “Do you recognize this man?”

  Liza moved her gaze to the screen showing a man who looked to be in his forties or fifties with a receding hairline and an unshaven face. There was something seedy-looking about his expression that she couldn’t exactly describe in words. Staring at him sent a shiver down her spine. She would remember him if she’d ever seen him before. “No. Who is he?”

  “Another victim. Same manner of death as Steven Sadowski.”

  Liza pulled in a surprised breath. “The eyes . . .”

  Reed gave a quick nod. “Yes, the same.”

  “Oh my God. Why? How?”

  “I don’t know, but it appears he was a low-level dealer of prescription medication.” He gestured to the folder where he’d put the photos on the table in front of him. “Those pill bottles were found in his apartment, along with multiple baggies of unlabeled pills.”

  “What does he have to do with Steven Sadowski or this hospital?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Is there any way Steven Sadowski had a part in an illegal prescription drug business? That he was working with the man whose picture you just looked at?”

  “No. I mean, I didn’t work with Mr. Sadowski for long, but he wasn’t a doctor. He didn’t prescribe medication. And there was never so much as a whisper of that.” Liza paused. “Is there evidence that that’s what was going on?”

  “No. None. I’m just trying to develop a motive. I might be off-base, but I have to ask the questions.”

  She nodded. “I understand. You might want to talk to Dr. Headley too. He’s a psychiatrist. He might have more insight on those particular medications, or maybe even the patients.”

  “I went to see him first, but he was with a patient.”

  “Oh.” Why did she feel slightly disappointed? The knowledge that he’d come to see Chad, and he’d sought her out merely as a default so
urce of information? And was she really so self-involved that she was even thinking about that considering the reason Reed Davies was there was because a man had been brutally murdered? His eyes removed.

  “I . . . do have another question.” His lips thinned and he looked torn. It made her feel suddenly wary.

  “Yes?”

  “We watched the tapes of you entering the building and finding Steven Sadowski’s body.”

  Her hand went to her throat once more, and again, she quickly dropped it. “Oh. Yes? I mean, of course.” Nerves spiraled in Liza’s belly.

  “You began entering the building and then left and came back a few minutes later. Do you remember why?”

  I needed a moment to gather some courage. Liza cast her eyes to the side. “I probably left something in my car. I’m sorry, I don’t really remember what.”

  Reed nodded. “All right. I’m also curious why it took you so long to climb the stairs. Seven minutes from the time you entered the building until you appeared on the third floor.”

  She stared at him, her heart pounding. She felt a flush creeping up her neck. This is why, she told herself. This is why you cannot know Reed Davies. She let out a small laugh. “Avoiding work I suppose. Dragging my feet.” She attempted a smile but he didn’t smile back. Her expression slipped.

  “That behavioral therapy you mentioned. Do you apply it to yourself sometimes?” His words were direct, but his tone was gentle.

  “What?” The word came out breathy. Humiliation swept through her.

  “You were testing yourself, weren’t you? In the dark.”

  “I’m sorry, are my stair-climbing habits part of your investigation? I can assure you they have nothing to do with what happened to Mr. Sadowski.”

  “You entered the building and I watched the light go off from beneath the doorway of the third floor. It went back on right before you emerged. You made it up the stairs, but it took you seven minutes because you were afraid.” He paused, leaned forward, his eyes, those beautiful, knowing eyes boring into her. “The same way you were in my apartment when I turned off the lights. It was just a moment, Liza, but I saw.”