Shatter the Night

by Emily Littlejohn

  I sat up. “There were two babies? Twins?”

  “No, no. The last photograph in Josiah’s wallet is a picture of a much older Amelia, a young woman, and a toddler on the woman’s lap. They’re standing in front of an amusement park ride. The young woman is the spitting image of Amelia. The back of the photograph reads ‘Christmas Eve, 1983. Grandma Millie, Debbie, and Casey’s first time to Disneyland.’”

  So Josiah Black not only had a daughter, he had a grandchild as well.

  I glanced at Finn and Jimmy; the huge grins on their faces must have matched mine. “You’ve struck gold, Renee. This is an incredible break in our case.”

  “This is so exciting! I love a good mystery. Oh, I hear a fax coming in. That might be Amelia’s last will and testament. I haven’t even told you about that yet. I tracked Amelia down to an itty-bitty town in Texas on the coast. Poor dear, she died in the early 1990s; but bless her heart, she filed paperwork with the county a few years before. I sweet-talked the clerk into faxing it over to me,” Renee said.

  “You are an angel, Renee.”

  “Okay, here we go … last will and testament, blah, blah, blah, legalese, more legal speak. Ah-ha! Amelia Black left everything to her only living child, one Debbie Jo Black of Seaport, Texas. Looks like the whole family relocated there.”

  “This is wonderful, Renee. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “As I said, it’s my pleasure. I’ll get this will, and the photographs, scanned and emailed to you. I know you’re hot on the trail.”

  I hung up slowly, certain that what I’d expressed earlier was true: we were chasing down ghosts.

  Chapter Twenty

  Finn, Jimmy, and I spent the next hour digging deep. I put Jimmy on tracking down Debbie Black, while Finn and I tossed around ideas. The thing was, not only were Debbie and Casey Black the only known connections we had to Josiah Black, they were also both potential suspects in the recent killings. Debbie would be in her late sixties; if Casey had been a toddler or infant in 1983, that would put him or her in their mid-to-late thirties.

  Just a few years older than me.

  Debbie and Casey Black.

  Finn tossed a rubber stress ball up in the air and caught it, over and over, from the chair at his desk. “Josiah Black testified during his trial. But instead of focusing on an alibi or excuses, he used his time to talk about the suffering Amelia Black had endured since the moment he was arrested.”

  “Yes. That’s why she fled town; she was practically chased out by crazed neighbors with pitchforks and torches. Can you imagine what kind of stories Debbie and then Casey grew up with? What resentments they might harbor toward this town?” I flipped to a section in Black’s trial notes that I’d earmarked and read aloud: “‘My wife has done nothing wrong. And yet she can no longer go to the market, or walk with her parents in the park. Perhaps worst of all, she has been let go from her position at the elementary school. Her life has been ruined.’”

  Finn threw the ball in the air one last time, then caught it and slipped it in a drawer. “I feel for her, but Josiah, her husband … he caused all of this. He brought this down on the family himself. No matter what Ives Farmington believed, Black was the only suspect. Any pain that his actions caused his family rest with him.”

  “But Amelia didn’t do anything.”

  Finn shrugged. “Collateral damage. Gemma, we see it all the time. Dad or Mom is incarcerated and generations suffer.”

  I started to respond when Louis Moriarty and Lucas Armstrong arrived. Moriarty slipped his jacket off and wiped his brow. “Why can’t this shit ever be easy? Mike Esposito’s grow house wasn’t a house at all—it was an old Quonset hut that was locked from here to eternity. Took us an hour just to get the front door open. Not only that, but the house was a quarter-mile walk in off the main road. Need an ATV to get in there. Did we have an ATV with us? Of course not. So we hoofed it in, then back to get the bolt cutters, then back to the house, and so on. My feet are killing me.”

  Jimmy, still deep in his research on Debbie Black, said in a low voice, “Maybe you should think about retiring.”

  What Jimmy hadn’t yet learned was that Moriarty’s hearing was excellent, the best on the squad. The older cop turned a black eye to Jimmy and said in a low voice, “Maybe you should think about keeping that big mouth of yours shut, kid.”

  Jimmy’s head snapped back to his computer, his eyes wide.

  “What Lou is saying is true. Hell of a mess getting in. But, once we were inside … Esposito was supplying someone, somewhere, with a heck of a lot of weed. He wasn’t dealing himself; town this size, we’d have known about it. It was a slick operation; generators for power, top-of-the-line lighting system. There’s a lot of money in cannabis growing. I heard wholesale can get up to four grand a pound.” Armstrong slipped off his own jacket, loosened his collar. Half-moons of sweat stained the armpits of his otherwise immaculate white dress shirt. “Esposito’s murder might have been a hit after all.”

  I shook my head. “That doesn’t explain the comic book connection. And we know that Josiah Black also targeted First Pillar for his second crime.”

  Moriarty and Armstrong wore identical looks of confusion. I started the whole story over again, beginning with my email to Aimee Corn and ending with the latest: that while Josiah’s wife had passed, there was a chance both their child and grandchild were still living.

  Armstrong went to the board and tapped first the photograph of Caleb Montgomery’s burned body, then the photograph of the pool of scarlet blood on the pink marbled floor of First Pillar Bank and Trust. “You’re telling me this has been done before?”

  At that moment, Maggie Armstrong enter the squad room. “Hey, Dad.”

  Armstrong moved quickly, hoping to intercept her before she got too close to our murder board, but he wasn’t quite quick enough. She gaped at the crime scene photographs, fixating on the bloody holes in Mike Esposito’s back.

  “Ah, Mags, you should have waited up front.” Armstrong put his hand on her shoulder, tried to turn her away from the gruesome images, but she was rooted in place.

  “I had to use the restroom,” she said in a low voice. “These are … horrible. What kind of a monster could do this to another human being?”

  Armstrong yanked at the curtains that hung from the ceiling, in place specifically for this reason, but the fabric got stuck on the rod, and did little to cover our notes.

  “No, don’t try to protect me. If I’m going to go into law, these are the sorts of things I have to get used to seeing.” Maggie’s big brown eyes widened. “How do you live with it, all of it?”

  She looked around at us, stopping at me. “How?”

  I thought about the cases I’d worked over the years, the victims and their families, their friends. The loved ones left behind. I swallowed and gave her the only answer I had. “One day at a time, Maggie. One day at a time.”

  * * *

  On the way home, I decided to pay another visit to Bull. I owed him an update on the case and it would be good to get his insight on the Josiah Black angle. I found him in his study, sipping from a tumbler of whiskey, an old black-and-white murder mystery on the television, a photo album in his lap.

  He was happy to see me, though the room had an air of melancholy about it and I knew we weren’t alone. Bull was sitting amongst the ghosts of old friends. Maybe he was on his way to becoming one himself; his eyes were tired, his face pale in the reflection of the television.

  I told him about the Josiah Black crimes, the robbery and killing at First Pillar. My sense that somehow, an evil presence had been summoned to our town.

  Bull sighed. “Perhaps it never left. There’s something wrong with Cedar Valley, Gemma. I think most people know it; they just don’t like to dwell on it. Much easier to turn a blind eye and go about the day, never acknowledging the terrors that run beneath our feet like sewer water.”

  “Isn’t it like that in most places? All the towns in the valley were built
by greed and heartache; pillage and murder. I’ve heard it said that as the buildings on Main Street went up, the blood of miners and builders ran down the streets like so much rainwater. And all the while, the founders, those old men we’ve all so quaintly taken to calling the Silver Foxes, smiled and counted their coin.” I sat back, took a sip of Bull’s whiskey. “Anyway. How are you holding up? I didn’t get to talk to you very much at Caleb’s memorial service.”

  Bull shrugged and drew his thin red cardigan tighter against his chest. “I’ve been thinking about France.”

  “France? As in Paris, France?”

  “Provence, specifically. After your grandmother passes, which God willing won’t be for many more years, I think it would be a good idea to get out of the country. I’ve always wanted to visit Provence, ever since I was a little boy and read about it in a history book. There won’t be much keeping me here at that point, Gemma. Oh, I know, you and Brody and Grace are here. But you’re busy with your own lives. You don’t need to spend your precious free time entertaining an old coot.” Bull paused, finished his whiskey, glanced at me. “I didn’t even offer you a drink.”

  “Don’t change the subject. Bull, this is the first I’ve heard of your plans. We enjoy seeing you. I’d like Grace to grow up knowing you.” Though I tried to hide it, I was shaken. My grandparents had been the grounding force in my life for years. As a child and teenager, it was them I’d always aimed to please; it was their smiles and praises I’d loved to earn.

  And as an adult, it was to them that I went for wisdom and advice, for reassuring hugs no matter how bad it got, how gravely I messed up. The thought of Bull and Julia no longer being nearby was deeply unsettling.

  They were both still here and I was already grieving.

  I thought of something important. “You hate foreign food. You’ll starve to death in France.”

  Bull chuckled. “I’m fairly certain that if push came to shove, I could survive on bread and cheese and wine. You know, you could come visit. All of you. I’ve been looking online at rentals; they’ve got these gorgeous old farmhouses for pennies on the dollar. Grace would love the lavender fields.”

  “You’re really serious, aren’t you? I can’t deal with this right now. Listen, there’s something else I wanted to ask you about. I met Rose Underhill the other day.” I paused, watching for his reaction. To my surprise, he went pale.

  “Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time.”

  “She insinuated that at one time, you two were quite close.”

  Bull massaged the back of his neck. “I suppose you could say that. We were … friends.”

  “The sheriff said I should ask you about Red Dalton.”

  Bull suddenly stood, the photo album in his lap falling to the ground with a sharp thump. “What else did she say?”

  Startled, I leaned back. A look of fury, and something else, something that appeared to be panic, had risen in his eyes. “Nothing. That was it. She had sort of a funny smile on her face and just said to ask you about it.”

  Bull sighed and clicked off the movie. He moved slowly to the study door. “I’m tired, sweetheart. I think I’ll lie down for a while. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

  “That’s it? That’s all I get?”

  He gave me a brief, sad smile. “Good night, sweetheart. Drive safely. And if you see Rose Underhill again, please, don’t trust a word she says.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Wednesday dawned and with it, the unsettling sense that I’d never see the sun again. In my mind, the coming darkness of winter, with its short days and longer nights, seemed to stretch on to the end of time. As I made breakfast and fed Grace, I tried to shake the unease that had settled over me. I knew some of it stemmed from the fact that we were rapidly approaching the seventy-year anniversary of the terrible fire at John Sven’s pub, and that a copycat killer aimed to somehow re-create the massacre. I was also still unsettled by my visit with Bull. The man I thought of as an open book appeared to have secrets of his own.

  A gentle snow fell as I drove down the canyon. The powdery flakes should have been comforting, cleansing. Instead the snow seemed to smother all that it touched, as though winter could only exist once everything around it had died.

  At the station, Finn intercepted me in the lobby. “I just asked Liv to come in for an interview.”

  “Right now? Okay. Let me put my things down.” I headed to my desk, Finn at my side. “Has something happened?”

  “Not exactly. Well, yes.” Finn looked at the ground, the ceiling, anywhere but at me. “I slept with her last night.”

  “I need to know this?”

  “We stayed at her house. I felt like a damn teenager, sneaking up Moriarty’s garage steps to her rental. Anyway, afterwards, she fell asleep. I was up late, watched some shows. But she’s got all these books around her living room, journals and sketch pads.” Finn rubbed his face. “Personal things.”

  “Please don’t tell me you took a look at them.”

  “I took a look at them.”

  Groaning, I sat down. “What were you thinking? You shouldn’t be poking around her things. If she’s innocent, it’s a disgusting invasion of privacy. And if she’s guilty, anything you found will be inadmissible in court.”

  “You think I don’t know all that? Jesus.”

  I let him stew another minute, then asked, “What did you find?”

  Finn pulled his phone from his back pocket and pulled up a series of photos. “Liv is an artist. She sketches, mostly pencil, some ink. Look at these drawings.”

  I took in the art. It was incredibly detailed; detailed and creative. Ramirez had taken various comic book superheroes and placed them, as older individuals, into scenes of everyday life, where their superpowers had little or no importance.

  She’d drawn Batman with a welding mask on, lifted to reveal a sweat-soaked brow, a broken-down Batmobile at his side. In another scene, a pregnant Wonder Woman stood in line at a grocery store, a couple of babies in her shopping cart and another pulling at her lasso. She flicked through a tabloid, the look on her face equal parts boredom and grief. A third sketch showed Superman on the floor, a limp dog in his arms, tears streaking down his face. Standing above the sobbing superhero was a veterinarian, a long syringe in his hands, a sympathetic look in his eyes.

  They went on like that, dozens of sketches. Each seemed to ask and say the same thing: How did I get here? What happened to my life? I was a big deal once.

  Finn put his phone away slowly. “See what I mean?”

  “You did the right thing, calling her in.”

  He was quiet a moment. “I like her, Gemma. I like her quite a bit.” He started to say more, but the desk sergeant rang, announcing her arrival.

  Finn smiled grimly. “Showtime.”

  We sat with her in a small room used for interviews and interrogations. Ramirez refused to look at Finn and was frosty, cold, even, with me. She wore a black turtleneck sweater and dark jeans, with steel-toed boots. With her hair down, loose around her shoulders, and her green-gold eyes flashing with anger, she looked like a softer, more vulnerable version of herself. She’d brought Fuego, and the dog lay at her feet, softly whining.

  “Why am I here?”

  “We need to ask you a few questions. About the Caleb Montgomery and Mike Esposito killings.” I opened my notebook and turned to a fresh page. Ramirez watched me with disdain in her eyes, though I noticed her hands were tightly wound together as if to keep from shaking. “As our investigation has progressed, as you know, we’ve narrowed our suspect list down to someone with military experience, especially sniper and explosives work. We now believe the killer or killers are re-creating the crimes of a man named Josiah Black, who was convicted of multiple murders in the 1940s. In addition, we believe the killer models him or herself after Ghost Boy.”

  “Who?” Ramirez asked, a confused look on her face.

  “Ghost Boy is a comic book supervillain, a double agent who is sk
illed in martial arts.”

  She sat back, a disgusted look on her face. Still not acknowledging Finn’s presence in the room, she said, “Last night, I made the tremendous mistake of having sex with a colleague. Finn Nowlin. I believe you know him? When I woke this morning, it was obvious he’d gone through my things. He’s sloppy in more ways than one. That’s really why I’m here, isn’t it? He saw my art, my private art, and now you guys think I’m a maniac killer.”

  “Then help us. Help us understand these connections you have to our case,” Finn pleaded. I’d never seen the look in his eyes before; it was one of humble penitence. “I’m truly sorry for what I did. It wasn’t right and you have every reason to hate me. But you have to understand, we’re trying to prevent a massacre.”

  “I don’t have to understand anything. Also? You’re terrible in bed.” Ramirez turned away, stared at the wall. Under the table, I kicked Finn. When he looked at me, I mouthed, Get out of here.

  He sighed quietly and left, closing the door gently behind him.

  “Liv? Finn’s gone. It’s just the two of us. Please. I know you didn’t kill Caleb Montgomery or Michael Esposito. Is there someone, perhaps from your past, that could be involved? A partner, a former soldier you knew overseas?” My questions were cautious, stated calmly. Liv Ramirez was giving off every signal in the book that any minute now, she, too, would bolt from the room.

  “Liv? Talk to me. The sooner you do, the sooner you can go.”

  Finally, she turned and met my gaze. She sighed deeply, unclenched her hands. “I was really tired when I arrived in Cedar Valley. I’d driven all night from Las Vegas, just Fuego and I, a couple of suitcases and my art supplies in the trunk of my car. As my chief in Vegas explained, Max Teller owed him a favor and if I wanted it, there was a job in Colorado with my name on it. I liked Vegas, I truly did, until I didn’t.”

  “What happened in Vegas?”