by Maria Luis
Brady was a good cop, and an even better homicide detective. With one glance at Mardeaux, Brady knew they had their guy. It was written all over the other man, from his bloodshot, shifty eyes, to the tick leaping in his jaw, to the sweat soaking through his T-shirt.
Guilt that Julian would never meet his father settled in his stomach like soured milk.
This is your job.
He sat back in his chair, slumping slightly to impress the image that he was laid back. The nice cop to Summers’ uptight play-by-the-rules-I’ve-got-a-rod-shoved-up-my-ass.
“You warm?” Brady asked, flipping to a fresh page on his legal pad. He clicked open the ballpoint pen. He didn’t really need to take notes on a case like this. The little gray bulb behind his right shoulder captured everything on camera. Plus, Brady had been overseeing this case for weeks now. Habit was habit, however, and he kept the legal pad balanced against his knee.
“Y’all got the heat blasting in here or somethin’?”
Mardeaux was missing some teeth. Meth, if Brady had to guess. The pockmarks on the man’s face were a telltale sign of a drug user. Anna’s ex-boyfriend looked like he’d been through Hell and was still feeling the effects of Hades’ bare-knuckled wrath.
“Or somethin’,” Brady said evenly. “Now, tell me, how do you know Caleb Kemper?”
Anthony’s gaze shot to Summers before dropping listlessly to the table. “I already told y’all. He lives in the same neighborhood as me.”
“I was under the impression that he worked for you.”
Mardeaux shrugged. “Gave him a job. Shitty worker, though. Always stayed at his girlfriend’s instead.”
Brady nodded. “Your shop is just a block away from where Caleb’s girlfriend lives, right?”
“Yeah.” Mardeaux watched as Brady clicked his pen again. Click. Open. Click. Shut. Click. Open. Click. Shut. A tick started in the man’s jawline.
“So, he did some work for you in the shop. Was he a mechanic?” Summers piped up from the chair next to Brady’s. “One of your employees confirmed that you hired Kemper, but that he rarely came in to work.”
Mardeaux’s mouth flat-lined.
Brady took over. “Mr. Mardeaux, can you explain to us what exactly it was that Kemper did for you? If he wasn’t working on the cars and he wasn’t set up in the office, then we’re at a loss as to what he necessarily did—”
“Y’all are gonna need some fucking good luck to try and pin those dead people on me.” The wooden chair carrying Mardeaux’s bulk creaked as he leaned forward. His hands darted through his hair, yanking the greasy strands up in the air. “Caleb was fucked up. Right here”—Mardeaux tapped his finger against his temple—“real messed up, you heard? He had this sick thing about waiting over the dead bodies, listenin’ for that one moment when they stopped breathin’. Bet he didn’t tell you that now.”
Brady felt the other detective’s eyes rest on him, but he refused to return the look. The thing about criminals like Anthony Mardeaux was that they liked to find weaknesses in others and exacerbate it. To say nothing of the fact that the man had just admitted to knowing Caleb Kemper had been on a killing bent—with regards to the law, he’d just pinned himself as an accessory to murder.
He knew what Mardeaux wanted. Knew what sort of game the man was playing in the hopes that he could get his ass out of the situation unscathed. Offer “insider” information and hope for a pardon. And, hell, it might have worked if not for the fact that they had Mardeaux’s fingerprints on the barrels of two guns.
Mardeaux’s case wasn’t helped by the fact that Caleb Kemper had boasted about not acting alone.
Brady leaned over the armrest to put the legal pad on the floor at his feet. “Let’s get back to Kemper working at your auto body shop. Can you tell us what exactly he did?”
“I hired him to help me with selling extra parts from the auto shop. Is that a crime? Hirin’ one of them neighborhood boys?”
Summers rested one arm on the edge of the table. “How long had he worked for you before you showed him your gun collection?”
Damn, that was a good one. Brady had planned to ask something similar, except that sliding it in now had been a good play on Summers’ behalf. Excellent timing. Didn’t mean that Brady thought the other detective was perfect for the sergeant position, though.
“I wouldn’t call two guns a collection now, Mister Detective Sir.” Mardeaux’s smile was slow-going, edging up at the corners of his lips like he wasn’t accustomed to finding pure joy in anything. His sharp little teeth looked like a graveyard of spikes in his mouth.
Brady mentally shuddered. He followed Summers’ question with one of his own. “From what I understand, you’ve got two now.” He paused, waiting for Mardeaux to meet his gaze straight on. Tell him he’s not worthy of meeting his son. Brady’s hand involuntarily tightened on the pen he still held. “But you had three, up until recently.”
“Three ain’t too much either.” Kicking the chair back onto its heels, Mardeaux balanced himself with one hand on the table. “It’s a dangerous world we live in. Theft, murder . . . . I’m a smart man. Keep a gun in every part of my house.” His free hand found the juncture of his legs. “I bet you’ve got more than me, Detective. What with you bein’ an enforcer of the law and what not.”
“Doesn’t matter what I have at home,” Brady said. “Let’s cut to the chase, Mr. Mardeaux.”
“Finally,” the man grunted sarcastically.
“Your gun was found at one of the murder scenes attributed to Kemper. As you did not report the Glock to police as having been stolen, we can only imagine that you knew Kemper had the pistol.”
Mardeaux’s eyes narrowed into slits. “What the fuck are you getting at, Detective?”
Here we go. “We’d like to know what your intention was in hiring Mr. Kemper. He admitted to not acting alone. Your gun was found at the crime scene. It was not reported stolen. Then, you disappeared. All of the victims were tied to men who owed you money for one thing or another. You see where I’m going with this?”
“I’m on parole.”
Brady leaned forward. “Tell me why your P.O. didn’t know where you were then.”
Fury flashed on the man’s face, and his hand shot to the waistband of his pants.
Brady kicked his chair back and stood without preamble. “All right, hands on the wall, Mr. Mardeaux.”
He felt the weight of Summers’ questioning gaze on his back. Brady had been on the job a whole lot longer than Summers, both with homicide and also on the force in general. Something wasn’t right with the way Mardeaux kept reaching for his junk.
The lifted legs of the chair clattered to the floor as Mardeaux jumped up. “Hold on now—I was already patted down now by this guy over here.” His hands came up to form a time-out gesture. “Plus, you’re not my type.”
“No need to flatter me.” Brady gestured for the man to put his hands on the wall. “It’ll take a second.”
He cut Summers a quick glance, indicating with a subtle motion to have his back. The other detective dipped his chin in a short nod. Brady returned his focus to Julian’s father.
“Hands on the wall, Mr. Mardeaux.” Brady jerked his head toward the table. “Or there. Your choice.”
“This is against protocol,” Mardeaux snapped, even as he moved into position. Brady commenced with the pat down, all the while ignoring the man’s vulgar language. Mardeaux was nothing like the high-class boy who had knocked up Anna during her freshman year at college. Brady had found early photos of Anthony. He’d been reasonably attractive, the sort of guy women fake-tripped over nothing but air as they tried to catch his attention.
How the mighty had fallen.
Mardeaux’s first mug shot had been of a clean-cut young man who’d donned an innocent wide-eyed expression like a second skin. His latest yearbook picture at lockup showcased the same aura of innocence, even though his ragged face told a different story.
As Brady worked his way down th
e man’s sides, he couldn’t help but wonder if Mardeaux and Julian shared any similarities. Hopefully not. He twisted his hand toward the front of the suspect’s body, felt for any bumps under the clothing that stood out.
He stopped cold.
The butt of a small revolver under his palm was unmistakable.
He felt the hitch of Mardeaux’s breath. They both lunged for it.
Mardeaux snapped his head back, catching Brady right in the chin as he cocked his elbow into Brady’s lower abdomen. Over the bursting lights in his head, Brady heard Summers shout for backup, but he barely paid the other detective any attention.
He needed to get the revolver off Mardeaux ASAP. Before either he or Summers ended up another casualty in this fucking case from hell.
Snatching a fistful of sweaty T-shirt in his hand, Brady used brute strength to reel Anthony Mardeaux in. He hollowed his chest to avoid a wild, desperate swing at his torso.
Brady unfortunately didn’t miss the wad of spit on his white dress shirt, courtesy of Tony Mardeaux. Or, more unfortunately, the fist that snaked up unexpectedly and clocked him in the chin.
Jesus.
Stars burst around him as he grappled for control. It wasn’t that Mardeaux was stronger or faster—no. The man was a two-time felon, verging on a third; he was desperate.
Desperation was one hell of a fighting incentive.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mardeaux rear back for another whammy of a right hook, even as Summers lunged forward to join the fray. Not necessary. In one swift move, Brady kicked out his foot and hooked his leg around Mardeaux’s shin.
Just as he managed to drag Mardeaux belly-down to the ground and restrain him, Cartwell burst through the doorway. He was at the helm of a trio of other detectives, including Danvers, who stepped out from behind the lieutenant to approach with a pair of handcuffs.
“Nice work, Taylor,” Danvers said, a big grin on his face. “Extra points for knowing the difference between—”
“You,” Cartwell growled from the doorway, “Would you please shut up?”
Danvers wiggled his eyebrows before standing to his full height. “You got it, L-T.”
“Who hired you?”
“You did, sir.”
“I must have been drunk.”
Danvers hooked his fingers around his leather suspenders like the innocent boy he wasn’t. “Drinking on the job, Lieutenant? I don’t think Mo—”
Cartwell’s expression turned stormy, stormier than Brady had ever seen it, and he pointed his finger toward Danvers. “Desk,” he snapped, “Now.”
Offering a sarcastic two-fingered salute, Danvers stepped around their boss and exited the interrogation room.
Which reminded Brady . . . . He glanced down to the squirming Mardeaux, who was spewing all sorts of curses into the carpet. Shifting him onto his side, Brady reached for the weapon that had somehow remained concealed during the earlier pat down. He had a feeling that Summers was going to be on the receiving end of Cartwell’s pissed-off commentary for missing it.
The minute Brady’s hand wrapped around the butt of the Smith & Wesson, satisfaction flared inside his gut. Without even having to wait for fingerprints, he knew it. They had their guy.
Leaning down, Brady spoke directly into Mardeaux’s ear. “Does your boy Caleb know that you stole one of his daddy’s guns? Unlike you, the man reported his missing weapons.”
“Fuck you,” was the only response he got.
“No disrespect, Mardeaux, but you’re not my type.”
It wasn’t until later, after he’d booked Anthony Mardeaux into central lockup and had given his statement to the media, and after Cartwell had stopped by his desk to tell him, “good job, son,” and that maybe they’d “reconsider his application for sergeant,” that the events of the day finally caught up with him.
It was only then, as he filled out tedious paperwork, that he realized the ramifications of what he’d done.
He’d done his job, putting two criminals behind bars to meet their fate with the jury. But he’d also stripped away a young boy’s chance to ever meet his father.
Brady’s hands stilled over the computer keyboard as he heard the sound of his voice on the 5 p.m. news on the other side of the office. It was from that afternoon while he’d given his statement.
A statement Shaelyn would inevitably see if she turned on the TV.
With shaking fingers, he reached for his phone to call her. He didn’t know what he was going to say—hadn’t gotten that far, to be honest—but he had to say something. He wouldn’t defend his actions. There was no use for that at this point. Still, he had to say something.
He thumb was sliding across the screen when a text message popped up. Shaelyn. His eyes briefly fell shut before he opened her message and felt the pit in his stomach nosedive.
We need to talk.
Brady dropped his phone to the desk, hating that he could still hear himself speaking to the broadcast journalist on the TV: “We’re thankful to be able to put this case to rest. It’s been a long ordeal, and we’re incredibly grateful that the neighborhood can return to a semblance of peace. For the victim’s families, too, there will be relief to see their loved ones’ murderers placed behind bars.”
He glanced at his phone again. That growing fear of losing Shae over this sank its greedy fingers into his heart, mind, and soul. There was no “possibly” any longer. He’d lost her and he had only himself to blame.
Fuck.
27
He knew.
It was the only thought running through Shaelyn’s mind as she stared blankly at her not-exactly-boyfriend on the Channel 5 at 5 news. Beside her, she heard Anna’s gasp as well as the choking sound that couldn’t seem to make its way past Julian’s throat.
All Shaelyn could think was: he knew.
Blindly she reached for her phone on the couch armrest. A night of popcorn and a Marvel Comics movie was not in the cards. Not for her, anyway.
“Mom?”
Shaelyn hated hearing the accusing tone in Julian’s voice, as much as she hated hearing her cousin gulp back her tears. Worse was the way Anna reached for her son, only for him to recoil in distrust. The sight stabbed Shaelyn right in the heart.
With fingers that she swore should have been trembling but were instead eerily steady, Shaelyn pulled up her recent text messages and clicked her most recent contact. He’d known. This whole time, he’d known.
We need to talk.
She sent it off with a silent curse, because how could he?
“Honey,” Anna tried again, her voice breathless with obvious pain. “I didn’t know. I swear to you that I didn’t know.”
Julian’s head snapped toward Shaelyn, and she felt the full force of the hurt and anger mingling in his suspicious blue eyes. “Did you know?” he demanded, jumping off the couch to stand. “You’re dating him.”
Not anymore.
Shaelyn wasn’t certain she’d ever felt so much pain. Betrayal from Brady racked her body while Julian’s blatant accusation and wariness drove the knife deeper into her chest. “No,” she whispered, “I had no idea.”
This time both Anna and Julian turned to her, their similar blue eyes speaking volumes. They didn’t believe her. They thought that she’d been lying to them all this time—she could read the assumption on their faces. The way Julian now stood on the other side of the coffee table, as far away from her as possible, and in the way Anna sat with her fists clenched at her sides and her gaze hard and unforgiving.
Could she blame them? No, she couldn’t.
“Anna. Julian.” She swallowed the apple-sized lump growing in her throat. Couldn’t do much about her stinging eyes when she felt a tear carve its way down her cheek. “I didn’t know. I swear to you that I didn’t know.”
If her voice trailed off in a high-pitched sob at the end, no one acknowledged it. Why would they? Anthony Mardeaux was nothing to her—but he’d once been a boyfriend to Anna, and for thirteen years he had
been an absentee dad to a son who wanted nothing more than to meet his father. And now he never would because that so-called father was going to prison.
Over the pounding in her head, she could hear the news anchor on TV thanking Brady for his time.
And then there was Brady’s familiar gravelly voice responding, “We’re thankful to be able to put this case to rest. It’s been a long ordeal, and we’re incredibly grateful that the neighborhood can return to a semblance of peace. For the victim’s families, too, there will be relief to see their loved ones’ murderers placed behind bars.”
But what about the murderer’s family? The mother and son who hadn’t even known that Tony Mardeaux was not a man fit to be a father, never mind a member of society?
Anna stood. She went to Julian and wrapped an arm around his trembling shoulders. He was only thirteen. Not old enough to accept what life threw at him with a careless shrug or the middle finger, not old enough to understand why he didn’t have a father who loved him unconditionally.
His wiry body turned into Anna’s body with a great, heaving sob that Shaelyn feared she’d never forget.
This was her fault for trying to help. For trying to reunite a son with the father he so desperately wanted to meet.
No. It was Brady’s fault. He should have said something. Once more anger swamped her.
Anna combed her fingers through her son’s messy blond hair. Her expression was guarded, her lips pursed, and Shaelyn should have expected what came next but found that she hadn’t at all.
“Whether you knew about this or not, I think it’s best if you go right now, Shaelyn.”
Another stab to the heart. Brokenly, she whispered, “Okay. I, uh . . . I . . . okay.”
Silently, she gathered her phone, purse, and the cardigan thrown over the back of the couch. She glanced at the two people who, in the short span of two months, had come to mean the world to her. She pushed away the thought of Brady, and that he, too, had become her everything. Clearly he did not feel the same way about her. And now she wasn’t so sure that her own emotions weren’t just remnants from that long-ago high school puppy love.