Deeper

by Ronica Black

  Still nothing.

  “Hello?” she called out. “It’s Detective Patricia Henderson. I need to speak with you.”

  Again she pounded. Her phone vibrated on her hip. It was a text from Gary. He wanted to know where she was. Whipping the phone off her belt, she quickly typed back. She hadn’t told him of her plans. Purposely. He would’ve told her she was nuts, that it was unprofessional. And he would’ve been right, as always. But she was going with her gut on this. Her gut and her temper.

  She stared at the screen, keying: Busy Will Call Later.

  “Can I help you?”

  Patricia nearly dropped her phone. She fumbled it as she took in the frustrated face of Detective Audrey Sinclair. “Yes, I uh…I…”

  Sinclair was carrying a laptop briefcase and an armload of thick three-ring binders. Her biceps flexed and her face had taken on an edge of suspicion and confrontation. She held her keys defensively, one thrust forward between her knuckles, ready to be used as a weapon.

  Patricia remembered her own anger and was able to find her words. “I had to come see for myself.”

  “What are you talking about?” Sinclair’s voice was low and tight, a slingshot pulled all the way back.

  “I came to see if you’re really that stupid, or just completely and totally insane.”

  Sinclair tensed. Patricia didn’t think there was any other muscle left to strain, but she seemed to be wrong. “You shouldn’t have come to my home. Manners are something I’d hoped others were raised with as well.” She stepped forward, as if Patricia wasn’t there at all.

  Patricia stood her ground, her temper flaring. “I will go where I please, Detective. Because I have a job to do, serial murders to solve. And no thanks to you, that job just became a lot more complicated.”

  “I suggested a meeting. You chose to avoid and ignore me.” Sinclair stared into her with soft cinnamon-colored eyes.

  It was amazing, Patricia noted, that something so soft could harden instantaneously, like the cracked crust of a desert plain. “You should’ve tried harder. Any good detective would have.”

  “I’m a professional. I don’t play games. Political or otherwise.”

  “Then what do you do?”

  “I solve murders.”

  “Ha!”

  “I was hoping you did the same.”

  “I do my job, Detective Sinclair. Don’t ever suggest otherwise.”

  Sinclair’s eyes narrowed. “I suggest you move, Detective Henderson.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Sinclair took another step, raising her laptop case to push Patricia to the side. Even though Patricia had seen and even admired her muscles, she was still surprised at just how easily Sinclair was able to shove her aside. She stumbled a bit and embarrassment heated her cheeks. What was she planning to do? Box the woman?

  She regained her stance as Sinclair forced the key in the lock and turned it. She marched into her apartment and slapped the binders and briefcase on the kitchen counter just inside the door. Then she turned, hands at her sides, face as hard as a rock.

  They stared at each other for a heavy, slow minute. Patricia focused on Sinclair’s hands, worried that they would ball into fists.

  “Are you coming in, then?” Sinclair finally asked.

  A bit surprised, Patricia hesitated, then stepped inside and eased the door closed. Sinclair moved around the counter to the kitchen, where she pulled out a glass and a full ice tray. After loading the glass with ice cubes, she poured from a pitcher of filtered cold water and drank heartily. She seemed to like her water cold, very cold.

  Patricia felt awkward to suddenly be in the rival detective’s space. Where she ate, where she slept, the place she chose as refuge. She hadn’t expected Sinclair to let her in. She took advantage, though, and glanced around. The apartment was large, with a roomy living room across from the kitchen, den attached. A hallway was at the nucleus and held what appeared to be a bathroom. Beyond that were two other doors which she assumed belonged to bedrooms.

  After catching another glimpse of Sinclair downing the ice water with the tendons in her neck showing every swallow, Patricia cleared her own throat and wondered why she was noticing. The past few days her mind had been on nothing other than the murders and Erin. Patricia had no idea how to solve either. Erin had grown increasingly distant and sad. She wouldn’t talk and Patricia wasn’t sure what they would say had Erin been willing. She knew deep in her gut that she’d lost Erin forever. That maybe she’d never even really had her to begin with.

  It was more than obvious that Erin’s heart was elsewhere.

  Patricia forced the painful thought from her mind and busied herself observing Sinclair’s home once more. The carpet was light brown and new-smelling, the couches a slate blue leather, the remaining furnishings light oak. She strolled into the living room. Numerous sculptures adorned the end tables next to the couches and the bookshelves in the den. All were white, and when she looked more closely she could see the detail of each piece. She wanted badly to touch them, to feel the rough coolness of the dried clay.

  “Did you do these?” She couldn’t help but ask. They must’ve taken hours of painstaking precision with small tools. She bent to examine an old man sitting on a bench, looking skyward, his face etched in wrinkles. She could feel his plight and sense his pain.

  “It’s a hobby.” Sinclair moved from the kitchen and switched on the floor lamp, illuminating the room further.

  “I’d say it’s more than a hobby. You’re really good.” The idea of Sinclair molding clay into a life form with her hands made her seem more real. The thought sent an unexpected thrill up Patricia’s spine.

  “It keeps me sane,” Sinclair said. She seemed to be relaxing a little.

  Patricia offered a smile. “I know what you mean.” Sometimes she felt that if she didn’t write, she’d be certifiable. She wrote about what she was missing in her life, and doing so somehow helped her deal with her loneliness. Romances were her favorite, but recently she’d tried her hand at a mystery based on the Seductress Murders. That too had helped her to process her feelings.

  “You too? What do you do…other than threaten with your physical presence?” A smile lifted one side of Sinclair’s face, showing off a dimple. “Martial arts?”

  “Used to.”

  “I figured.”

  “Am I that bad?”

  “No. Just real confident in your movements.” Sinclair switched on another lamp, this one on the large desk nestled in the den. “You know how to back up your words.”

  “Really? Never thought that about myself.”

  “Well, you’ve got it down pat.” Sinclair paused. “Although I was surprised you let me knock you off balance back there.”

  “I wasn’t expecting you to try. I guess I was thinking you had those manners you spoke so highly of.” Patricia felt her own smile lifting the side of her face. “Anyhow, it won’t happen twice.”

  Sinclair nodded, her smile full, her eyes alive. “So, do you work with your hands? I could easily imagine you doing so.” Her gaze fell to Patricia’s hands.

  Patricia felt that thrill again and moved her focus to the desk. It held a flat-screen monitor and keyboard, a green shaded banker’s lamp, and a few thick manila folders.

  “I write.” She ran her fingertips along the desk top and Sinclair’s gaze followed.

  “I would love to see your handwriting. You can tell a lot about a person based on their handwriting.”

  “I use the computer.” She fought hard against a blush. “Most of the time.”

  “What do you write?”

  Patricia purposely put off answering. She considered her writing a private matter and she grew angry at herself for even bringing it up. Why had she? Did some part of her want Sinclair to know that she wrote lesbian romances? Wouldn’t that somehow be considered foreplay? Sinclair reading her words and knowing her thoughts and desires?

  She stopped herself from going any further with
such thoughts. Instead she continued to take in her surroundings.

  The wall next to the desk caused her to stop in her tracks. She’d assumed, catching a glimpse of it in the dark, that it was covered with a large piece of art. But what she saw now was something only an artist in hell would create. She knew each victim, each wound, each macabre stare. She had the same images hanging by her desk at the precinct. A menagerie of death.

  “How can you…” She could’ve never hung them at her home. To bring that evil into her home, her safe sanctuary.

  Sinclair had followed her line of sight.

  “I work from here. Think from here.”

  “I know, but how can you stare at them?” Patricia realized she brought the dead home with her too. But they remained flat on her desk and in the folders. Strictly confined.

  “Not everyone can do it, I know.” Sinclair faced the wall. Patricia came slowly to a stand next to her. “But I can’t rest until I know something. How did it happen, and why? And if we’re real lucky…who?” Her gaze ran across the reflecting photos. “They demand that of me. They deserve that. Only when most of the questions are answered can I take them down.”

  “Do you sleep?” Patricia asked quietly.

  “Probably about as much as you do.”

  “Not well, then.”

  “No.”

  “I dream about them,” Patricia said. “Their last moments. What they must’ve felt.”

  “Their fear,” Sinclair whispered.

  “Yes.” Patricia had always felt that way. She knew it wasn’t healthy, but she couldn’t help it. She felt for each victim.

  “How long have you been doing this?” Sinclair asked. “Most seasoned detectives are hard, shut off.”

  “Long enough.” Patricia stole a quick, sidelong glance at her. “What about you?”

  “I’ve been studying the criminal mind for a long time. And I’ve been chasing them for about seven years.”

  “Are you good?”

  Sinclair gave a small laugh. “According to some.” She met Patricia’s eyes. Her irises were back to being soft cinnamon sand. “But according to others…”

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  “Are you?” The smile remained.

  “Yes.”

  “Those were your feelings, though.”

  “No, I guess I just don’t understand.”

  “Ah, yes. The old saying, we fear what we don’t understand.”

  Patricia started to argue but realized that she was a little afraid of Sinclair. Afraid of her ease and confidence, her tactics, and her unknown motives.

  “Why did you do that? Say those things today?”

  “You think I’m crazy.”

  Patricia had to be honest. “Yes.”

  “I can assure you when it comes to my job, I am far from crazy.”

  “But any other time you are admitting to being crazy.”

  A crooked grin teased Patricia. “When it comes to love, I can be.”

  “Oh.” Patricia couldn’t look at her. “I wasn’t expecting that one.”

  “You asked.”

  “My mistake.” She inwardly cursed herself for doing so. Why was she so reactive to everything this woman did and said?

  Sinclair didn’t seem the slightest bit embarrassed or fazed. But she did seem to sense that a change of topic was needed.

  She pointed.

  “Look at those photos. Tell me what you see.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “As a heart attack.”

  “I see dead men. Murdered men.” As her mind began to work and recall the facts she knew about the Highway Murders, the words seemed to fly from her mouth. “All of them middle aged, married, average incomes, stable home lives. Caucasian, of average to moderate build, well groomed, and well nourished. All strangled to death. The other, older bodies were also found with the hyoid bone crushed, confirming this.”

  “Tell me what you question most?” Sinclair probed. “What is it that has you pacing the floors at night. What doesn’t make sense to you?”

  Patricia began to relax a little, her mind firing in rapid response to the easy flow of the questions. This was what she lived, what she slept, and what she ate. “What were they doing? Who were they with? Why the condom, why the traces of lubricant?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Sinclair asked.

  “Yes, sex was involved, but why? These men weren’t risk takers, they had stable home lives, many of the wives went as far as to say that their husbands were passive.”

  Sinclair raised an eyebrow. “Detective Henderson, please. We both know that behind your average mild-mannered man beats the heart of a potential sexual sadist, a child molester, or even a killer.”

  Patricia scowled. “Yes, of course I know that.”

  “They’re never the drooling scary monster everyone imagines them to be.”

  “No, they’re not.”

  “Say it, then. Sex was involved. For whatever reason, these men took a risk. And they paid dearly.”

  “Okay. I still wouldn’t make the leap that the killer is sexually motivated. He or she could be killing for something as trivial as the lunar cycle.”

  “Maybe so, but the lure was sex.”

  Patricia took a deep breath, her heart rate picking up again at being challenged. “Okay, I’ll play along. But why tell everyone?”

  “Why not?” Sinclair’s eyes sparkled, each grain of cinnamon sand shimmering.

  Patricia lost her train of thought for a moment, enraptured. “Because we aren’t sure, and even if we were we should hold our information close. You know all this.”

  Sinclair sat down on the sofa and motioned for Patricia to do the same. “It’ll smoke him out. Add some pressure. It worked in the Night Stalker case even though law enforcement was against sharing the information. Sometimes the public can be very helpful.”

  “It might pressure him, yes, but it might also enrage him, cause him to go on a killing spree. Or to hide the bodies.”

  “He may kill again, but he won’t overdo it. He’s smart. And we both know he won’t hide the bodies.”

  Patricia said nothing. The bodies were how he showed off, how he got off. “What’s the point, then?”

  “To make him nervous. When one gets nervous, one tends to make mistakes or act before thinking.”

  “You’re willing to give out valuable information on a mere roll of the dice, hoping it makes the killer nervous?”

  “It’s not invaluable information. Valuable, yes. It’s obvious information.”

  “Then what about the composite drawing? Where did you get an eyewitness?”

  “I interviewed countless truckers from the same list you had.”

  Patricia felt her body grow rigid. “We never had anyone report seeing anything or anyone.”

  Sinclair sat calmly. “One trucker changed her story and said she recalled seeing someone after all. At the time she thought it insignificant.”

  “I want her name.”

  “Okay.”

  “Now, please.” Patricia needed to speak with the witness as soon as possible.

  “Paige Daniels,” Sinclair said. She stood and retrieved the details from one of the ring binders. “How are your recent murders coming along? The two young gay men?”

  Was Sinclair reading her mind? Patricia couldn’t help but think of those victims as they discussed the Highway Murders. “Fine.” She accepted the slip of paper she was passed and slid it into her back pocket.

  “For what it’s worth, I think you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  Patricia laughed. “Is that so?”

  Sinclair looked serious and unamused. “Yes.”

  “What tree exactly should we be looking up?”

  “A gay male.”

  “A gay male?”

  “Middle aged, Caucasian. Serious sexual issues.”

  “We have a good suspect, thank you.”

  “It’s not her. It’s not either Adams.”

 
This time Patricia raised an eyebrow. She’d heard almost all she could handle. “Thank you for your concern, but we’ve got it under control.”

  “If you’d like to talk about it, call me anytime.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” Sinclair seemed genuinely puzzled.

  “Because you just single-handedly compromised our investigation. Not to mention you withheld information regarding a witness.”

  “I offered a meeting and you blew me off,” Sinclair reminded her again.

  “I’m busy. You should’ve tried harder.” Patricia headed for the door, beyond frustrated and something else…stirred.

  Sinclair followed and held the door for her. “We’re going in circles.”

  “I don’t play games, Detective.”

  “Then next time call.” Sinclair’s face softened a bit. “Call anytime.”

  Patricia held her eyes for a long moment, her pride clashing with her growing curiosity. “I don’t plan on needing to.”

  She walked out of the apartment and didn’t look back.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Liz sank down onto the couch and ran her hands through her hair. Beyond the walls of her private lair, the club thumped like a rapid-fire heartbeat. She was thankful for its vibration in her chest. Her own heart had barely beat in weeks.

  “Are you coming?” a female voice asked her from the bed not far away.

  Liz tightened the grip on her hair in frustration. “No.”

  “Why not?” The voice was smooth and playful. The woman, who had a name Liz couldn’t or wouldn’t remember, got out of bed and approached the sitting area. “We were just getting started,” she purred.

  Liz avoided looking at the full, creamy breasts and long blond hair. She had allowed the woman into her private quarters, even showed her the way to her bed. But that was where she’d stopped. She’d watched as the woman undressed, slipped into the black satin sheets, and touched herself. The woman had beckoned her to join with her eyes, her hands, her sighs. But Liz was unaffected. And soon she’d grown bored.

  “I’m so wet for you now.” The woman slid her hand to her crotch, where she stroked up and down.