Not that Trey blamed Mala for wanting to race to see the little girl. When Trey had first seen Janey standing next to Darc by his bed, his heart had practically jumped out of his chest. You know, before he started thinking about how much trouble they were all going to be in once the group home found out she was missing.
The two in front turned the corner that led to the bullpen and Trey broke into a trot to keep from losing them. As he rounded the corner himself, he had to slam on the brakes fast to keep from running into Mala and Darc, who had stopped out of the blue.
The reason for the abrupt halt made itself known as Trey looked down the hall and saw Janey standing next to Maggie. Man, she was pretty. Maggie, not Janey.
The little girl by his lady’s side was clutching a piece of paper. Mala was bending down on one knee and motioning for Janey to come over. Janey started moving toward her, then veered around and headed straight for Darc.
Ouch.
Mala straightened up as quickly as she could and smoothed down her pants, not meeting anyone’s eye. Janey stopped in front of Darc, her face solemn, and handed the piece of paper to the tall detective. As Darc took the page, Trey could see that there was a drawing of what looked like a gecko and a pachyderm.
Great.
Another picture. Trey had figured out by now that drawings getting passed between these two conspirators was never a good thing.
Once her duty was discharged, Janey turned back around, ran over to Mala and buried her face in Mala’s hip. A look of surprise on the doc’s face was quickly replaced by a look that Trey could only describe as radiant. Her eyes filled with tears as she wrapped her arms around the little form that clung to her with a death grip.
“Oh, Janey. I missed you so much,” Mala whispered down to the top of the girl’s towhead. “So very, very much.”
Janey’s head bobbed up and down against Mala’s pants, leaving a trace of moisture there. Mala might have thought Janey had forgotten about her, but it was clear there was a bond here almost equal to the one she had forged with Darc.
Trey looked up to share the warmth with someone himself, seeking out Maggie. To his surprise, his girlfriend seemed overcome as well, but the look on her face was much different. It was… wistful? Sad? Trey wasn’t sure, but it was not a look he’d seen Maggie make before.
She was watching Janey and Mala embrace, and she looked… jealous.
For the first time, Trey wondered if Maggie had ever wanted kids. With Darc… or maybe…?
His train of thought was interrupted as Darc moved over to his side. He was gripping the drawing Janey had given him, and his knuckles were white. The intensely blank look on his face told Trey all he needed to know. Something was not good.
“We need to talk.”
Yep. Not good. Not good at all.
*
The lines were clear. There was a precision to them that was razor-like, quite distinct from those that normally inhabited Darc’s mind. They were also limned in pink.
Odd.
The symbols that had separated themselves from the drawing were swirling, agitated, urgent in their gyrations, looking for all of his attention. Their message was straightforward and somehow warped all at once. It was disturbing.
Trey had followed without comment as Darc moved away from the reunion between Janey and Mala. This was a departure from his partner’s typical behavior, which seemed to indicate that Trey had recognized the severity of the situation. Perhaps this was a sign of a growing sensitivity in the frivolous detective.
A comment that, had Darc voiced it, would have evoked from his companion a comparison between two cooking containers of the same color. It was nonsensical, as much of what Trey uttered seemed to be, but his partner seemed to put great stock in the statement, so perhaps there was unseen wisdom held within it.
Another oddity was Darc’s own reaction to watching the doctor with the small child. This reuniting was something that would not normally affect him at all, and yet he found himself bothered that he was not there to witness it, even as he recognized the necessity in leaving. Why on Earth would he desire to see them together, especially when the resultant conversation was guaranteed to be nonexistent?
More gray. Again, disturbing.
“Okay, dude. Spill it. What’s going on?” Trey had stopped just beyond the entrance to the bullpen. His arms were crossed over his chest. Seeing as how he had no reason to cover his breasts in a sexually defensive posture, Darc assumed Trey was showing resolve. In this case, a determination to speak with Darc. Which was exactly what Darc desired, so the confrontational stance seemed out of place. His partner could be so odd at times.
“The man who abducted Mala.” Darc struggled to articulate what the symbols and lines were communicating. Straightforward, but warped. “He seeks… He is beginning… He…” Darc fell silent, unable to formulate words.
Trey’s features softened and his arms fell to his sides. “Darc. Man, are you okay?” He moved over to Darc’s side and guided him toward a chair. Sitting would hardly allow for greater cognitive processing, but Darc saw no reason to argue the point right at the moment.
“I am not unwell.” Darc settled into the chair, seeking for a settling of the lines within him simultaneously. “Give me a moment.” The more the patterns danced and spun and hissed, the less he could find cohesive patterns that would allow for cogent speech. After taking a deep breath, Darc closed his eyes, reaching out with his mind to coax and soothe. The lines shivered under his mental caress, backing into an uneasy quiescence.
“This about the picture Janey passed you back there?” Trey probed, his forehead creased into sharp lines. Seven lines, to be precise, although one of those lines joined another midway through its progression, so a more accurate count might be six. Six and a half? Darc was uncertain. The uncertainty troubled him. Gray clouds threatened his stability.
When Darc remained silent, Trey sighed and reached out a hand, resting it on Darc’s shoulder. The weight there, although something he would normally consider unpleasant, created an easing of the tension Darc could feel jangling through his body. The additional release of pressure allowed for the shining patterns within his mind to finally congeal.
Fascinating.
Darc peered into his partner’s eyes, reading the concern there. Then the gray obscured it once more. But for an instant, the expression on Trey’s face had been as plain to Darc as the logical patterns within.
“Yes. It was Janey’s drawing. She saw or heard something in that hospital room.”
“Yeah,” Trey muttered. “She saw a security guard getting offed right in front of her eyes. Seriously, if I could go back and kill that priest twice—”
“No,” Darc cut him off. “She did see the killing, but that was not what the sketch conveyed. This was about the man who took Mala.”
Trey’s mouth formed an “o” and his eyes dilated. Since there was no evidence of breakfast meats nearby, Darc arrived at the conclusion that his partner was surprised by the new information Darc had supplied. Evidently, his new insights regarding his partner’s emotional states were limited and sporadic.
“So… what’d Rango and Dumbo say?”
Rather than educating his partner about the manner in which Janey and he communicated, Darc focused on the connotative meaning of Trey’s words. “Mala’s captor is a killer. Or will be soon, if he has not started as yet.” The lines were clear on that part, at least.
“Whoa.” Trey rubbed his hands over his face. “That sucks.” There was a pause, as Trey’s expression changed into something else indecipherable. Anger? Frustration? “How do these serial killers manage to find each other? Are they going on Craigslist? Somebody make a Facebook page?”
“Statistically speaking, similar interests tend to gather individuals together in close physical or even virtual proximity. Your facetious comments regarding Facebook and Craigslist are not far off the mark. It is not unusual for serial killers to know one another, especially when they oper
ate in the same city.”
“That’s fantastic.” Trey slapped his thigh. “Now they’re getting together to brainstorm and stuff. Might as well start a club. The Happy Hackers. ‘No entrance without an evisceration.’”
“The fact that Janey saw the killer and gleaned information from the encounter is significant,” Darc continued, unsure of what to make of Trey’s last outburst. “Both because her life is in potential danger and the additional intelligence to which we are privy.”
“Okay, but where does that leave us?” Trey asked. “Unless there was more in that picture of yours.”
There was something else there, but Darc could not make sense of it. He wasn’t completely sure that Janey herself understood its significance. Probably something she had heard but not understood fully. Darc shook his head, knowing the complexity of the not-quite-information would just frustrate his partner at this point.
Trey huffed. “Well, in that case, until the C.S.I. unit comes back with their findings from the kidnapping site, I’m going to go work on my fingernail eater. Captain told me there was another killing that I needed to get on as soon as we found Mala. Something weird about this one, apparently.”
“Weird?”
“Yeah, something about it not quite matching the guy’s M.O. Maybe an escalation. If it’s getting nasty enough, I might want to bring you in on it?” Trey made the sentence into a question, an indicator that could mean his partner was unsure of what Darc’s response might be.
Darc knew that Trey had an emotional attachment to cases involving prostitutes. Before his recent changes, he had not understood even a small part of that attachment. Now it was beginning to make more sense to him. He nodded, seeing his partner’s eyes widen in response. Surprise or excitement.
It was always so hard to tell.
CHAPTER 6
No response.
There had been no response whatsoever to the actions taken by the servant of the Lord.
Disappointment writhed like a coil of superheated metal, searing the gut with the bitter dregs of shame and despair. This was not what was supposed to happen. The unrighteous were to suffer, not the holy.
Perhaps this was a necessary part of the process. A cleansing of the inner vessel. The coal that must be placed upon his lips so as to make pure his utterance.
If that were the case, this one would not complain. The servant of the Lord would not turn their face from that of the Most High. The sacrifice would be as that of Job, suffering all without murmur. The very life of this servant would be an affront to that brightest of the angels who had fallen.
Still…
A life was gone. True, the life had been twisted, corrupt, a pox on the face of Seattle. That was part of why she had been selected. Only the wicked would burn.
She had been important. A socialite. Not one to be overlooked by the sycophants currently in power. Those whose souls had already been given fully to Mammon. Her death should have created an immediate reaction.
And that reaction was something the servant of the Lord had been counting on. It was a necessary part of the plans. People must be afraid. They must fear for their lives. Fear for their sins.
Fear God.
And fear God’s servant here on Earth.
Anger at the apathy of a city that had given itself to the Father of Lies coursed through veins throbbing with desire to serve the Most High. It pulsed in the hands, throbbed in the throat, pounded in the temple. And with each beat, the servant heard the voice of righteous wrath intone, “The wicked shall be turned into hell, and all the nations that forget God.”
It was time to escalate and accelerate the plans. If a death could not penetrate the insensate faculties of the city’s “elite,” then more deaths would be forthcoming. The servant of the Lord would push harder. The Lord had called, and the servant would answer. The place was assured. The number amongst the 144,000 was assigned.
But only if the servant kept from shrinking now.
The resolve grew, welling up from deep within. There would be no failure. There would be no shirking of duty. The words of life sounded in the mind.
And in the greatness of thine excellency thou hast overthrown them that rose up against thee: thou sentest forth thy wrath, which consumed them as stubble.
The servant was the instrument of the Lord’s wrath.
It was time for Seattle to reap the bitter harvest.
*
As Trey read over the file for the hundredth time, he massaged the bridge of his nose in between his forefinger and thumb, trying to get his eyes to focus. There was nothing new here, but he kept hoping that some detail he had overlooked previously would jump out at him and scream, “This is it! This is the key to the case!”
He blew air out between his lips, making a raspberry noise. That kind of detective work was not really his thing. Deductive leaps were Darc’s purview. Trey did more of the work-your-butt-off-only-to-see-no-results kind of criminal investigating.
This case was one he’d been working, off-and–on, for the last year or so. The defining characteristic of the killer was that he removed the fingernails of his victims after he killed them. Some kind of bizarre trophy or something, Trey figured.
But other than that oddity, the bodies were always treated with an unusual level of respect. No sexual assault, either pre-or postmortem, was found in any of the cases, even though semen had been present at several sites. No matches to the DNA, of course.
The victims were always clothed and carefully posed. Only the missing fingernails pointed to some kind of messed up psychology. Well, that, and the fact that they had all been murdered.
When most of what you looked at was homicide, it was hard to remember that just the fact that a life had been ended was significant. There were days that Trey longed for the low-level dregs of humanity he’d had to deal with in Vice. At least there, the murders had made some kind of logical sense.
Very few dealers, whether they worked in sex or drugs, killed just because. It was to protect or to expand their territory, to send a message to competitors, or to keep from getting caught. Not because they got off on it. Usually.
Trey sighed and rattled the papers in front of him. Maybe if they made enough noise, he’d be forced to focus on them. Problem was, this new victim didn’t fit the pattern. Sure, the fingernails were gone, but the rest? Not so much.
First off, Trey was pretty sure this wasn’t one of his girls. She’d been found close to Pike Place Market, and there were prostitutes in that area, of course. But there were also a ton of trendy nightclubs and bars around there, as well. And this victim’s clothes were a bit too pricey for your run-of-the-mill streetwalker.
Could be a high-end escort, but Trey knew that group too, and something about this woman felt off. It could be tough to tell the difference between fashionista and call-girl, but this felt like more of the former and less of the latter. Trey wasn’t exactly sure how he could tell. Maybe it was that escorts looked a little less slutty.
But the main thing was the facial mutilations. That was new. That seemed to indicate a level of rage that hadn’t been seen in any of the other cases. The body was posed just like the others, and the fingernails were gone, but the hacking up of the face just didn’t fit in with any of the other details.
It just didn’t feel like his guy.
Trey’s phone rang, cutting off his thought process with its shrill demand and flashing red light. He scooped up the receiver, holding it between his cheek and shoulder with the ease of years of practice.
“Detective Keane.”
“Oh, hey. Detective. Glad I caught you in.” The voice on the other end of the line was familiar, but Trey couldn’t quite place it. The caller ID showed the office of the D.A.
Since he was pretty sure the District Attorney wouldn’t be deigning to give him a buzz, it must be the new A.D.A., Bryce Van Owen. Now that Trey had a name to attach to the voice, a face popped into his head from when the Assistant D.A. had come by the precinct a few
months ago to glad-hand everyone. Blonde, blue-eyed, with a vaguely non-descript handsomeness about him.
“Mr. Van Owen. What can I do for you?”
“Please, call me Bryce. I can’t stand formalities, especially from guys working on the same side.” The A.D.A.’s tone was casual and friendly, with a warmth that made it feel like Trey was the most important guy in the world.
“Yeah, okay. Bryce. Gotcha. And you can call me Trey.” There was a pause on the other end that went on long enough that Trey was starting to feel a tad uncomfortable. Finally, Bryce cleared his throat and coughed.
“Sorry, Trey. This is an awkward call for me. Office politics and BS like that. This is coming from the D.A.” Bryce really did sound like he was embarrassed. The D.A. was a prick of a guy who spent more time worrying about how his hair and makeup was going to look on camera than about whether or not justice was served. Trey’s initial impression of Bryce as just another stuffed shirt looking to move his way up was starting to take a serious hit.
“Hey, Bryce, don’t stress about it. We all have to deal with that kinda stuff. I just suck at it more than most.” Trey muttered the last part almost under his breath, but it got a chuckle out of the A.D.A. He was liking Bryce more and more by the minute.
“Look, Trey, you’re the guy that’s been working the missing fingernail case, right?”
“You mean the case that no one will touch with a ten-foot pole? Yep, it’s the kind of case that has my name written all over it.”
Bryce gave him another chuckle for that one, although this time it felt a little forced. “I’ve read through your file, Trey. You’ve got a good record.”
“If you’ve read through my file, you’ll know that most of that comes from my brilliant, if socially backward, partner.”
“Sure, sure, Darc’s had his share of collars, but that’s not what I’m talking about. You had one of the best records in Vice before you transferred over. You’re one of the good ones, Trey.”
7th Sin: The Sequel to the #1 Hard Boiled Mystery, 9th Circle (Book 2 of the Darc Murders Series) Page 6