7th Sin: The Sequel to the #1 Hard Boiled Mystery, 9th Circle (Book 2 of the Darc Murders Series)

by Carolyn McCray

  The next thing that Trey noticed was how utilitarian this room was, compared with the rest of the house. Everything was stark and square. Utilitarian lines, Spartan décor, a lack of any gilding whatsoever. It was like the guy who worked in this office and the guy who lived in the rest of the house had nothing in common, and if they did chance to meet, they wouldn’t get along well at all.

  The desk was a squat monstrosity that looked like it had been made out of pure steel. Without even touching it, Trey could tell that trying to lift that sucker would probably give him a hernia.

  The blood wasn’t just contained to the desk. There were spatters all over the walls, the highest concentrations seemingly on one side of the room. The only spot that was clean was directly behind the desk.

  So… lots of blood, but where the hell was the body?

  And then, moving forward, Trey saw it. The victim was slumped behind the desk, the chair pushed out to one side. The middle drawer had been removed, leaving a sturdy metal crossbeam exposed. A pair of handcuffs kept one of the man’s arms attached to the crossbar, holding the body up in a strange half slumped over, half squatting position. There was a second, empty set of cuffs at the body’s feet, covered in blood.

  Turning around, Trey caught sight of Darc, who seemed to be clenching his fists at his side. Yikes. That wasn’t a good sign. He hadn’t seen Darc do that since the stuff with Father John. His head was cocked to the side, and he appeared to be listening, his brow furrowed into deep grooves.

  “Any idea what happened here?” Trey asked the general air.

  Strangely enough, Bill was the one to answer him. “Don’t know what happened, but I might know when it happened. I was working a divorce case for this guy’s law firm. I don’t do too much for these guys. They have ties to Norte del Valle, the Colombian drug cartel. But this seemed like a pretty straightforward infidelity thing. Right up my alley. Anyway, I had some information for him, but no one at the office knew where he was. They’ve been trying to get ahold of Mr. Carson here since late afternoon yesterday. So I finally said I’d go out and see if he was home. This is what I found.”

  The M.E., the pompous Dr. Hutchinson, lifted his head from where he was examining the body. “That fits with what I’m seeing here.”

  “And what are you seeing, Doc?” The M.E.’s face squished up, looking like he’d sucked on a lemon. Oh, right. He hated it when Trey called him ‘Doc’. “Anything worth sharing? Doc?” Sometimes, Trey just couldn’t help himself.

  “Well,” said the doctor, after a long pause and an intense glare in Trey’s direction. “I’m always hesitant to say much before the body’s on my table…”

  “Yeah, yeah. Don’t jump to conclusions, blah, blah… Not good to taint our perceptions, yada, yada… C’mon, Doc. Just give us whatcha got.”

  The M.E. took in a deep breath, held it for a moment, then released on what felt like a slow ten count. When he was done, he gave Trey a smile that didn’t reach his eyes and continued as if there had been no interruption.

  “…But I can tell you that the victim shows another mark in the forehead, just like the others.”

  “Show me.” Darc stepped forward, his gaze intent. He looked down at the symbol pointed out by the examiner. It was a series of three capital Y shapes, connected by a bar across the top. “That is the Babylonian symbol—”

  “For the number three,” Trey interrupted. “Yeah. Even I can figure that one out. Not like our killer was really trying to confuse anyone on that count.” Weird. This one didn’t seem to fit in with the Seven Deadly Sins at all. At least not that he could see. He’d talk to Darc about it later. And maybe Mala.

  Trey stared down at the corpse. One hand, the right one, was still intact and keeping the body chained to the desk. The other was a bloody stump.

  “What was the cause of death?”

  The M.E. held up a finger. “Again, I can’t be—”

  “Jeez, man, we get it. Just spit it out.” Holy cow, this guy could be tiresome.

  “It appears the victim died from exsanguination from the loss of the hand.” Even that amount of speculation seemed to stick in the examiner’s craw. “The knife on the desk appears to be what was used to sever it.”

  “Hold on.” Trey looked to the knife on the desk and then down to the bloody wrist. “You mean he...? With the…? Whoa.”

  Bill moved closer to the desk, peering intently at the knife. “That’s a Yarborough.”

  “That’s a whozit?”

  “A Yarborough. It’s a knife that’s given to a member of the Special Forces when they graduate.” The private investigator pointed to the black blade. “See that serial number—SF 0127? That means it’s the one hundred twenty-seventh blade sold to someone from the Special Forces when they started selling them again in 2010. If there were no SF in front of the number, it would be one of the ones that was given out at the graduation ceremony.”

  “How did you know that?” Trey asked.

  “I was Special Forces. Served in Afghanistan back in 2004.”

  “Hold the phone. You were Special Forces?” Trey’s eyes felt like they were bugging out of his head. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

  “It was almost ten years ago, Trey.” Bill’s face was studiously blank. “I don’t like talking about it much, and it never came up.”

  “Yeah. Okay, I get that.” Trey tried to move off the topic, but then had a burst of inspiration. “Wait a sec. That serial number. We could track down who it belonged to, right?”

  Bill looked uncomfortable at that. “Well, it’s possible, I suppose. Most of the Special Forces guys keep their blades close, but I guess one of them could have sold it. Maybe. We all know they can be tracked. I know exactly where mine is.” He stopped talking, looked down at the knife, and gave a sigh. “Might be worth tracking it down.”

  “You don’t think our killer could be Special Forces?” Trey queried.

  Bill raised his head from his examination of the instrument of death on the desktop. His face was a mask of warring emotions.

  Waving his hand, Trey brushed off his own suggestion. “Forget I mentioned it.”

  “No, you’re right. It could have been.” Bill shuddered, his eyes distant. “Afghanistan was rough on the best of us. It could have gotten under someone’s skin. Cracked ‘em up. Sure.”

  “Okay. Well, it’s worth a shot.” Trey whipped out his notepad and started jotting down the serial number, feeling like a real detective for once. He never used his notepad.

  “Hey.” Bill held up a hand to stop Trey. “You mind if I check this one out? Since I kinda have a personal connection to it?”

  “Uh,” Trey uttered, nonplussed. It probably wasn’t completely kosher, but it seemed to mean a lot to Bill. Couldn’t hurt, right? He sighed and put his notepad away, unused. “Sure. Go ahead.”

  Trey glanced around the rest of the room, trying to find an avenue of investigation that no one else would want to snatch away from him. Darc hadn’t moved since he came into the room. He continued to stare at the body, his entire frame tensed up. It was a look Trey had seen before, and it wasn’t one that boded well. That, combined with Darc’s volatile emotional state, made for what Trey was pretty sure was the equivalent of a nuclear warhead on a countdown.

  “Darc,” Trey called out to his partner. “Hey, buddy. You doing okay?”

  “All wrong,” Darc croaked, then seemed to snap out of his stupor. “The phone.”

  Man, Trey hated it when Darc got all cryptic on him. At least this one wasn’t all that hard to figure out. “Phone. Right. Hey!” Trey yelled to one of the C.S.I. guys. “Once you’re done dusting the phone for fingerprints and whatever else you’re going to do to it, could you pull up the last few numbers dialed?”

  This was a good lead. From Bill’s reaction, the knife might end up being a dead end. It was unlikely someone from Special Forces would use a knife in a murder, knowing it could be tracked. So, it had probably been sold or stolen, and Trey wasn’t sure
he wanted to meet the guy with big enough stones to steal from a Green Beret.

  So, the phone might just end up being the thing that led them to their guy.

  CHAPTER 17

  The lines were tangled. They snarled and snared, binding around one another, hissing and spitting in their frustration at not finding their proper space.

  And they would not go. As much as Darc coaxed and urged, they would not settle. Would not coalesce. Their constant refusal sapped at his strength, leaving him brittle. Emptied out. A false construct of light and logic that appeared solid but would fall apart at the slightest push.

  Darc walked behind Trey as they left the crime scene. Behind. Constantly behind. He had always trailed his partner in social and emotional connection. That had never been a question. But now he was falling behind physically. Mentally.

  Trey’s shoulders were squared, his walk purposeful. The easy, rolling gait that seemed to flow with the terrain was absent, swallowed up in a seeming sense of responsibility and duty. Darc knew that feeling, the feeling of burden that he had welcomed as a part of himself.

  But now Darc knew it was not. It had never been. It had been a mission, a goal, a calling. A calling shared by and supported through the intricate interlacing web of glistening information in Darc’s mind. With it gone or hidden, Darc could now see that it was no part of him. Simply a task he had taken up at one time.

  What had taken its place? Darc could still feel some part of that urgency, that drive to track down the killer. The pathways inside continued to spiral and snake inside of him, looking for the correct arrangement that would bring enlightenment. And yet…

  And yet.

  Darc was still behind.

  The ever-present reporter stalked toward them, her heels clicking against the pavement of the sidewalk. Her camera operator struggled to keep up with the woman, dodging around, apparently seeking a proper angle to film his footage.

  “Are you ready to admit that there has been a cover-up at the department?” The woman started in without a preamble.

  “Wow. Cover-up. That’s new.” Trey pushed past her without slowing, weaving his way around the cameraman.

  “What else would you call it when there is a man in jail for these crimes that are still continuing?”

  “No comment.” Trey spared a single glance in the direction of the reporter. “And please. Just let us do our jobs.”

  Do their jobs. A simple statement. One that Darc could not conceive of uttering. Ever. A statement almost eloquent in its banality and straightforwardness. And yet, at least in Darc’s case, it was not true.

  Analyzing his performance since the beginning of this assignment, Darc had contributed next to nothing. Trey had made a remarkable attempt to fill the void left by Darc’s negligence. Darc’s partner had done some solid detective work, worthy of any bearer of the gold detective badge.

  The same could not be said of Darc.

  For the times when Trey had less to offer in the way of solid police work, he had more than compensated by caring for Darc in his moments of crisis, when Darc would push himself beyond his physical limits in pursuit of the solution. He had also found ways to make himself valuable socially, navigating waters that Darc could never hope to swim. His network of friends, colleagues and informants had been of incalculable worth over the years.

  But with Darc lagging behind on the deductive process, what else did he offer?

  Darc opened the passenger-side door to the Land Rover and climbed in, slamming the door behind him. A stray stream of light caressed his cheek, whispering of the vectors involved in that simple motion. The amount of acceleration needed to overcome the inertial forces acting on the door. The push of the foot against the pavement to propel his body upward. A simple act, yet filled with hidden pressures and meanings.

  Identical to the murders. Identical to Darc’s own emotional landscape.

  Something inside Darc clicked. He could not identify what it was, but a thread settled into place, clearing a space in which Darc could work.

  When taken as a whole, the emotional barrage assaulting Darc seemed overwhelming. But it was all excessively simple.

  Darc was a detective, first and foremost. It was what he did. It was what he was. Without his detective work, his life would have no rationale. Regardless of the fact that this should have been gray emotional territory, it was a point on which the lines of logic agreed. Darc belonged here.

  He was currently not doing exemplary work. His work had begun to deteriorate when he allowed romantic thoughts of Mala to interfere with the logical web within him.

  Mala was not the problem. His response to Mala was the issue.

  While it was true that Mala had been caught up recently in her attempts to recover Janey, she had still managed to contribute significantly more than Darc. The problem was specific to Darc.

  Turning to Trey, Darc reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved the notecards—the ones that Trey had written for Darc to aid in his pursuit of Mala.

  “I will no longer be needing these.”

  Trey darted a glance at Darc’s face, then down at the cards. “What? Keep ‘em. I worked hard on those.”

  “I will no longer attempt to interact with Dr. Charan on a romantic level.”

  “Dr. Charan? What?” Trey took his eyes off the road and gave Darc what appeared to be a searching look. “What’s going on?”

  “I have allowed thoughts of Dr. Charan to distract me in an unprofessional manner. I wish no further such distractions. Therefore, I will no longer pursue the doctor.”

  Letting out a big breath, Trey turned his attention back to the road. “Okay. I can’t say I don’t know what you’re talking about. Fact is, you’ve been pissing me off. Royally.”

  Darc nodded, satisfied. This was emotional territory, and the fact that Trey seemed to agree with him allowed Darc a certain level of strange comfort.

  Then Trey shrugged. “Do what you gotta do. But. Don’t rule it out completely, okay? Let’s get through the case, but then after, you can see. All right?” He pointed to the cards in Darc’s outstretched hand. “Put those away.”

  Darc’s comfort vanished. The certainty he had found in his web of glowing pathways shattered into a million points of gloaming. The yes-and-no answers made sense to him. This “wait and see” suggestion from Trey was uncomfortable. Painful.

  And yet, Darc took the cards and placed them back in his pocket. And as he put the rules of dating away for safekeeping, some part of him breathed a sigh of utter relief.

  *

  The first order of business had been to get Janey home and get her cleaned up. Mala drew a bath for her, making sure the water was warm but not hot, then left the little girl to scrub off the ink that had so frightened the leader of the last group home.

  Mala left the door to the bathroom open so that she could keep an ear out for Janey. She was old enough to bathe herself, and at least for the moment, Mala wanted to give Janey as much space as she could while keeping her safe. But there was no way Mala was going to lessen her vigilance. She knew from experience just how fast Janey could move when she was motivated.

  Chuckling again at the tactics Janey had employed in getting out of the group homes, Mala took the garbage sack into the room that she had decorated for Janey. The feel of the black plastic bag under her fingers stopped her mirth dead in its tracks.

  The fact that these children were forced to carry their belongings as if they were garbage was not lost on Mala. The system had so many flaws it almost seemed worthwhile to scrap the whole thing and start anew. But without that very system, Mala would not have been able to bring Janey home with her. Such a mix of strong opposing feelings.

  Because of her ties with the police department, Mala had been able to obtain all of the trappings from Janey’s room in her previous home. Pink curtains, pink bedding, even a pink princess dress-up outfit. Mala had taken it all and made up the room to be as close to what Janey had before as possible. She wanted Janey
to feel as comfortable as she possibly could.

  Taking the clothes out of the sack, Mala began folding them up and placing them in the dresser by Janey’s bed. She was only three shirts in when she heard a noise from the bathroom. The splashing had stopped, but there was another sound.

  A sound of choking.

  Mala rushed out of the bedroom and into the bathroom, running at top speed. She skidded to a halt in time to see Janey wiping tears out of her eyes. She wasn’t choking.

  She was crying.

  “Oh, sweetie. Oh, Janey. Come here.”

  Mala knelt down and took Janey in her arms, soaking her clothes in the process. She didn’t care in the slightest. Janey sobbed into her shoulder, her small form shaking from the strength of her cries.

  “I’m so sorry, Janey. I’m so sorry. I never should have left you alone. I just wanted to get your room ready.”

  Janey pulled back from the embrace, wiping the tears from her cheeks again as she shook her head in negation. No? What was she saying no to?

  “I don’t understand, honey. You don’t want me to make up your room?”

  Another shake of the head. That wasn’t it. It wasn’t the fact that Mala had left her alone. It wasn’t her fixing up the room.

  “You’re scared to be here? It’s all new to you?”

  Janey’s lips flattened into a straight line and she cocked her head. No, that clearly wasn’t it either. Janey began drawing in the bubbles of her bath. A detective’s badge.

  Ah. There it was. Of course.

  “Okay, Janey. Let’s get you scrubbed clean and dressed, and then we’ll go find Darc. Does that sound good?” Mala would never admit it to Janey, but it stung a little that she was so desperate to see the detective.

  Janey nodded and started soaping herself up again. Mala went to stand up, ready to start in again on Janey’s room. But before she could push herself off her knees, Janey’s hand shot out and grasped the hand with which Mala was balancing herself against the tub. Janey grabbed her hand and shook her head. She pointed at the floor.