by Morgan Brice
“It’s a pentagram,” Vic said quietly. “Simon has a theory that all of the victims were killed because they had some kind of psychic gift.”
“Then if he’s not a fraud, that either suggests he’s the killer—or he’s going to be a victim,” Ross replied. Vic felt sick at the thought of Simon facing down the Slitter for a third time. He thought about calling to warn him, but what would he say that Simon hadn’t already figured out for himself? No, he thought, better to wait until he had something tangible.
But what if Simon’s involved? That dark voice in his mind murmured. He wouldn’t have to be the Slitter himself. An accomplice, perhaps? After all, he can’t prove those attacks ever happened.
Vic found himself clenching his jaw as he pushed back the poisonous thoughts. But it was impossible to silence the voice altogether. After all, he was a cop, raised by cops, and he’d been taught since the time he was a kid to be suspicious, look for hidden motives, not take things at face value. He’d seen more than one fellow officer turn mean and cynical, because the truth was, trust came hard for a cop. And, dammit, he’d trusted Simon. Trusted him in bed, and beyond that, with his heart. He’d started to think about being not just lovers, but partners, not just for fun, but maybe forever.
Now, that trust felt fragile. He wondered if Simon had told him everything. There had been times he thought the other man might have been holding back information and had figured Simon was gun-shy about sharing “woo-woo stuff” Vic might not believe. He didn’t want to ascribe a darker motive to it, but his cop brain wouldn’t shut up, tallying the evidence and whispering suspicions.
“You’re going to break your pen,” Ross said, and Vic realized how tight his grip was on the ballpoint in his fist. “Something you want to share with the class?”
“No. Just pissed that we still don’t have a solid lead,” Vic replied, avoiding Ross’s gaze.
Vic and Ross ordered from the Lucky Pearl Chinese restaurant across the street from the precinct headquarters. The food was middling at best, but the price was right, and they delivered. They ate quickly, and then Vic and Ross traded roles, with Ross reading off names from first the paranormal group attendees, and then the list of fired employees. By the time they finished, they had a dozen people who had either been fired or laid off that appeared on both lists.
“Tomorrow, we’ll run both lists through the system, and see what comes up,” Ross said, pushing aside the remnants of his dinner. “You might have your Billy Bass results by then, too. And then maybe you and I go pay a visit to the people on the shortlist.”
“Tomorrow,” Vic echoed. “Because it’s—fuck, it’s ten o’clock. No wonder I’m beat.”
“And I’m in the doghouse,” Ross said with a sigh. “Maybe Jenny’ll forgive me when I bring home the overtime pay.” He gave Vic a worried look. “Are you going to see Simon tonight?”
Vic wanted to drive over to the blue bungalow, wrap Simon in his arms, and take them both on his bike to someplace far from Myrtle Beach. Or at least, he wanted to fall asleep with Simon, listen to his heartbeat reassuring Vic that they were safe. But even though he was still convinced of Simon’s innocence, he knew keeping a little distance was best for both of them.
“I already told him I’d be working late,” Vic replied. “And I’m too beat to be good company.”
Ross snickered. “Gettin’ old, D’Amato,” he joked, then grew serious. “Look, I know you like this guy. And I hope he turns out to be legit. But for your sake, please think about how this could look to the Captain while the investigation is ongoing. If Kincaide is cleared, then you can tell everyone—including me—to fuck off.”
Vic snorted. “Won’t be the first time.”
“Probably won’t be the last, either,” Ross replied as they closed down for the night and walked out together. “Just watch your back.”
“Always,” Vic assured him, but as he headed for the motorcycle, he had a gut feeling that the worst was yet to come.
By six in the morning, Vic was back at the precinct. The Captain had authorized overtime, and Vic couldn’t sleep anyhow—not with real data to parse and Simon’s life on the line. He figured he might as well be productive.
The Billy Bass search turned up nothing except jokes at Vic’s expense. Vic went back over the whiteboard points, but couldn’t find a connection between the talking mechanical fish and any of the bars where the victims had been employed, or their addresses.
At seven, Vic started calling down through the shortlist of paranormal meeting regulars, while he waited for the system to send something back on the longer lists of members and people who had been fired. Later in the day, he and Ross would personally follow up with the dozen names where the two lists intersected.
When his first call—from a phone line that didn’t show up on Caller ID as the Myrtle Beach Police Department—got a groggy roommate who swore the person Vic asked for had run off, Vic chalked it up to coincidence. By the fourth call with a similar response, Vic knew they had a pattern. By the end of the list, a third of the people had fled town within the last month, suddenly and without apparent planning.
Vic sat back and stared at his notes. He didn’t think the missing attendees had been killed; instead, he figured they had gotten spooked and run for their lives. The unusually high number of sudden departures gave credence to Simon’s theory, or at least to the idea that people with low level abilities might have felt targeted and left while they could.
At eight, Vic’s personal phone rang. He frowned when he saw Ross’s number, but before he could say anything, Ross started talking. “D’Amato. There’s been another killing.”
“Where?” Vic asked, rising from his chair.
“I’ve got this,” Ross said. “Stay where you are.”
“What the fuck?” Vic protested. “Like hell.”
“You will stay where you are, or I tell the Captain everything,” Ross said in a low rumble. Vic felt a cold chill slither down his spine.
“Simon?” he asked, hating that his voice tightened, as his heart sped up. Another killing and Ross didn’t want him there? Did that mean Simon—
“He’s not dead,” Ross snapped. “But he’s the dumbass who found the body and called it in.”
Vic sank into his chair, torn between relief that Simon wasn’t dead, and panic that his lover had put himself squarely in the crosshairs. “What?”
“You know the old Moonlight Bay hotel? The one that’s only a couple of blocks down from his shop?”
“The abandoned one that’s been sitting for a while.”
“Yeah. With the pool that the taggers have gone nuts with,” Ross muttered. “Your boy apparently had a premonition and showed up to check it out—which is at least trespassing, breaking, and entering—and finds a body. Of someone he knows. Now at least he had the sense not to touch it or approach it, but he called it in.”
Shit. Fuck. Damn. Vic swung from fear to anger and back again, as the implications hit him. “Why didn’t I get the call?”
“Because you’ve apparently been on the phone for two straight hours,” Ross growled. “But Vic, you can’t touch this. For his sake, and for yours.”
“The hell—”
“Listen to me.” Ross shifted to the “command voice” he had learned in the military. “You come forward now, and you get tossed off the case, maybe the unit. Stay behind the scenes, and if there’s anything that vindicates him and points to the real killer, we’ll find it.” He paused. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think he’s the Slitter. He’s entirely too freaked out.”
Vic closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, visualizing Simon, panicked and alone, at the murder scene of a friend. “Who died?”
“A guy named Marcus Walker. Worked at Gym-tastic. Ring any bells?”
Vic recognized the name as someone Simon had mentioned, but he hedged. “Maybe.”
“I’m going to bring Kincaide in for questioning,” Ross said, keeping his voice level as if he w
ere talking to a spooked horse. “You need to be out of sight.”
“I want to watch the interrogation.” Vic’s tone didn’t leave room for argument.
“From behind the mirror,” Ross conceded.
“And how are you going to explain to the Captain that I’m not where your partner should be?”
Ross sighed. “I’m gonna tell him you’re acquainted socially, and so you’re staying behind the scenes.”
That might work. But the thought of Simon being perp-walked through the precinct in handcuffs made Vic’s stomach turn. At the same time, he realized that Ross was taking a huge risk on his behalf. If Simon was the Slitter—or an accomplice—both Ross and Vic would be fired when the Captain found out the truth about Vic’s relationship with him and Ross’s knowledge.
“Thanks,” Vic replied. He felt jittery from the adrenaline flooding his system both from fear and anger, and his hand shook holding the phone.
“Just stay out of the way. I mean it. Fuck this up, and it all goes south.” Ross hung up.
Vic passed a hand over his face, trying to get a grip. Simon had found a body and acknowledged he had seen it in a vision. At least he’d had the presence of mind not to contaminate the scene or get blood on himself. Thank God for crime shows. That would have made it worse, but even without fingerprints on the murder weapon, there was plenty of circumstantial connections that wouldn’t work in Simon’s favor.
Maybe he played you. The dark voice in the back of his mind whispered. Used you. Lied to you. Conned you. That’s what serial killers do. And you thought he cared. You fell in love with him. You’ve been owned.
Vic shook his head, resisting the treacherous suspicions. The details that linked Simon to the case could be easily explained—if you believed his abilities were real. But this was South Carolina, and the God-fearing jurors likely to hear the case weren’t prone to thinking kindly of anything that smacked of the occult or the supernatural. The D.A. would make Simon out to be crazy or a fraud. Even if he didn’t go to jail, he’d be ruined.
Vic heard a ruckus near the doors and drew back to a spot where he could see without being seen. Ross came in first, then two uniforms with Simon between them, cuffed and quiet, head down. Vic’s utter relief that Simon hadn’t been the victim warred with anger over seeing Simon taken into custody, and fear of what could happen soured his stomach. Mostly, Vic wanted to go to him, comfort him, and take those fucking restraints off. Simon’s joke about handcuffs from the day before now seemed like an omen.
Simon raised his head, looking around the room, looking for Vic. When he didn’t see Vic, Simon’s expression went blank, and his shoulders slumped. Vic hung back until after Ross led Simon into the interrogation room, then slipped into the viewing area behind the one-way mirror. Captain Hargrove was already there, along with a tech to handle recording the audio and video.
“Nice work,” the Captain said. “You and Ross have been working it old school. Looks like it might have paid off.”
Vic didn’t trust himself to speak. He clasped his hands, afraid he would give himself away with their trembling. The uniforms escorted Simon to a chair at the table, leaving him cuffed. Both cops pulled back to stand on either side of the door opposite the mirrored wall, while Simon sat in silence. It was standard procedure to let the anxiety percolate, but Vic hated seeing Simon on the receiving end. Worst of all, he knew Ross would do his job without remorse, and he had seen his partner be a real son of a bitch when it came to questioning a suspect.
Simon turned and looked at the mirror. Vic met his gaze through the glass, although Simon couldn’t see him. He had never seen such a bleak look in Simon’s eyes, like he’d been gutted, abandoned. Vic knew that’s probably exactly how his lover felt since Vic hadn’t even shown up to show silent support. Simon looked away, apparently deciding he was entirely on his own, and Vic’s heart ached.
“I heard this guy thinks he can talk to ghosts,” Captain Hargrove said. “Must think we’re stupid.”
Vic didn’t reply. Ross made a dramatic entrance, throwing the door open so that Simon startled, and then striding across to sit down on the other side of the table.
“State your name,” Ross snapped.
“Sebastian Simon Kincaide. Ph.D.”
“Employment?”
“I own Grand Strand Ghost Tours.”
“You knew the victim?”
“We were acquainted. Not really friends.”
“So if you weren’t friends, why was a call to your phone one of the last the victim made?”
Simon cleared his throat. “He was afraid. I told him to get out of town.”
“Afraid of what?”
“The Slitter.”
“And why did he happen to call you, if you weren’t friends?”
“He knew me from the shop. He thought the Slitter might be picking victims who had some psychic talent.”
Ross let that ride. “Why did you go to an abandoned hotel this morning?”
“I had a dream about something bad happening there, at the pool.”
“Most people would have called the cops.”
Simon turned to look at the mirror. “The cops wouldn’t believe that kind of thing. So I figured I’d see for myself.” Vic felt Simon’s accusing gaze, and the sadness and betrayal made Vic’s throat tighten.
“Damn right,” Captain Hargrove muttered behind Vic.
“And what happened when you got to the pool?”
“I saw a body,” Simon said. “I recognized Marcus from a distance.” A bitter smile touched his lips. “I’ve watched enough to TV to know not to touch anything. So I called it in.”
“You could have used an anonymous tip line. Why use your own phone and wait for the police?”
Simon raised his head and looked Ross straight in the eyes. “I didn’t know Marcus well, but he deserved some dignity. That’s why I stayed.”
Vic closed his eyes, fighting back emotion. The answer was so totally Simon. Vic was more sure than ever that he loved Simon and certain that he’d just lost his chance at earning Simon’s love in return.
“Maybe you stayed because you wanted to show off your handiwork,” Ross said, upping the ante.
Simon’s expression grew cold, and as terrified as he must have been, none of that showed in his eyes. “I want my phone call. And I want a lawyer.”
Ross tried several other lines of questioning, but Simon only repeated his requests. When the two uniforms led Simon out to use the phone, Ross put both hands on the table and let his head hang. The tech in the observation room turned off the equipment.
“He can lawyer up all he wants,” Captain Hargrove said. “If he did it, you and Ross will nail him for it.” He left the room, and Vic trailed behind, feeling like his entire world was coming unglued.
Ross was waiting when Vic returned to their desk. His partner looked worn thin, and Vic knew that interrogation was partly real, and partly a high-energy performance. “What now?” Vic asked tonelessly.
“Now, we put Kincaide on ice until his lawyer gets here.”
Vic frowned. He had somehow expected Simon to ask for a public defender. “Who’s his lawyer?”
“I don’t know. He called someone in Charleston to arrange counsel. I guess we’ll find out soon enough.” Ross looked away. “Look, I know this is hard—”
“You don’t know shit,” Vic snapped. He realized that Ross wasn’t the right target for his anger, but after seeing his lover frightened, humiliated, and intimidated, Vic barely restrained the urge to punch something.
“I know that he didn’t give you up to us,” Ross said in a low voice. “He could have thrown your name around, tossed you under the bus with him. But he didn’t. Not once.”
Probably because there was no relationship left to rely on from Simon’s perspective, Vic thought. It was more likely that Simon thought Vic had somehow betrayed his confidence, or at least no longer believed in his talent or his innocence. There wasn’t any way to come back from this
, Vic thought sickly. Too much damage, too many bridges burned even if Simon was ultimately vindicated.
That hurt even more than his long-ago break up with Nate, Vic realized. Nate’s leaving had hurt Vic’s pride and his ego, saddened him, but nothing like the way the thought of losing Simon ached so bad Vic could barely breathe. It killed him thinking that Simon was locked up in a cell, certain that he had been completely abandoned. Everything in Vic wanted to comfort and protect, and not being able to do so was an unbearable helplessness.
“It’s not over yet,” Ross said, jolting Vic out of his thoughts. His partner’s eyes were sympathetic. “I don’t think he did it. Any of it. I’m not ready to sign on to get my palm read, but I just don’t think he’s a killer.”
“I don’t, either,” Vic said. He took several deep breaths and felt himself growing cold, the way he always coped with loss and grief. Bury it deep, and don’t deal with it until it digs its way back up out of the grave. After a few moments, he could function, as long as he didn’t think about Simon. “I found some information this morning that I think you’ll want to see.”
A little over two hours later, Vic and Ross looked up as two strangers walked in like they owned the place. One was a man in his early thirties, blond hair, broad shoulders, and a suit that easily cost a couple of grand. With him was an older man in a bespoke seersucker suit and bow tie, the hallmark of blue-blood Charleston aristocracy. The older man spoke to the desk sergeant, who called over a uniform to escort the two men to the cells. They walked back out with Simon between them, much faster than usual. Simon never even tried to look for Vic, just kept his eyes straight ahead.
“Holy mother of God,” Ross muttered. He called up to the front. “What law firm were those guys from?” he asked, and paled a bit when he heard the answer. “Shit. Thanks.” Vic raised an eyebrow.
“Your boy has connections—and money. Those lawyers were from Benton Connor Hawthorn in Charleston, and to get here this fast, they must have left almost as soon as he placed his call.”
Vic recognized the name. BCH handled high-profile litigation, and their criminal defense attorneys were the best in the state. “Fuck. How—”