Violence of the Father (A Trinity of Death Romantic Suspense Series Book 2)

by Raine, Charlotte

  “What’s his name?” I ask.

  “Mark Rebolini.”

  “Well, I will check him out,” I tell her. “So…”

  This is one of those times that Lauren would hug the victim’s loved one, but even if I forced myself to hug her, I'm sure she could sense how awkward it was and know I was simply doing it out of obligation. The last thing this situation needs is more awkwardness.

  “So,” I repeat. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” she mumbles.

  I pull out my business card.

  "Call me if you think of anything else." I pivot on my heel, walking back to my car.

  That’s just great. I think I just managed to traumatize a victim’s loved one more with my lack of sympathy than when she heard that her husband was crucified. I’m definitely going to Hell.

  * * *

  Mark Rebolini’s office at Trust Advocates Bank has a steel desk with his computer, a bonsai tree, stacks of folders, and a photo of him and his wife. Very normal. If Mrs. Herdon was telling the truth, he’s an atheist and not a suspect in the murders. He may not be the serial killer, but he seemed to know Philip well and would also know if there’s one way you can easily learn about someone’s life, it’s through their bank statements.

  Mark Rebolini is a bit chubby, but I can imagine that his wife fell in love with his contagious smile and thick, black hair. After we introduce ourselves and I tell him why I’m here, he sits down at his desk and gestures at a chair for me.

  “Detective Rodriguez,” he says. “Hailey called me about ten minutes ago to tell me that you might be heading over here. She told me about Philip. I’m…shocked, honestly. You don’t ever expect someone’s life to be taken early.”

  Right. We’re back to the point where I’m supposed to be empathetic.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s really terrible. I’ve had a few colleagues who were murdered and it’s…it’s hard to understand how something like that can happen.”

  He nods. “She said it was that religious nut and that Mary Fitzgerald was working with someone else?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, how can I help you catch this accomplice?” he asks. “You wanted to know about his financial records, correct?”

  “Well, that, and if you know anything else,” I say. “For you to keep secret the fact that he was scamming the bar’s owner, you must have been pretty close to him.”

  “Not exactly,” Mark says. “You see, my wife and I have been doing IVF in the hopes of getting pregnant. Hailey and Philip had done the same thing for a couple years before giving up and choosing to adopt. Adoption can cost a lot of money, on top of the money it costs to raise a child. I looked the other way because I understood his desperation for a child. Some people might think it was unethical for me to let him steal from his employer, but I didn’t see it that way. All I know is that when he finally adopted his daughter, his whole personality became so much more…exuberant. It gave his life purpose and he loves--loved--that little girl more than you could imagine.”

  I nod. “I can see why you did it. My partner and I have a theory and for that theory to work, it could be that someone knew that Philip was stealing. Did anyone other than you and his wife know?”

  “Not that I know of,” he says. “He could have told any of his friends. Like I said, I wasn’t that close to him. The one thing that brought us closer together was the fact that we had both tried IVF and that I knew his dirty little secret. But I didn’t share that secret with anybody.”

  “Did any of the other bankers see his bank statements?” I ask. “Could they have noticed he had a sudden increase in money?”

  “They could have, but I don’t think they would have questioned it,” he says. “It could be from tips. He was only getting about two hundred more dollars a week. We see shitloads of bank statements…we’re not going to pay attention to that little of an increase.”

  I stand up. “Okay, well, thank you, Mr. Rebolini.”

  He shakes my hand. “Actually, there is someone else other than the bank and his wife that seemed to notice something strange.”

  “Who?” I ask.

  “Well, an agency,” he says. “The adoption agency that the Herdons used—New Hearts. When they went through their adoption last year, Glenn told me that the agency had questioned him about how he and his wife afforded such expensive baby strollers, swings, decorations for the baby’s room, and so on, when he worked as a bartender and his wife is a waitress. He said he made up some excuse about an affluent patron that tipped well, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they investigated further. But they eventually must have believed him because he was able to adopt his daughter.”

  I frown. “That’s interesting. I hope you realize that’s not going to stop me from investigating other people in this bank.”

  He forces a smile. “I wasn’t trying to give you new suspects. I’m just telling you what I know.”

  “And I’m just telling you that I’m following this case wherever it leads me.”

  He thrusts his hand forward and I shake it. “It was a pleasure talking to you, though, if you come back again, I expect you to have a warrant. When you came this time, I was talking to you as a good acquaintance of Philip’s. Next time, I’ll be a banker that won’t just hand over client information.”

  “Your client is deceased and I’m sure his wife has no problem with you telling me anything in his bank statements,” I say. “Besides, wouldn’t you give me permission to look at his statements if I tell you some sad story about how my girlfriend can’t become pregnant?”

  He grits his teeth. “No, I’d advise you to drink less. It lowers your sperm count.”

  I nod. “That is really good advice.”

  “You should leave.”

  “Absolutely.”

  I open his door and step out. As I pass by his office window, I catch a glimpse of him sitting back at his desk. He cradles his head in his hands. For some people, sadness is a solitary event.

  I check my phone. There’s a text from Lauren.

  Lauren: I’m heading back now. I’ll be in Detroit in around nine.

  * * *

  As I’m walking back to my apartment building, my phone rings. It’s not a number I recognize.

  “Hello?” I answer. Silence. “Hello?”

  “Err…It’s me,” a man’s voice says. It takes me a second to recognize it.

  “Dad,” I say. “I’m glad you called. How is it going in recovery?”

  “Well, it’s recovery,” he says. “So, pretty miserable. Your mother just wanted me to call, so here I am. Calling.”

  I close my eyes. Of course. The only reason he would call is because of my mother. I open my eyes back up. Well, if it’s going to be like this, I might as well ruin this whole conversation. At least he’ll be less likely to yell at me when he’s in rehab.

  “Did you ever want kids?” I ask.

  “What?” he snorts. “What kind of question is that?”

  “Well, when I was growing up, I remember Mom telling all of these stories about how badly she wanted a child, but you’re never really part of the stories, so I was curious. Did you ever want a child?”

  “Hmph,” he says. “Honestly? No. I thought having a kid would suck out all of the money I’d earned and divert my attention from serving my community.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t feel the need to sugarcoat that.”

  “Look, son, you were just fine,” he says. “You know how I feel about you. I just care enough that I’m not going to lie to you. I didn’t want kids. Hell, I don’t think I treated you much like a kid while you were growing up because even when I had a kid, I didn’t like the concept of having a kid, so I treated you like an adult. Where is this question coming from, anyway? Does your girlfriend have a bun in the oven?”

  “Dad, nobody says that anymore, and, no, she doesn’t,” I say. “I was just curious.”

  “Because you don’t want kids?” he asks.
r />   “Because I don’t think I should be involved in that process,” I say. “With my luck, it would go badly.”

  “Tobias, my counselor is telling me to end the call. But, listen, you were great, but you better be damn certain that you want a kid before you have one,” he says. “You don’t go into parenting half-assed. A child is dependent on you and how they end up will largely rely on how you raise them. So, be damn certain, all right? I gotta go. We’ll talk…sometime later.”

  “Bye, Dad,” I say.

  “Goodbye, Tobias.”

  He hangs up. Honestly, those were some of the nicest things my father has ever told me, so therapy is either working or someone is sneaking in enough booze that he’s getting a buzz, but not getting drunk.

  It doesn’t help resolve the fact that Lauren has now attached herself to this question about children though.

  Once I get back to my apartment building, I check my mail. There’s just a catalog for athletic shoes and a postcard reminding me that there will be a local blood drive in a week. It’s boring, but at least it’s not a threatening message by a religious psychopath.

  As I walk up the stairs to my apartment, I pass by a man in a jogging suit and a woman wearing a janitor uniform. I’ve seen them a thousand times, but I don’t know either of their names. There’s a loneliness that resides in the fact that I’ve lived here for six years and I’ve never been close to anyone in this building. I occasionally nod at a few people who live on the same floor as me, but I’ve never had a conversation with any of them that lasted over a few seconds.

  Honestly, the question in my head isn’t if I’m going to live like this the rest of my life. It’s how I’ve lived like this for the past six years.

  Before I even open the door, I can smell death coming from my room. I grab my Glock 19 from my holster and shove open the door, easing inside. The smell isn’t as strong as when I was standing by the two crucified bodies, but it still stings my nostrils and makes my throat constrict.

  My kitchen is on the left and my living room is on the right. My bedroom branches off of my living room and my bathroom is attached to my bedroom. The stench permeates the entire apartment, but all of my instincts tell me that the killer wouldn’t leave a body in the kitchen or bathroom—it would be left somewhere that the blood could stain the carpet and the scent would wrap itself around every fiber in the room. The killer would want to leave his mark.

  I step into the living room. Nothing. Not a single item is out of place. Then again, I don’t own enough possessions that it would be easy for the killer to not touch anything when he’s walking through my house.

  That leaves my bedroom. As I take a step toward it, I see what appears to be four pieces of uncooked pork chop nailed to the wall in the form of a cross. As I step into the room, I realize it’s not pig meat. It’s absolutely human flesh, which I’m sure of because there’s part of an 8 ball tattoo on the skin.

  I begin to retch, but I can’t get to the bathroom without passing closer to the flesh. I take several steps back, closing my eyes, trying to forget what I’ve just seen.

  I pull out my cell phone and dial Jake Romano’s number.

  “I’m off the clock, Tobias,” he answers as soon as he picks up. “So, unless you’re calling me to tell me that you’ve caught the Commandment Killer and there’s a beautiful newswoman who wants to show the world the detectives who caught him, I’m currently unavailable.”

  “He’s been in my house,” I tell him.

  “What?” Romano asks, his voice two pitches higher. “How…you’re sure it was him?”

  “Well, you know how Philip Herdon was missing a lot of flesh?” I ask. “We thought it was animals? Well, I’m thinking that the killer took some skin before the animals began to chow down. It’s here. Nailed to the walls in my apartment.”

  “I’ll call everybody we need. Just make sure you have your gun out and don’t touch anything,” he says.

  “Thanks. I wasn’t sure how to be a detective, but you’ve just reminded me,” I say, unable to contain my sarcasm.

  He snorts. “I care about you too, Tobias.”

  There’s a faint click as he hangs up. I look around. I didn’t think to check my bathroom or anywhere else that the killer could be hiding, but my gut tells me that the killer wouldn’t leave this grotesque display if he wanted to deliver the message in person. Keeping my gun out, I avoid looking at the flesh as I walk past it to step into my bathroom. I keep my gun raised. My shower has a frosted glass door, but I can still see nobody is inside and there’s nowhere else a full-grown human could hide. I walk back out into my bedroom.

  That’s when I notice something in the middle of the four slabs of flesh. I step closer. It’s a photograph of Lauren and me. It’s the same one that was nailed to Philip Herdon’s cross—where Lauren and I are stepping out of my apartment. This time, it has something written on it: Romans 8:13.

  I get onto the internet on my cell phone. I search for the Bible verse. The search engine displays the verse under the top link:

  For if you live according to the flesh, you will die; but if by the Spirit you put to death the misdeeds of the body, you will live.

  Apparently, this killer likes to take metaphorical words and make them literal.

  If you live according to the flesh… I type the phrase into my phone’s browser and skim the discussion. One of the commenters has written, “…in this instance ‘flesh’ is in contrast with the Holy Spirit and it’s also connected to sexual immorality…”

  Considering this photo was taken in the morning—evident by the fact that our shadows are cast to the west—I think I can safely assume that the killer is using this overly elaborate message to condemn Lauren and me for sleeping with each other. Did he not kill one of us because he already killed someone who committed adultery?

  He didn’t kill either of us, right?

  I dial Lauren’s number. It goes straight to voicemail.

  Chapter Ten

  Lauren

  “Hello?” I answer.

  “Where are you?” Tobias asks.

  “I’m stepping onto your apartment’s floor right now…and there’s a police officer and forensic analysts in front of your door…what the hell is going on, Tobias?”

  I don’t wait for an answer. I shut off the phone and take long strides over to his door. I flash my badge at the officer as he raises his hand to stop me from coming any closer.

  “I’m Detective Williams. Detective Rodriguez is my partner—”

  “Lauren,” Tobias says, nearly knocking over the officer as he steps out of his apartment. “Where have you been? I’ve called you three times.”

  “I keep my phone on silent while I’m driving,” I tell him. “There’s this whole thing about driving and cell phones in case you haven’t been paying attention to the news. I don’t want to risk being distracted. I’m fairly certain that the bigger question is what on God’s earth is going on here? What is that smell?”

  “Rotting flesh.”

  “Rotting flesh? Please tell me that you left something in your fridge too long.”

  “No…I mean that the killer got into my apartment and he nailed flesh from the lakeshore victim onto my wall. Oh, and in both cases there was a photograph of us involved and from the verse that the killer wrote on the photo, he doesn’t appreciate you and me being intimate.”

  “What was the verse?” I ask, trying to look past him.

  He puts his hand on my shoulder, pushing me back away from his apartment. “You don’t want to see what’s in there.”

  “I’m going to see it later in the crime scene photos—”

  “Yeah, seeing the photos and seeing the real thing is completely different,” he says. “The verse is Romans 8:13.”

  “I don’t know that one. Do you remember what it says?”

  “I know that it doesn’t say nail human flesh to a detective’s wall,” he says.

  I cross my arms over my chest.

  He sighs.
“It says something about a person living by the flesh will die, but if you live with the Holy Spirit, you’ll live. It was truly a touching message that the killer sent me. I think we’ve brought our relationship to the next level: from general disagreement to contempt. But enough about me and my new best friend—how was your trip to Indianapolis? Was it as exciting as my day?”

  “I’m fairly certain that Glenn’s ex-wife is innocent,” I say. “He worked a lot, they weren’t religious, and they have a cute kid. I think the trip was a waste.”

  “Well, that’s too bad because I think it’s best if you leave the city again,” he says. “This killer seems to be focusing his murder spree within Detroit and it’s not safe. It seems like the killer is telling us that he thinks we’re sinners and he could decide to kill us at any point. That’s the whole problem with crazy people—they’re unpredictable.”

  I take a step back. “I’m sorry, but we’re in the middle of a case right now. Do you plan on leaving?”

  “No, but one of us needs to stay behind and help solve the case. There’s no point in both of us risking our lives and it simply makes more sense for me to stay,” he says.

  “How does it make more sense?” I ask. “Because I’m a woman?”

  “Because if you were killed, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself,” he snaps.

  “You don’t think I feel the same?” I retort. “You don’t think that I’d be devastated if you were killed?”

  “I’m sure you would be upset,” he says. “But I’m also certain that you could eventually move on.”

  “What?” I blurt. “Are you kidding me? You think that I care less than you?”

  “No, I think your heart is more open to love than mine is,” he says. “In case you haven’t noticed, I tend to piss off everyone around me. You’re immune for some reason—likely because you’re too empathetic, but the facts are still—”