“Who?” he asks.
“I have no idea,” I say. “Maybe it’s someone she met while trying to become one of the Seven Servants of God. Who knows? I just think we shouldn’t close this case so quickly. Besides, Sarah Lurie was killed after Jackson died. How could he possibly have done that?”
“It could have been a copycat,” he says.
“You say that like you want it to be true.” I have to work hard to keep my voice level.
Mattinson continues, “Maybe Jackson had an accomplice. Like you said: who knows? But the mayor called me and he’s very happy that our killer-kidnapper happens to be dead and the news stations are praising us for our excellent work. Even Mary is praising our work, saying that she feels safe enough to have a concert for the fans that have begun a vigil outside the hospital. We don’t get praise often, Detective Rodriguez. We should take it when it comes.”
“She’s staying?” Lauren murmurs, stepping up beside me. “That seems strange. I would think she’d want to get as far away from here as possible and return to her family’s house in California.”
“Apparently, she likes her place here. If what I’ve heard about psychology is true, people deal with trauma differently,” Mattinson says. “She also said in a statement that the experience actually strengthened her relationship with God and she feels that a whole new batch of songs will likely come out of the experience, so this is all good press for us. Maybe you two will even be sung about with metaphors about guardian angels or whatever she sings about. Just take this one as a win.”
He picks up his pen again and begins to write up a statement. I feel anger rising in me, but I can’t lash out at him without risking being put on desk duty for the next month. I gesture for Lauren to follow me outside.
As soon as we’re on the station steps, I say, “I can’t believe he’s just ignoring evidence.”
“I can’t believe he’s not freaking out like he usually is,” she says. “Whatever the mayor said and the news stations said must have really boosted his confidence.”
“Which isn’t good.” I turn and smile at her. “What do you say to a date tonight with evidence, autopsies, witness statements, some takeout Chinese, and a mass amount of coffee?”
“I’d say…order some sweet and sour pork.”
“You’re my favorite,” I say, wrapping my arm around her waist and kissing her cheek.
“If I’m your favorite, does that mean you have more girlfriends?” she teases.
“Oh, Angelina Jolie calls once in a while,” I say. “But, you know, I always tell her that I’m hanging around with you. She gets jealous sometimes, but I can’t help it when I like you more.”
“Well, when you’re not around, I’ll have to call up Brad Pitt.”
“Now, that’s cold,” I say. “At least you’re more beautiful than Jolie. I can’t compete with Brad.”
“You’re crazy,” she says.
I raise an eyebrow. “Good. I need to be to catch this killer.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Lauren
Mary Fitzgerald's breakout song, “Glory,” changed her debut album from one that barely certified gold in sales to being certified platinum. “Glory” was also condemned widely by more conservative Christian groups for blurring the line between romance and worship.
As Tobias and I are the only two left in the homicide division of our building—the desks pushed against the walls, so we can spread all of our papers out in the center of the floor and be surrounded by possible evidence—I can't stop playing “Glory” in my head.
My God, my God, glory comes out tonight
Like the crashing waves of the Red Sea
Like the kiss of surrender when Jesus saw Judas
My God, my God, we may have sinned with a single bite,
But when the flames were catching up to me, You saved me from perdition.
They say all glory is fleeting, but that's only without You.
I surrender with a kiss; glory comes out tonight.
“What about Mary’s father?” Tobias asks. “I mean, in all probability, the kidnapper is male and the closest man to her is her father.”
“He had a solid alibi though—I checked into it a while ago,” I tell him. I pick up the notes an officer had written about Jackson's death—the poison was ricin. "There are photographs of him at the crime scene. A couple of paparazzi sites even posted some photos of it since he was at the murder scene while Mary was being kidnapped and they were trying to make sales by writing about how it would be so tragic if Mary was killed while her father was investigating some other murder. I think they would have been enthralled if she actually did die, just so they could make a bigger profit with everyone looking up their articles to see what happened.”
“You’re not a fan of the paparazzi, are you?” he asks.
“They don’t annoy you?” I say, leaning back until I'm lying on the floor. It has to be two or three hours past midnight by now and we've accomplished nothing. “They hover around crime scenes like vultures, hoping to get a scrap of someone else’s misery for a profit.”
“They do, but I guess they’re just part of the job to me,” he says, lying down beside me. He brushes a strand of my hair away from my face.
“Didn’t Jackson mention that she met someone who convinced her to become more religious?” I ask. His hand moves down to my collar bone, tracing the curve of it, and I shiver at the delicious sensation. “It sounded like he was jealous, so I would think that person was a man too.”
“Yeah, but if he was around, I’d think the paparazzi would have heard about him by now,” he says.
“You’d also think they would have found out about her ex-boyfriend, the Satanist, but apparently she’s good at hiding people from her past,” I say. I rub my eyes. “Maybe Sarah wanted to buy some of those jackets that Gavin had created and that’s how they’re connected. She owns a gift shop and that jacket would be unique enough to lure people in.”
He shakes his head, laying his hand on my abdomen. I put my hands on top of his, enjoying the heat his touch spreads through my whole body.
“I don’t think so. I’ve looked into her inventory and nothing she bought came anywhere near the price of those jackets,” he says. "The jackets cost over two hundred dollars."
I close my eyes. "Can you give me any good news? Because I feel like I've wasted a good night's sleep."
"Well, I don't know about good news for you, but I'm lying here with a beautiful woman and there's nobody else around."
"Are you seriously thinking about sex right now?"
"I'm male," he says. "There's no off button."
I push myself up to lean over him. It casts a shadow over him except for his eyes, which seem brighter than ever.
"You really want to do something here that you'll remember every time you come here to work?" I ask, guiding my fingers from his chest to his abdomen. His lips twitch.
"I'm certain it will be completely worth it."
I kiss him, feeling my lip balm brush off against his lips. His hands wander up to my waist, suddenly gripping them to pull me on top of him. I slide my knees on either side of his hips. We kiss again, his body rising up to meet mine.
"You can certainly change the tone of a conversation," I murmur.
"You said you wanted good news."
His hand slips under my shirt and every one of my nerves seem to travel where his fingers touch. For the first time tonight, I forget the lyrics of Mary's song. All that's left is the frantic rhythm, which could be a way to convey the desperate love of a sinner for her God, or the passion of two lovers.
* * *
When I wake up, there’s a piece of paper stuck to my face. I peel it off, letting it fall back to the floor as I stretch. I look over to my left. Tobias is still fast asleep, his chest rising and falling with every breath he takes. I put my hand on his chest, my fingers splayed out, feeling his heart beating. After a few seconds, his breathing becomes shallower and his hand raises to
cover mine.
“Good morning, Miss Williams,” he murmurs.
“Good morning, Mr. Rodrig—”
Holy shit. I grab my phone and look at the time. It’s morning.
I stumble onto my feet and start putting on my clothes. Tobias opens one eye to watch me.
“Why are you rushing?” he asks.
“Because it’s morning,” I say. “And we’re in the police station.”
The realization dawns on him.
“Shit,” he says, grabbing his boxer briefs and pants. “How much time do we have?”
I hear the rumble of a car driving into the parking lot. I glance out the window. It’s a red Land Rover.
“None,” I say. “The Captain is here.”
After I get my clothes back on—though I feel as if I have at least one article of clothing on backwards—I run my fingers through my hair. Tobias buttons his shirt up—though he missed one of them—and grabs my arm.
“Come on. We have to look busy,” he says, grabbing a few random pieces of paper off the floor. He leads me to the break room, sets the papers on the counter, and begins to pour the two of us coffee that has been cold for at least a few hours.
We hear the door swing open.
“So,” Tobias says loudly. He sips from his coffee mug as he hands one to me. I take a drink from it. It’s way too bitter for me. “Uh, we were talking about Sarah Lurie’s murder…since her killer is clearly out there because Jackson Belamonte died before her murder. Who do you think it could be?”
“It could be anybody,” I say, my voice sounding like I’m reading off a teleprompter. Badly.
Tobias picks his papers back up and pretends to be intently interested in them as Mattinson comes around the corner, spots us, and walks over.
“Why are all of the desks pushed against the wall?” he asks.
“It helped us to be able to see all of our information in one spot,” Tobias says.
Mattinson gives us a curt nod. “On what case?”
“Sarah Lurie’s,” I say.
He looks between us. “So, this has nothing to do with our discussion yesterday? You’re not investigating Mary’s kidnapping anymore, correct?”
“No, definitely not,” Tobias says. “You were right. Mary is safe and sound, and she named her kidnapper. She has no reason to lie. We’re just focusing on Sarah Lurie now.”
“Did you figure out anything?”
“No,” Tobias admits.
“Well, can you put all of the desks back now?”
“Sure,” I interject because it looks like Tobias is about to hit Mattinson across the face. Mattinson nods again before retreating to his office. I glance over at Tobias. He’s gazing at the wall. I look behind me, but there’s nothing special there. “Are you okay?”
“Gavin Lively took days to die, and so did Sarah Lurie.”
“Yeah, I know,” I say. “It was probably one of the worst ways to die.”
“Right…but where were they dying? Because Gavin Lively wasn’t in the pastor’s office for two days and I’m going to assume that Sarah Lurie wasn’t in the cemetery this whole time or some poor, grieving bastard would have seen her sooner,” he says.
“Oh…” I say. “The killer had to have some private area to torture and kill them.”
“Somewhere that nobody would find them or hear them yell for help.”
“What about the foreclosed house Mary was in?” I ask.
“Forensics didn’t find any blood or anything,” he says. “There were various fingerprints all over the place, but none that match anybody in our databases. But we could check out the house again.”
“And how are we going to convince Mattinson to allow us back there?”
He shrugs. “We’ll tell him that we’ve investigating Lurie’s murder. It’s technically true.”
“You’re going to get me in trouble, aren’t you?”
“You’re the one who seduced me into sleeping with you at our place of work,” he says.
“That was you! You seduced me.”
“Nah. I think it’s your skin.” He kisses my shoulder. “It gets me every time.”
I press my index finger against his lips. “Save your kissing up for when we have to convince a judge to accept any evidence we find.”
“None of the judges are cute enough to kiss up to,” he says. “Plus, I like kissing you.”
“I like kissing you too.”
We kiss one more time—for luck, for longing, for love, for every other second that we aren’t able to see eye-to-eye.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Tobias
After staying in the hospital for one night, Mary was released. She refused to return to California, so she’s staying at Lightning Strike Hotel. I shake my head about the name. The owner must have thought it was a cute name with commanding imagery, but it seems to me it’s just asking for bad luck. The fact that there’s a metal needle at the top of the building makes it seem like the owner was either very confident or enjoyed messing with fate.
“I would have thought she’d have her body guard standing outside her room,” Lauren mutters as we stop in front of room 220.
“Well, clearly having one before didn’t help her that much,” I say, knocking on the door. “Maybe he’s inside.”
“Maybe it was the guard who kidnapped her,” she mentions.
“Yeah, but I questioned him and his alibi seems pretty solid. Besides, I would think somebody would notice if he went missing, considering he’d have to leave to take her to the foreclosed house or wherever the kidnapper kept her.”
“Or it would be the perfect time to be gone because everyone is looking for Mary.”
“I don’t think it’s him,” I say. “He’s an angry guy, but not the kind who would meticulously murder people. Maybe punch and knock them out, but that’s as far ahead as he would plan.”
The door opens up an inch. Mary peeks out at me.
“Detective…Rodriguez?” she asks.
“Yep. That’s right. Thanks for remembering my name,” I say.
“Of course. You saved my life.” She opens the door wider. “Please, come in.”
I walk into the room with Lauren following close behind me. Her bed is still made, a large white comforter on top of it, and the room is sparsely decorated—a single painting of a lightning storm above the bed and a lampshade that looks like a chandelier. I’m sure it must seem like a one star hotel to a teen who is used to hotels that have gold statues and real chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.
“I would have thought you would have a bodyguard here,” I mention as she sits down on the edge of her bed.
“My dad wanted me to have several, but…I’m okay. My kidnapper is dead,” she says. “What do I have to worry about?”
“Copycats?” I ask. “For all we know, Jackson had an accomplice.”
She shakes her head. “No, he was the only one.”
“You weren’t so certain before.”
“I’ve had time to think about it. There was nobody else. I never heard him talking to anybody else, I never heard him mention anybody else. He talked a lot. If there was somebody else involved, he would have mentioned it. I don’t think he ever intended me to survive.”
“What did he talk about?” I ask.
She shrugs. “His Satanism. How religion is evil. How stupid my music is. How stupid I was. How priests molest little boys. I don’t know. He was always really random.”
“See, I find that really strange,” I say. “Because I talked to Jackson before he died and he was really concerned about you. He seemed to be in love with you, actually.”
Something flickers across her face—some mixture between pain and uncertainty. “Maybe he was. He was clearly obsessed. But people who are in love have done crazier things. The world is insane, Detective Rodriguez, and Jackson’s mind was even more convoluted. You can’t expect me to understand any of this.”
“Of course not,” I say. “But, Mary, could you tell me w
hat happened again? This time, start at the kidnapping…when you were praying alone in the pastor’s office. You never finished telling us what happened before.”
“Okay…I’m not sure why you need me to tell it again. Do you need to write it down?”
“No, no, I’m good.” I gesture toward Lauren, who is behind me, leaning against a wooden desk. “My partner has an excellent memory. I just want to make sure you didn’t miss any details and the best way to do that is if you tell me the whole story again.”
“Well, I went to the pastor’s office to pray. I was alone. I asked God to bless all of the people in the church and that He help them to fulfill their purpose. I heard the door crack open. I didn’t turn around right away because I thought it might be the pastor and I wanted to finish up my prayer. I didn’t want to rush when I was expressing my gratitude to God. But then Jackson held a knife to my neck. He…he said that he was going to show me that God wasn’t real by making me feel how terrible life could be, and he told me to follow him to his car.”
“And then?” I ask.
She takes a deep breath. “He forced me out the back entrance of the church. It’s just down the hallway from the pastor’s office. He shoved me into the back of his car, in the trunk,” she says. “I could feel him driving the car, but I don’t remember how long I was in there, so I couldn’t tell you how far he drove. Then, he took me into the foreclosed house, chained me to the heater pipe, and that’s where I’ve been this whole time. Sometimes, he would come down to taunt me, but he mostly left me alone…oh, except for when he forced me to make that ransom tape.”
“You were reading from something he had written down?”
“Yes. He had written it on sheets of paper,” she says.
I hear the tiniest hitch in Lauren’s breathing and I glance back at her. She’s staring at Mary.
“Mary, you were locked to the heater pipe the whole time?” she asks. “He never let you walk upstairs?”
She shakes her head. “No. Why?”
Lauren pauses for the briefest of seconds. “Where did you go to the bathroom?”
Voice of the Spirit (A Trinity of Death Romantic Suspense Series Book 1) Page 10