Cecilia allowed herself to be led to the dock. It wasn’t because of Helen’s pestering or Francesca’s pleading. It was to see the look on her brother’s face—the little punk!—when she hauled his butt out of that concert and straight home.
Well, not straight home. No. They needed to make one stop first.
To buy a lock for his freaking window.
This freewheeling, devil-may-care crap ended tonight.
* * *
Again, Ruth turned over the bag holding the bloody cape. Forensics had already done the preliminary tests and returned the evidence to the squad room per her request. She knew it didn’t make sense, but she thought a bit better when she had something physical to see and touch. So here she sat at her desk, mulling over the bloody cape.
The lights were low. Instead of the usual sounds of a dozen phones ringing and cops streaming in and out of the bull pen, the place was as quiet as a church. Only a few other detectives were still hanging around, putting their files to bed for the weekend. Most of her peers had left early to go home for Halloween, but with Evan at Jeremy’s, Ruth had all the time in the world to ponder the inconsistencies of the case.
It turned out that the blood on the cape was the same blood type as the victim in the sauna. It would take days to determine an exact match, however.
Unlike the blood found in Darby’s sink. That blood had been his own. Turns out that on top of the cross fetish, he was also a cutter. More than likely, unless they found massive evidence linking Darby to the murders, he would be released in the morning. Finding him at the scene of the crime could be one of the worst “wrong place at the wrong time” situations. At the least, she hadn’t tried to shoot Darby.
Ruth could feel the shame rise again over the shop owner, but Paxton leaned forward, tapping the evidence bag.
“Okay. I’m on board with a costumed, yet highly fashion-conscious, killer as our perp, but how are we going to track him down? This cape could have been bought on a hundred different websites.”
She turned the bag over again. “That’s what makes our job so interesting, right?”
“Nope,” Paxton said, throwing his weight back into the chair. “I like the simple, straightforward, nab-the-guy-and-go-eat kind of case.”
Ruth ignored her partner’s patter. Sure he was full of bluster, but he was still here. He didn’t have to go to the YMCA with her. He didn’t even need to come back to the station. He could have left hours ago—yet he was still here. And she wanted to make sure she made it worth his while.
She turned to Darby. “Did this masked man say anything?”
“Hey!” Paxton said. “Remember, no-talkie to the …” Her partner spun his finger next to his temple, making the international hand signal for crazy.
“That was when we thought he was a suspect.” She turned to Darby. “I am asking you only as a witness.”
The bald man’s eyes sharpened, but he took a step forward. “He spoke of the devil being a dog. The rest I will not repeat.”
“Dude, she just said that we aren’t considering you a suspect any longer. You can tell us the whole thing,” Paxton urged.
Ruth, however, did not get the sense that Darby was holding back. He truly seemed reluctant to repeat the killer’s words. “I think God would understand if those words helped us catch a murderer.”
Darby shook his head violently. “I will not speak such blasphemy.”
“The devil is a dog…” Bernoski murmured, keeping beat with his fingers on his desk. “So get ready to be mounted.”
Darby pointed out of his cell. “Yes, that is the heresy!”
“Wait. How did you know that?” Paxton asked Bernoski.
The younger detective shrugged. “It’s a lyric from Diana Dahmer’s new hit, ‘Lay Down and Take It Like a Sheep.’ ”
“How lovely,” Ruth commented. Seriously, people needed to find better things to do with their time.
“Great,” Paxton said. “Now we just need to find a Diana Dahmer fan wearing ‘Speed Demon’ tennis shoes with a hard-on for the Spanish Inquisition.” He sighed. “No problem.”
Yes, it was beginning to look like a very long night.
CHAPTER 5
Cecilia willed the gangplank to finally go down. She clutched at Michael’s arm as if it were the only solid thing in her world. Helen had bought the entire stock of Dramamine® from the vending machine, and still Cecilia’s head spun.
When she got ahold of Jeremy…
Ugh! Revenge would have to wait, though. First, she needed to get off this stupid yacht. The deck beneath her feet lurched. The sea swells worsened as the sky overhead boomed with thunder. Actually, the weather could not possibly be better for a Halloween night, but she really, really, really did not want to retch again—especially not in front of Michael. The poor guy had seen more of her than he probably ever wanted to again. He must have been pissed that he was stuck with Miss Pukey, while everyone else was below deck with a thumping bass, loud music, and high-pitched squeals from the girls.
Finally, the ropes secured the rocking yacht to the dock. Despite the crush of people, Cecilia elbowed her way to the front of the crowd and was one of the first ones off. Well, she and Michael were the first ones off, given that he practically had to carry her down the gangplank.
Whatever revenge she had plotted out against Jeremy before, it was now tenfold.
Once her legs hit solid ground, they nearly buckled in gratitude. Michael guided her over to a barnacled post. She didn’t even flinch when their slimy shells brushed up against her skin. As long as they helped hold her up, she was fine with these sea creatures.
Hundreds of partiers streamed past them, heading toward the glowing mansion perched on top of the hill. It was like a beacon to a bunch of goth moths. Cecilia gulped in a few breaths, feeling the brisk night air. The wind tugged at her hair, and not even Helen’s copious amounts of hair spray could keep it tamed.
Cecilia closed her eyes and let the nausea roll over her. She was on dry land. Well, at least dry for the next few minutes. Lightning struck over the sea as thunder boomed inland. This storm was going to be a doozy. She hoped that her mom remembered to close the storm shutters. But that would probably be asking too much.
As the first wind-whipped raindrops splashed against her face, Helen and the rest joined them. With blushed cheeks and wide smiles, the rough ride was over, and it only seemed to invigorate them.
“If the concert is anything like that ride, we are in for the night of our lives!”
Cecilia ignored Helen and watched the crowd flow by. If she could just spot Jeremy, he would feel her wrath. But she just couldn’t keep her eyes open that long. The bobbing heads churned up more nausea.
“Are you okay?” Francesca asked, as she rubbed her back.
“Why don’t you guys go on ahead?” Michael suggested. “We’ll be right behind.”
“But—” Francesca started to say, but Helen pulled her along the path up to the mansion.
“Come on. Let’s give them some ‘alone’ time.”
“You’ll look for Jeremy?” Cecilia asked.
“Yeah, sure, of course,” Helen promised. “See you soon!”
Through eyes that were nothing more than slits, Cecilia watched the rest leave, giving her more air to breathe. She was glad, as the boisterous, noisy crowd hooted and hollered its way up the hill. Catching her breath, she straightened her back. She felt ready to stand up. With support from the post, of course, but at least she was standing up. Cecilia was taking that as a win tonight.
Swallowing hard, Cecilia turned to Michael. “Go. You should join them.”
“I’m good.”
“Seriously, the worst is over. You should go.”
Michael cocked an eyebrow. “And leave you here alone in the rain?”
Actually, the raindrops felt good against her burning cheeks. The cold wind seemed to whisk away the feeling of dread and the bile at the back of her throat. Then again, anything was better than that
constant tossing and rolling of the yacht ride over.
“I really appreciate everything, Michael, but you can lose the gentleman routine.”
“Excuse me?”
Cecilia took in a long breath, filling her lungs. She was starting to feel nearly human again. “You have been really sweet hanging with me like this, but I know that you manipulated me into coming along.”
What was it with guys? Jeremy lying to their mother? John harassing her? Michael withholding tickets from Francesca and Helen?
“I still have no clue about what you mean.”
As the rain came down with more vigor, Cecilia stretched her neck.
“I know that you told Helen and Francesca that they couldn’t come unless they convinced me to come along.”
Michael chuckled. “They said that, did they?”
“Look, I’m not even mad. I just need to get my stomach settled so that I can find Jeremy. Him, I am mad at.”
Carefully, she took a step away from the post. The world only spun a little bit. It might take her half an hour, but she would make it up to the mansion before the storm hit in force.
“Just one little problem with that theory,” Michael said, as he hovered near her.
“And that would be?”
Michael grinned. “I never said that. As a matter of fact, I told them the tickets were theirs.”
“What?” Cecilia asked, even though she had heard every word he had said.
“I even told them that they could invite another girl along, since you seemed pretty adamant that you did not want any part of this.”
“Crap,” she said, more to herself than to him. “I’m sorry. I should have realized Machiavellian Helen was behind this.”
He shrugged. “Hey, we devil-worshipping heathens are used to being typecast.” Michael shuffled his feet.
“What is it?” Cecilia asked, a little afraid to hear the answer.
Still, he looked down at the tip of his shoe, digging into the moistened ground. “I … Um … I’m not sure they really saw Jeremy.”
“What?” Cecilia apparently couldn’t stop asking that question. But seriously, what?
“I had my suspicions back at the car. But just now, when you asked them to look for Jeremy, Francesca looked pretty darn guilty, and Helen made the ‘zip it’ gesture behind your back.”
Cecilia groaned, and had to reach out for Michael to support her again. Her knees felt weak as her head spun again. So she had just gone through the worst boat ride of her life, puked her guts up in front of a somewhat-cute guy, and for what? Because Helen wanted a part in the remake of Dangerous Liaisons?
Oh, she was going to wring Helen’s neck. That is, once she could stand up on her own.
“Sorry,” he said. “I just didn’t want you worrying about Jeremy all night.”
Sighing, Cecilia allowed herself to relax a bit against Michael. “No, I’m sorry. I should have known it was the sticking-their-noses-where-they-don’t-belong twins at work.”
“It’s okay. It let us—”
Before Michael could finish his thought, a thought Cecilia wanted to hear, a mime, an angry mime, came running down the path at them. The black and white face makeup smeared with the rain. The red “blood” at the edges of his lips looked fake. But the anger in his eyes was not.
He made frantic movements toward the mansion.
“What does he want?” Cecilia asked.
The mime made a “wall” in front of him, then punched through it, and acted like he tossed a ball toward the mansion.
“I have no idea …” Michael answered.
“It means, get in the damned house!” the mime shouted.
“Okay, then,” Michael said, as he escorted her behind the mime, who was still mumbling to himself.
For the first time in a long while, Cecilia laughed.
* * *
“Thanks,” Paxton said, as Ruth handed him a coffee. Black.
“Having any more luck than I am?” Ruth asked.
Paxton clunked one heel up onto his desk and then the next, stretching out as best he could in his chair. It was the equivalent of going to the gym when deep in a case.
“You can only go through so many animal-sacrificing freaks before you want to sacrifice yourself. You know what I mean?”
Ruth nodded. “And who knew there were so many disturbed individuals within a hundred-mile radius?”
Paxton took a swig of the hot coffee. It nearly burned as it went down, but it was oh, so good. Now, if he just had a porterhouse to go with it…
Instead, though, he pulled his feet off the desk and tapped a stack of files on its edge. “Which is why I decided to reverse-engineer this puppy. I went back to investigate the MO, trying to establish a pattern to the killer’s choices, but I pulled up blank.”
Opening the files, he pointed down the list. “Although there is something about the names. I don’t know, like there may be a theme there, but it is just out of reach.”
Ruth leaned in, her necklace swaying over the files as she read the names aloud. “Roger Landing. María Sanchón. Father Marc Gonzales. Arnie Hoffman.” She stood up again, to Paxton’s disappointment. He was getting used to her body heat radiating toward him.
“I don’t see a—” Ruth cocked her head the way she did right before she went all smart on him. “Well, if it helps, those are all early Christian names.”
“Roger?”
Ruth nodded. “Which is a modern version of Rogellus, yes.”
“Arnie?” Paxton asked.
“Arnus, yep,” Ruth responded. “And not just Christian names, but names of martyrs.”
“Wow. You paid a lot more attention in Sunday school than I did.”
Abruptly, Ruth moved away from his desk and sat down at hers.
Paxton looked right, and then left. What just happened? “Um, did I say something wrong there?”
His partner bit her lip, seeming to go deep within herself. When Ruth finally looked up, she leaned forward, speaking only loud enough for Paxton to hear.
“No, it’s from my ex. Reading aloud from ancient Scripture was his idea of an exciting after-dinner activity with the family. You know, before he left me and Evan for a monastery.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
Ruth held up her hand, though. “I know the rumors going around. I just don’t like to add fuel to the fire.” Her head cocked again.
“What is it?” Paxton asked, having a hard time keeping up with her mood.
“What were the dates on those deaths?” she asked.
Fumbling to keep up, Paxton flipped through the files. “September 16th, October 17th, and one yesterday on the 30th, and the last on the 31st.”
“Oh, no! I don’t know why I didn’t see it before,” Ruth said, as she nearly ransacked her desk. “Do you happen to have The Vatican’s Guide to Christianity handy?”
“Um, gosh, no,” Paxton replied hoping the sarcasm really came through. “I must have left it at home.”
Ruth didn’t even register his sarcasm. Instead, she yelled down to a detective at the other end of the bull pen. “O’Malley. You Catholic?”
The younger detective stiffened. “Yeah. What of it?”
Ruth rose and crossed over to him. Paxton couldn’t help but follow.
“Do you have the Pocket Guide to the Feast Days?”
O’Malley squirmed in his seat. “Maybe.”
Paxton’s partner extended her hand. “Out with it.”
The redheaded detective dug around in his back pocket and produced the slim pamphlet. “Look, I only carry it around because my mom gave it to me for my wedding.”
Ruth rapidly flipped through the guide. “Damn it! Saint Rogellus’ feast day is September 16th. What’s the next one?”
Paxton opened the file. “María on October 17th.”
She frowned. “Which is exactly Saint Maria’s feast day. Marc’s is October 30th. And Arnus’ is October 31st. Here is the pattern,” she said excitedly.
>
“I’m sorry, I still don’t quite get it.” Paxton hated feeling behind the curve.
Ruth brought the feast day guide up next to the list of victims.
“Each victim not only bears the saint’s name, but was also killed on that saint’s feast day. That is how the killer is choosing his victims.”
“Whoa! That is obscure,” Paxton said, as the logic began to filter through. But that meant that the feast day guide was a guide to the killer’s agenda. “Anyone that we should be worried about tonight?”
“Good question,” Ruth answered as she flipped through the pages again. “Let’s see… Begu, Erc, Follian, Quentin, Wolfgang.”
“Whew,” Paxton whistled out, feigning wiping sweat off his forehead. “Luckily, there aren’t a lot of folks going by those names.”
“Wait!” Ruth jumped in. “Not necessarily. The killer has already shown that he will settle for the modern derivation of the saint’s name. Begu went through several corruptions to become Gwen. Erc is ancient Irish for Eric—”
“I get it, I get it,” Paxton said, surrendering to her logic once more. “But would he strike again this soon?”
“Oh, God,” O’Malley said, as he made the sign of the cross.
“What?” Ruth asked.
“Do you know what tomorrow is?” O’Malley asked, more spooked than Paxton had ever seen the detective.
Then Ruth’s face went several shades paler. “Oh, no …”
“What? What are you guys talking about?” Paxton asked looking at either one of them to explain what had them so freaked out.
With a tremor in her voice, Ruth stated, “Tonight is All Hallow’s Eve.”
“Yes, and…?”
“Tomorrow is All Saints Day,” she finished, sitting down hard in the chair next to O’Malley’s desk.
Finally, O’Malley found his voice again. “It is the feast day for all of ’em. It’s one of the highest days of devotion to the saints. It’s when you pay homage to them all…”
Oh crap. That’s why they were both freaked out. “Or in this case, the killer has a field day killing off the surrogates.”
* * *
Cecilia nearly tripped on her own shoe as the mime rushed them into the towering front doors of the mansion. By now, it was pouring out there, and even she was grateful for the shelter of the house. Or she would have been, if there weren’t several hundred screaming teens in the ballroom.
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