Avengers of Blood (Cass Elliot Crime Series - Book 2)

by Woods, Gae-Lynn

  “Is there anyone around here you could ask about him?”

  “Klan, you mean?”

  Kado nodded.

  “We haven’t had any activity in Forney County for a while. I’ll call the other counties and see if they’ve got any connections or informants.”

  “Were there more tattoos?” Kado asked.

  Grey nodded and pushed the folder to the center of the table. “Let me know if you want us to excise one. You might be able to get a better shot of it with your equipment.” He passed the paper bag to Kado. “This is what was left of his clothes and in his pockets. His wallet is there, but it’s a melted mess.”

  Mitch glanced up at the clock on the wall. “If there’s nothing else, let’s get to work. Daylight is burning, and I need to see what Hoffner wants.”

  CHAPTER 70

  OFFICER HUGO PETCHARD HELD up the red stop sign and tooted his whistle. The crawling traffic stopped and a flurry of tiny people scurried past, wobbling like ducklings beneath their overloaded backpacks. Several children waved at one of the cars, calling, “Mrs. Hedder, Mrs. Hedder!” The tired-looking woman wiggled her fingers in reply.

  Petchard studied her to ensure she wasn’t a pedophile, then his mind drifted from his small charges to dinner with Junie last night, and breakfast at the café this morning.

  She was such a rarity, a true Southern woman. Modest, chaste, full of sunshine, and beautiful, Junie was all the things he imagined in a perfect woman. Even though she was probably smarter than him. But she didn’t rub it in. In fact, one of her greatest pleasures was listening to him talk about work, and he’d made a special stop in the station this morning to check on the various investigations, to give her a taste of what his world was like. She’d listened, rapt, her gorgeous lips slightly parted. Even an hour later, the thought of those lips worked their magic and he adjusted his orange vest to hide the slight swell in his trousers.

  Petchard jumped at a horn’s bleep and realized that the children had cleared the crosswalk. He tweeted twice, lowered the stop sign, and stepped to the sidewalk. A BMW driver flipped him the bird as it rolled past, and Petchard fought the urge to reply in kind. Junie insisted that school crossing patrol was the most important job he did. So, instead of responding with a one finger salute, he forced a thin smile. He felt a tug on his orange vest and looked down to see a little girl gazing up at him, her massive backpack sagging around her knees.

  “Cross me, mister,” she said.

  He lifted the backpack to her shoulders, then puffed out his chest and tweeted his whistle.

  CHAPTER 71

  MITCH PUT HIS SHOULDER into Sheriff Hoffner’s office door and braced it open with a crutch. He hopped inside and pushed the door closed behind him, settling into a chair. Hoffner hung up the phone and gave Mitch a bleak look.

  “We’ve got a problem,” he said.

  “What’s that, sir?” Mitch asked.

  Hoffner responded by handing several evidence bags to Mitch who read the letters. “Where did these come from?”

  “Here in Arcadia.”

  “When did you get them?”

  “They’ve come one each for the last four Fridays, except,” he said, pointing to the last letter, “that one. It’s postmarked yesterday.”

  “Mail gets delivered the same day?”

  “If it’s in the box early and courthouse business, yes.”

  Mitch studied the sheriff. “Is this some kind of harassment?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Mitch read through the letters again. “You think this is the person who shot the Franklins,” he stated.

  “If so, he killed Donna Moore and tried to shoot Emmet Hedder, as well.”

  “So maybe this,” Mitch waved the letters, “whatever it is, is the link between the families. He must know by now that he didn’t kill Moses or Emmet.” Mitch rubbed his lower lip. “You need somebody independent to look into Moses’ activities.”

  “I know that,” Hoffner growled. “But this is sensitive.”

  “Of course it is. That’s why you need the Texas Rangers, or at least a detective from another county.”

  “I don’t think there’s anything to this. But, if there’s something going on with Moses, Mitch, I want us,” he motioned between himself and his detective, “to be the first to know. We can figure out what to do about it if you find something.”

  Mitch sucked his teeth, then gave a sharp nod. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Look at Moses’ case files and the personal records that Munk brought to the station. Bank records, utility bills, whatever. Find out what this guy is talking about. But keep it quiet. I don’t want anybody to know that we doubt Moses.”

  Mitch lifted the letters. “We have to fingerprint these. So Kado has to know. And I’ve got to tell Cass.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Sheriff, I don’t know what your problem is with the woman, but she’s my partner, and,” he held up a hand to quiet Hoffner’s protests, then pointed at his brace, “she’ll have to do any leg work.”

  Hoffner dropped his head into his hands and rubbed his temples. “Fine.”

  “Give me a frank assessment. Do you think this is valid?”

  “Somebody’s trying to kill the man, Mitch. At this point, we can’t afford to think anything else.”

  CHAPTER 72

  CASS GLANCED OVER TO see Martinez hunched over his desk, taking notes. He caught her look and waved. From the tone of his voice, she could tell he was on the phone with a family member. She tapped her watch and he gave her a sheepish grin. She wondered whether it was his wife giving him a list for the grocery store, or one of his kids talking to him before school. If there was one thing Martinez valued above all else, it was his family. Cass simply rolled her eyes, returning his smile.

  She opened the squad room’s copy of the Forney Cater and skimmed the articles. More details of the Franklin and Whitehead murders, along with information about Donna Moore’s shooting. All three by-lines read ‘Wally Pugh’, and Cass wondered where he got his information. It was accurate. He’d written the articles in a factual, non-inflammatory tone, and Cass was grateful. She wasn’t sure that the other area papers would be so kind in their coverage of Arcadia’s problems. Especially if they could take the focus off the Watuga gas plant explosion. She folded the paper and checked Martinez again. He was still on the phone, brows drawn together in a stern expression.

  Moore’s case file was on her desk, and she turned to the photographs of the artwork from the woman’s office and home. From the flavor of her dreams last night, something was nagging at her about the way the drawings seemed to fit together, as if they were part of some larger canvas Moore wanted to create. A puzzle of sorts.

  Her life’s work, Joshua Reed said Moore had called it.

  She spread the photos across her desk and started moving them around, first placing the section of what appeared to be a trouser leg above the boot, and the enlarged, distorted belt buckle above this. There were five charcoal sketches of white science fiction-type mountains, each slightly different, and these she put to one side.

  A figure appeared beside her desk and Cass looked up to see Bernie Winterbottom attempting to brush the wrinkles from his safari outfit. “Good morning, Cass. How are you?”

  “Good, Bernie. How did you get into the station?”

  He held up a white plastic rectangle. “Elaine gave me one. I hope that’s okay.”

  “Of course it is.” She used a booted foot to hook a nearby chair and slide it over for him. “You smell like charred meat. What’s up?”

  “Apologies. The dead are aromatic, particularly those who have cooked.” He sat and his pale lids closed over his extraordinary green eyes.

  “Are you okay, Bernie?”

  He nodded. “We all long for an easy death. But some are so graphic that they are difficult to erase from the mind.”

  “Calvin Whitehead?”

  “And the gentlemen from the gas plan
t explosion in your neighboring county.”

  “It was bad?”

  His English accent grew thicker. “Two of them died from internal injuries suffered as a result of the concussion from the explosion. Not the easiest of deaths, but bearable because they died very, very quickly. The third man died as a result of his burns, which were significant. It was a truly nightmarish way to die.”

  “I can’t imagine,” Cass said. “Will you be all right?”

  Bernie’s lids slid back up, revealing those penetrating eyes. “Thank you, my dear, yes. I’ll go back to my dusty archaeological site and in time, the horrifically dead will recede.” He studied the photographs on Cass’s desk and seemed to gather himself. “I found what appears to be a bullet hole through Mr. Whitehead’s leg. Through the meat of his left calf, to be exact. I suspect a small caliber weapon.”

  “No slug?”

  “I’m afraid not. Kado didn’t find one?”

  “He’s still processing all the sludge from The Whitehead Store. I’ll tell him to be on the lookout. What do you think it means?”

  “Perhaps they needed to subdue him. Or, if this is Ku Klux Klan related, it might play some role in their murder process.” Bernie smoothed a hand over his unruly golden hair and moved two photographs together, and then apart. “Unusual. Are they evidence?”

  “They were hanging in Donna’s house and office. She did them all.”

  “Really?” Bernie pulled one of the science fiction mountains closer. “She was talented. Why did you photograph them?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s almost as if she was trying to speak through them. Her assistant said that Donna called them her life’s work.”

  Munk pushed into the squad room, speaking softly into his cell phone before snapping it shut. He stopped at her desk and exhaled, running both hands over his pocked face and the growth of new hair sprouting on his head. It seemed he’d stopped shaving it.

  “Everything okay?” Cass asked.

  “That was Gaby. They had a near miss this morning.”

  “With Angel? What happened?”

  “Someone at an orphanage outside of Galveston thought they had her. Gabrielle got all excited, said she knew this was Angel. The photograph the woman brought looked exactly like her. But it wasn’t.”

  “How do they know for sure?”

  “Blood type. Hers can’t work with ours.” He dug his fingers into his weary eyes. “I hate it when this happens. Gaby just breaks down afterward.”

  “Do you need to go back to Galveston?”

  “No. They’re coming home tonight. Gabrielle wants to be at Joseph and Martha’s viewing for Moses.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Bernie reached up to pat Munk on the shoulder. “It must be excruciating.”

  He smiled, his expression bleak. “It is.” Looking down at her desk, he motioned to the photographs. “What’s this?”

  “They’re Donna’s. She did them all.”

  “Oh, yeah. I remember the first time I saw them in her office. I thought they were a little weird.” Munk reached forward with a pudgy finger and pulled a charcoal sketch of a pair of clasped hands toward him.

  “She did your taxes?” Cass asked.

  He nodded. “Donna started doing this artsy stuff out of the blue. Kind of went wild and painted a bunch of them at once. One year there were normal pictures on the walls, the next, these.”

  “I think that one’s good,” Cass said, nodding at the clasped hands. She looked closer. “But the view is from the back.”

  “What?”

  “Those are the pinkies facing out toward the viewer. If you look, you can see a thumb poking past that knuckle, right there.”

  Bernie and Munk leaned in and nodded. “Very strange,” Bernie said.

  “Did you talk to her about why she started painting and sketching?” Cass asked.

  “I did, the first year these were up. She said they helped her purge old demons.” Munk looked at his watch. “I need to get back to the paperwork. Give me a shout if you need anything.”

  Bernie stood and motioned to the photographs. “Would you mind if I took these with me? I’d like to study them more carefully.”

  “Do you see a pattern?” Cass asked.

  “As you said, there’s something about them, it’s almost familiar. If it wouldn’t be any trouble…”

  “Of course not. I’ll print another set.”

  “Cheers.” Bernie gathered the photos together and turned to leave.

  The squad room door banged open and Elaine darted in, swerving past Munk and then Bernie, her wild curls swinging. “Hand delivery, honey,” she said, placing an envelope on Cass’s desk and stopping to peck Bernie on the cheek. He blushed and hurried out.

  “Who from?” Cass called.

  “Some skinny gal in big shades and a floppy hat,” Elaine said, following Bernie.

  Cass’s name was written on the outside of the envelope in a wide, curvy script. She slipped a letter opener under the flap and pulled a clipping from a Ft. Worth newspaper, dated today. A sticky note was attached:

  “I’ll bet donuts from The Palace that it wasn’t suicide and the note said: ‘Talk and I’ll cut them off. I’m watching.’ M.”

  The small headline read “Rape Victim Death Questioned” and the story was brief. A twenty-three year old Ft. Worth native, Sarah Hill, was found dead in her apartment Thursday morning, hanging from a second-floor banister. The woman was known to police because she was found by a maid unconscious and bloodied in a downtown hotel one Sunday morning, several weeks previously. Police discovered a handwritten note at the scene, threatening the woman if she contacted the police. The article said that police had not ruled out either murder or suicide, and the investigation into the woman’s death was ongoing.

  Cass’s blood ran cold as she decided she wouldn’t take Maxine’s bet. The article didn’t describe Sarah Hill’s injuries, but Cass would bet those donuts from The Palace that her assailant had left a long, loping cut from her collar bone to her breast. Cass realized that she was clutching the neck of her blouse, holding it closed. She folded the article and slipped it into the pocket of her tan Dockers, then wrapped her fingers together to still their trembling.

  So, he was watching.

  Somehow he knew that Sarah Hill’s rape had been reported to the police. Either he watched the room after he left, or he had some way of following what was going on in the police department. His knowledge could come from something as simple as a police scanner. It could also come from something as diabolical as employment within the Ft. Worth department.

  Or, Cass realized, he might’ve seen an article in the newspaper.

  She ran a search on the internet for news about rapes in Ft. Worth, but found only two articles concerning sexual assaults in the last eight weeks. One occurred in a park, the other in an alley. Today’s notice of Sarah Hill’s death also popped up, but no story about the original rape appeared.

  Which brought her right back to acknowledging that the rapist was watching his victims, at least in the Dallas / Ft. Worth area. Maxine was right to be worried; this guy meant business. Cass considered her predicament. Technically, she could contact the Ft. Worth detectives working Sarah Hill’s case to get the details on her rape. But by doing so, she could place Maxine, or even herself, at risk if the rapist found out Cass was checking on similar crimes. Now that he had a taste of death, would killing come easily to him?

  Blood pounded at her temples as she realized that this was the time to use Maxine’s note and the evidence she had collected after her own rape.

  She shoved back from her desk and headed for the squad room door.

  “Hey,” Mitch called. “Where’re you going in such a hurry?”

  “To see Kado,” she answered.

  CHAPTER 73

  KADO DUG HIS FINGERS into his shoulder muscles. Bleary eyed, he watched the IAFIS screen for a moment, hoping that the normal ten to fifteen minute wait for responses would hold thi
s morning. These were the last of the fingerprints from The Whitehead Store and nearly the last potential lead they had in Calvin Whitehead’s murder. The evidence room door clicked open and Kado swiveled to find Cass standing inside ashen-faced, her back to the wall. “You okay?”

  One hand held a plastic shopping bag. The other held the neck of her blue blouse closed. Cass looked at him for a long moment. “Do you have a minute?”

  “Yeah,” he answered, pushing the print button as the first IAFIS response popped up on his screen. He snagged the piece of paper and rolled around the table, stopping next to her. His dark eyes probed hers. “Are you okay?”

  “I don’t, I mean, yes. I am. I’m fine.” She drew a ragged breath and put the bag on the backlit evidence table. “But I need to tell you something.”

  He nodded for her to continue. Cass opened her mouth but no words came out. Kado felt a fist slam into his stomach. His wife had worn the same expression when her oncologist told them that her cancer was no longer in remission and was in fact, terminal. To this day, Kado associated that look with fear of the unknown; specifically, fear about how another person would react to the message, and how it might change their perception of you. That day, he had reached for his wife’s hand when in reality, she had probably needed to be held. He’d never seen Cass look so uncertain. Kado stood abruptly, sending his chair spinning. In a swift movement, he pulled her into his arms. She looked up, surprise in her violet eyes, and he kissed her. Electricity shot through him and Kado tightened his grip, one hand at the small of her back, the fingers of the other feeling the silk of her hair while he cradled her head. Footsteps clattered by in the hall and Kado released her, sure that his expression was as startled as Cass’s. He swallowed hard.

  “I need water, you want some?” he asked.

  Without waiting for an answer, he fled through the evidence room door and down the hall to the squad room. Uniformed officers finishing the night shift or preparing for the day moved out of his way, frowning in his wake. Once at the coffee bar, he pulled two bottles of water from the refrigerator and leaned against the counter, forcing himself to breath and willing the emotions ricocheting through his body to still. He opened his eyes to see Mitch crossing the room in his wheelchair.