by Debra Webb
He’d thought as much.
“There’s something you should know,” he said to preface the news. Though he was certain she had no warm, fuzzy feelings for Banks, she had known him for years. And he was her number one suspect in her sister’s murder.
Big blue eyes peered up at him. “Did you hear from the ME on Shelley’s case?”
Braddock shook his head. “There was another murder last night.”
Her face paled.
“Ricky Banks.”
She stared at him for a long moment before she reacted. Her expression blanked of emotion and she seemed to have trouble gathering her thoughts. “How?” She shook her head. “I mean . . . yes. How was he . . . murdered?”
“He was secured to the floor in his home and his dog tore out a couple of essential arteries.”
Her face pinched in horror. “Satan killed him?”
“We have reason to believe the animal was provoked into a frenzy.” Between his owner’s starvation tactics and the killer’s bait, that was a damned solid conclusion. “Then let loose on Banks.”
CJ dropped her head back on the sofa. “What does this do to Shelley’s case?” She lifted her gaze to Braddock’s once more. “I don’t mean to be unsympathetic, but does this mean he didn’t kill Shelley, or is this even relevant to her case?”
“I can’t answer that question yet. There are elements that are similar, indicating we could be dealing with the same perp. But it’s too early to say for sure.”
“It has to be Tyrone.” Fury compressed her lips into a thin line. “He’s crazy like this.” Her eyes widened with concern. “Do you think the blood was . . . ?”
“That the blood on your bed came from Banks?” He shrugged. “That’s a possibility.”
Her breath caught. “Oh, God.” Her hand went over her mouth.
“What?” He moved to the coffee table, directly in front of her.
“That girl.” She searched his eyes, hers filled with remorse.
“Celeste. She said more than any of the others. What if Tyrone—”
“Don’t even think about it.” He took her hands in his. “Listen to me, CJ. I know you grew up here, but you’ve never been a part of this life. Not really. You escaped—”
“That’s what Ricky said.” She looked away, bit down on her bottom lip.
The urge to reach out and soothe the flesh she tortured was nearly more than he could restrain. He tightened his grip on her hands. “These girls, like Celeste, Nash feeds off them. Uses them until he’s finished and there’s nothing left but a burned-out shell. Maybe your questions prompted his taking action against Celeste—”
Her face fell; pain glittered in her eyes.
“But the reality of it is, this kind of thing is inevitable when you’re a part of Nash’s world.” That wouldn’t make her feel better, any more than it did him.
“If he hurt her, it’s my fault.” She shook her head. “You didn’t see her. Beaten and bruised. Too thin. All Tyrone’s ‘foot soldiers’ are like that. It’s sick. Just sick.”
“That’s Nash’s standard operating procedure. Until he’s stopped, that and more will continue.”
“He has to be stopped.”
“He does.” He stared at their hands. Had forgotten he was holding hers. Evidently she’d only just noticed as well. She pulled her hands free of his. “But not by you. This”—he jerked his head toward her stairs—“was a second warning. You can’t keep digging around in Nash’s business.”
She folded her arms over her chest, tucking her hands beneath her arms as if she needed to protect them. “I told you, I’m not going to stop until I’m done.”
“No matter the cost?”
Fury lit in those blue eyes. “You’re a fine one to ask that question.”
He was the one looking away this time. She had him there. “Trust me.” He leveled his gaze on hers. “You don’t want to carry that burden.”
The silence dragged on a full minute.
Okay, he had a homicide scene to get back to. “Let’s have a look at your locks.” He pushed to his feet, stepped from between the sofa and coffee table.
She stood. A couple of inches of flat belly were revealed by the short tee. His throat tightened. Flashes from the other night, when he’d been so deep inside her, slammed into his gut. God, he wanted to touch her.
“It wasn’t locked when I got up,” she told him, “but I’m certain I locked it before I went to bed.”
Braddock shook off the forbidden thoughts. The techs had already dusted the door for prints. He squatted down to get a closer look. There were signs of forced entry but those marks appeared older. He twisted the knob.
“You need a new lock with a deadbolt today if you plan to continue staying here.” He pushed upright. “Anyone could unlock that door with nothing more than a credit card.”
“God. I should have thought of that. My apartment in Baltimore has three locks; two are deadbolts.”
“You can’t bully your way around in this neighborhood and then leave yourself open to attack.” He hated to harp on what she surely recognized at this point, but he needed to be certain the message got through. “You’re operating on emotion, and that can be hazardous to your health.”
“I can see that.” Her arms went around her torso again. “I won’t make that mistake again.”
“Consider yourself lucky that you’re getting another chance. Not all of Nash’s targets get that.”
A sedan pulled to the curb in front of her house. Braddock recognized the driver emerging.
Edward Abbott.
Abbott glanced at the official vehicles, then at the house. A uniform delayed him at the gate.
CJ was out the door and down the steps before Braddock could utter one of his usual negative comments about the guy.
Edward Abbott embraced CJ as if he hadn’t seen her in years. When he drew back he surveyed her from head to toe, then hugged her again.
Braddock moved across the porch and down the steps so he could hear the exchange.
“You’re sure you’re all right?”
She nodded. “Just a little shaken.”
Abbott’s head wagged. “I was afraid something like this would happen. You really shouldn’t be staying here. It’s not safe.”
CJ sensed his presence and turned to Braddock. “Edward, I believe you know Detective Braddock. He’s investigating Shelley’s murder.”
Abbott stepped forward, extended his hand. “We’ve met once before, I believe.”
Braddock shook the man’s hand. Firm, confident grip. “You would be correct.” Abbott had come over to check on Shelley when Braddock investigated the break-in nearly a year ago.
“Is there anything new on Shelley’s case?”
“We’re waiting on the autopsy results.” Sounded better than no.
“Ricky Banks is dead,” CJ told her friend. “Someone murdered him last night. In his aunt’s house.”
Edward frowned. “Isn’t he the man you suspected of . . . hurting Shelley?”
Hurting . . . yeah. Braddock resisted the impulse to roll his eyes. This guy was such a suck-up.
“Yes. But now I don’t know.” She glanced at Braddock. When he didn’t stop her, she added, “He may have been murdered by the same person who killed Shelley.”
“CJ, I must insist that for your own protection you stay at my home for the rest of your visit.”
Braddock’s cell phone vibrated. For once he was glad. This guy was about to make him gag. “Braddock.”
“I found it.”
Cooper.
“It?” Braddock’s attention was still on Abbott, who was countering oh so eloquently and kindly each of CJ’s protests.
“E. Noon. Get over here, Braddock. You’re not going to believe this.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Cooper waited at the front door.
Twenty or so neighbors still loitered just outside the crime scene perimeter. Hoping to get a glimpse of Banks carted away in
a body bag, no doubt. Some would linger out of morbid curiosity; others, the ones who had been the deceased’s employees in one capacity or another, more likely to ensure he was actually dead.
Braddock’s partner motioned for him to hurry. He weaved his way through the crowd. When he’d double-timed it up the steps, Cooper shoved shoe covers and gloves at him and whispered, “You gotta see this, Braddock.”
“You’ve pushed my expectations to the max.” He hopped on one foot, then the other, to pull on the protective shoe covers. “This better be good.”
She cut him one of those I-am-not-shitting-you looks as she ushered him through the door. “Trust me, our perp has a truly warped sense of poetic justice.”
Braddock snapped the gloves into place as he went. “Nothing like a little originality.” The organized chaos of the evidence techs continued to play out in the kitchen like a carefully choreographed theatre production.
The ME’s assistants were bagging the body. Obviously the perp hadn’t left his John Hancock on the body. Before Braddock could ask just where the big surprise was, Dobbins said, “We found the penis. The dog didn’t eat it.”
“Show it to him,” Cooper urged, that just-wait look still on her face.
Braddock’s curiosity spiked. “Where’d you find it?”
His partner and the ME exchanged a look. “You tell him.” Cooper smirked.
Dobbins picked up the plastic container next to her gear and turned back to Braddock. “The dog didn’t consume all of the victim’s genitals. The penis was severed and inserted . . .” Another of those glances at Cooper. “Into the victim’s rectum.”
His partner pressed her lips together, but there was no way to disguise the twinkle of amusement in her eyes. It wasn’t actually funny, but when guys like Banks got theirs like this, it was hard not to be somewhat entertained.
Dobbins opened the container. “There’s the signature.”
Despite being smudged with blood and other stuff Braddock didn’t really want to think about, the signature was visible. E. Noon was written in black, maybe with a Sharpie or other permanent felt-tip marker, along the flaccid length of the victim’s penis.
The rub of metal against metal announced that the assistants were preparing the gurney for exiting the premises. “That’s my cue.” Dobbins closed the container and grabbed the bag that accommodated the tools of her trade. “Considering the connection between this homicide and Shelley Patterson’s, I’ll try to fit Banks in late tomorrow.”
“That would be extremely helpful.” Braddock held up a hand before she could get away. “One other thing. You’re sure there was nothing like this”—he gestured to the container—“when you did your prelim exam on Patterson?”
Dobbins shook her head. “Not that I encountered. But, as you say, in light of this . . .” She glanced at the container. “I’ll certainly be looking for her missing clitoris.”
When the ME was out the door, Cooper said, “So far none of the neighbors saw or heard anything last night. Other than the dog barking, but he did that a lot, so it wasn’t something that would have aroused suspicion. Not until he started howling.”
“Of course no one heard anything.” That was always the case in the village. Hear no evil, see no evil. What you didn’t see and didn’t hear couldn’t get you killed. As far as the dog howling, Braddock had a theory on that. The poor animal had probably gotten confused and distressed after his frenzy ended.
“A couple of uniforms have Nash’s residence under surveillance. Nothing’s moving around over there.” Cooper glanced around the room. “You want to poke around here a little more or go on over and question the King.”
“Let’s pay Nash a visit now. We can come back here later when the techs have finished up.”
“So what happened over at the sister’s?” Cooper asked as she picked her way through the living room.
Braddock waited until they were in his G6 and headed for Dubose Street before explaining. “She woke up with blood all over her sheets this morning.” He met his partner’s gaze as he slowed for an intersection. “Forensics is rushing the test to determine if the blood could have come from Banks or if we have another body waiting somewhere.”
“Another one?” Cooper’s brows lifted. “There was that much blood?”
“Enough to indicate someone had been seriously, maybe fatally injured.”
“Damn.” Cooper shook her head. “This is stacking up like a war.”
Exactly. And Braddock had started it by using Shelley Patterson to get at Nash. He’d have to live with that one.
He’d let her down just like he’d let down his niece. What kind of cop allowed a nineteen-year-old girl to give him the slip?
Would CJ Patterson be the next victim of his failing ability to get the job done?
Nash’s usual array of eyes and ears loitered on his porch. Reclining on chairs that the manufacturer hadn’t intended to be utilized out of doors.
Braddock didn’t wait for an invitation. He climbed the steps and flashed his badge for the first gorilla that sauntered his way. “We need to see Nash. Now.”
The gorilla jerked his thumb toward the door. “Go on in. He’s been expecting you.”
Cooper rested her hand on the butt of the weapon clipped to her hip. Even though they’d been welcomed with open arms, that didn’t mean things couldn’t change once they crossed the threshold. Far too many folks here in Alabama considered anything that moved inside their house fair game when came to protecting one’s self and property.
The King reclined on a red leather sofa, his black silk pajamas worth more than he was. The unholy trinity, as he called his personal bodyguards, stood close by, prepared to protect him at all costs.
“I’d ask you to sit,” Nash said in greeting, “but you won’t be here that long.”
“Good morning to you, too, Tyrone.” Braddock liked the way Nash’s lips flattened into a frustrated line whenever he called the scumbag by his first name.
“Mr. Nash,” Cooper announced, “you do have the right to have an attorney present before answering any of our questions. Would you like to call your attorney?”
Braddock suppressed a smile. Way to go, partner. She wanted the piece of shit to know they weren’t fucking around.
Nash looked Cooper up and down, then curled his lips in disapproval. A scowl lined his face, made the scar on his cheek pucker slightly. “I don’t need no lawyer. I don’t know shit about what happened to Banks, so save yourself some breath. I was at home all night last night, ask anyone here.”
“Is there anyone who doesn’t work for you who can verify that you were here all night?” Cooper countered.
Nash flared his hands. “This is the village, policewoman. Everybody works for me.” He motioned around the room. “These are my people. They all work for me.”
Yadda, yadda, yadda. “Since that included Ricky Banks,” Braddock offered, “we’ll need a list of the people who worked with or for him.” Braddock had the little black book, but he wasn’t about to miss an opportunity to yank Nash’s chain.
Nash settled a glare on Braddock. “You think someone in this village killed my man Banks?” Nash shook his head. “No way. Don’t nobody do shit in this village without my authorization.”
“I guess that leaves you, then,” Braddock suggested. “Why don’t we go over exactly what you were doing between the hours of midnight and three this morning?”
“Like I told you,” Nash shot right back, “I was here. Watching reruns of True Blood and sipping Patrón.”
Braddock claimed the few steps that stood between him and the red sofa. The threatening glares of all three tough guys followed his every move. Braddock ignored them, sat down on the coffee table in front of Nash. “I would think, seeing you’re the king of the village and all, that you would be just a little”—he held his thumb and forefinger slightly apart—“ticked off that someone murdered your number-one go-to-boy right here in your own territory. There must be someone out there
who isn’t the slightest bit afraid of you or your reputation.”
Nash stared at him a long moment. “I got my ways of dealing with these matters.”
Braddock belted out a laugh before his face captured and reflected the sheer fury throttling through his veins. “I know you do.” He reached into his jacket pocket; the trinity reacted by reaching for the weapons stashed in their waistbands. Braddock lifted an eyebrow at each before withdrawing a business card from his pocket. “Call me when you’ve got that list ready.” He tossed the card at Nash. “Today.”
He stood. “I won’t even ask if these thugs have licenses to carry weapons.” One last look at the bastard on the sofa and Braddock turned his back and headed for the door. The only way he would get anything from Nash was if a gun was bored into his skull, and maybe not even then.
“You got people, Five-oh?”
Braddock froze. His gaze locked with his partner’s. She gave her head the subtlest shake, warning him not to go there.
“We all got people,” Nash went on nonchalantly. “Even my boy Ricky had people. I’m sure they’ll be deeply pained by this tragedy. Sometimes you cross a line . . . make a mistake and somebody gets hurt. You know what I mean, don’t you, Five-oh?”
Oh, he knew. The urge to kill this bastard with his bare hands roared like a hurricane.
Now was not the time.
And Nash was right. There was a line to be crossed here. Braddock wanted to lunge across it; he wanted it so bad he could taste it even as he walked away. But he had no choice but to wait. And when he had the evidence he needed, then he would cross that line so fucking hard this piece of shit wouldn’t know what hit him.
Cooper followed Braddock out the door and to his car. She didn’t say anything, though he knew she wanted to, until they eased away from the curb.
“You can’t let him get to you like that.”
“Easy for you to say.” His fingers clenched and unclenched on the steering wheel. The rage pulsed beneath his sternum, ballooned in his chest.
“If the chief gets wind that you’re letting Nash get to you, he’ll take you off this case.” She stared at his profile. “I know you don’t want that to happen.”