Sinner's Gin

by Rhys Ford

  “The dog shit wasn’t my fault,” Sanchez protested as he pulled into traffic. “I was doing the old lady a solid. It was pouring out, and she had five fucking poodles. How was I supposed to know they all had the runs?”

  “I hate your guts right now.” He shook his head and reached for the touchscreen tablet on the seat between them. “Roll down the back windows. Maybe that’ll help some.”

  Sanchez turned the heat on and lowered the back windows. The rattling wheeze from the air vents wasn’t promising, and when the lukewarm air finally hit them, it reeked of motor oil and cat pee. Resigned to being a victim of Kel’s ongoing feud with the department’s motor pool, he turned on the tablet and hooked it into the car’s network system.

  “You didn’t tell me no one’s seen Vega in three days,” Kane said accusingly. “When’d you find that out?”

  “Like an hour and a half ago,” Sanchez shot back. “You were busy cuddling your rock star and ferrying him home. I stayed back, remember? Working on this shit. He was supposed to go camping with some of his buddies, but he never showed up. They figured he flaked, so they didn’t call it in. I guess at some point someone realized he’d left home but never showed up at the campsite, so someone notified us.”

  “He could have been grabbed before Shing, then,” Kane murmured, sweeping through the reports on the screen. “We don’t have time of death on Shing yet. The family wasn’t sure about the last time he was seen. He wasn’t working the restaurant as much. Bradley pretty much has taken that over.”

  “Our boy Bradley, who’s cooling his heels in lockup right now,” Kel responded. “He’s none too happy about that. We’ve got enough to pop a warrant on the house too. Martinez and Lau are going to shake that down, but I don’t know how much they’ll find. I’m guessing old man Shing only used that upstairs room for his fucking sick games. Too many people at home, unless they turned a blind eye to it.”

  “Sounds like Vega’s wife did.” He stopped at a screen and maximized the text. “The uniform who responded to the call said she was out of it when he got there. One of Vega’s coworkers… um… one Daniel Bassor, was there to answer questions. Valens, the uniform, said the wife wasn’t fully there. He was going to call in a medical, but Bassor responded that Cynthia… Mrs. Vega… has behavioral issues and is usually drugged up to the gills.”

  “Is that a technical term?” Kel asked caustically.

  “Must be.” Kane grinned. “That’s how it was written in the report. Very professional, our boy Valens. No listing of Cynthia’s medications. That would have been helpful. We could have chased down her doctor and seen if there’s any evidence of physical violence.”

  “Surprised they let them foster kids if she’s like that. Any domestics called to the home?”

  “Her medical issues apparently escalated.” Kane skimmed through an amended attachment. “Some domestics were called in over the last six years, all on her. Vega declined their foster parent status eight years ago, stating his wife’s mental issues and increase of his workload at his law firm.”

  “So she’s crazy?” Kel whistled under his breath.

  “Not everyone with issues is crazy. My brother Quinn’s wired a bit funny, and he’s done just fine,” Kane pointed out. “I don’t see you teaching college history.”

  “Your brother’s hot. That goes a long way.” Sanchez winced at the look Kane threw him. “Hey, just stating the obvious.”

  “Q’s worked hard to get where he is,” he said, going through the rest of the reports to hunt for more information. “Don’t know if being hot’s helped him any.”

  Coming up empty on Cynthia Vega, Kane turned his attention to Vega himself. There was little to nothing on the man, mostly public citations of cases he’d worked on. Kane frowned at the lack of information, then called up the Vegas’ fostering records.

  “They only took in boys, usually between the ages of eight and fourteen. He had Miki the longest. Some only stayed for a few weeks before being placed out elsewhere.” Kane looked up. “Shit. Why the fuck didn’t anyone see what this guy was doing? He had a total of eleven boys placed with him. Out of the eleven, seven tried to kill themselves. Four succeeded. This guy’s a walking time bomb.”

  “From the sounds of things, I’m going to guess he split because he heard about Shing, or he’s not walking anymore,” Kel replied as he turned up a hill toward the Presidio. “I’m not going to cry over that either.”

  “How far out are we?”

  “Another minute. Why?”

  “’Cause Casey’s coming across with a warrant for Vega’s house. Just got the clearance. Let’s hope the printer in this unit works, or I’m going to set some asses on fire in motor pool. I can deal with puke and cat piss, but if those fuckers cost me search time on this, then we’re going to have some words.”

  DESPITE the high-end zip code, the Vega house straddled the edge of a middle-class neighborhood and a lower rent district. The residence itself was an unassuming, small adobe-style ranch set far back on its elevated tiny lot. Its front lawn was clipped down to a brutal half inch and thick, prickly hedges ran along either side of the house, effectively cutting off the view to the neighbors’ homes. There was nothing to soften its harsh lines, no flowers or bright colors to ease the sandy adobe or browning grass. To Kane, the place shouted temporary, even though their records said the Vegas lived there for years.

  Sanchez parked the car on the slight incline in front of the house and waited as Kane fought with the printer controls in their car. After a phone call to a computer tech and a few choice swear words, Kane finally got the printer to spit out the warrant. Spreading the accordioned paper on his thigh, Kane worked out the creases and shook his head in disgust.

  “You talk to them when we get back,” Kel said, getting out of the car. He adjusted his tie and flicked off a piece of hair from his sleeve. Stealthily sniffing at his arm to see if he carried the car’s odors with him, Sanchez was satisfied he’d been spared at least some of the motor pool’s revenge and nodded.

  “Fuck talking to them,” Kane growled. “I’m going to find a baseball bat and threaten the shit out of someone if we get that car again.”

  Sanchez stepped around a plastic three-wheeler left on the sidewalk and waited for his partner to join him. “Let’s go talk to Mrs. Vega and see what she’s got to say.”

  It was hard to imagine Miki’s horrific childhood amid the rambling rose bushes and tall juniper trees, but they both knew some of the prettiest wrappers hid the foulest packages. Kane studied the house, wondering what other nightmares were forged inside of its walls.

  Turning to Kel, he nodded, “Yeah, let’s do this.”

  The door was newly painted, an earthy red that still smelled fresh. Sanchez rang the bell and they waited, listening to the chimes echo through the house. After a few moments, there was no sign of anyone coming to answer the door.

  “She knew we were coming, right?” Kane asked as Kel rang the bell for the third time.

  “Yeah, I had dispatch call ahead. She said she’d be waiting for us but that was over an hour ago.” Sanchez nodded. “Think we should do a welfare check?”

  “Yeah, I think that’s a good idea.” Sanchez ducked his shoulder down and Kane grabbed him before Sanchez shoved at door. Reaching over, he took hold of the knob and turned it. The door swung open. “Always check the door, Kel. We went over that.”

  They drew their guns, holding them down as they entered the house. Kane took point, stepping to the right. Kel followed, sniffing at the air as he stepped in. The overpowering paint smell from the door did little to mask the dankness of the shadowy interior. Slivers of light came through the living room curtains where they did not meet, catching on dust motes stirred up as they moved through the house.

  The front room was an empty shell, a formal parlor of rose-patterned settee and wingchairs covered in a fine layer of dust. Across the hall, the kitchen echoed the house’s desolate feel. A bowl of wax fruit took up most of the ba
nquette in the breakfast nook by the back door, and a single line of tumblers sat sentry on a rubber dish tray.

  “Cynthia?” Kane called out. “I’m Inspector Kane Morgan from SFPD. If you can hear me, come out, please.”

  “Valens, our uniform, said she wasn’t lucid. Maybe she passed out since she talked to Dispatch?”

  They stood, poised and silent, but no one answered. Kel nodded toward the narrow hallway leading off of the living room. With all of the doors closed, it was pitch black, and Kane stepped forward, searching for a light switch. The bulb flared bright, and Kel blinked, chasing away the spots in his eyes. Hastily checking the house, they came to the one closed door off the main hallway.

  “Ready?” Kane motioned with his gun toward the door.

  “Yeah,” Kel grunted. “Kick or knob?”

  “Kick. Hard.”

  The hollow-core door splintered under Kel’s foot, and Kane ducked, taking one of the splinters in his cheek. He spat out a mouthful of grit and wood dust, then went in, covering Sanchez as the other cop went low. Sweeping the room carefully, Kane raked his gaze over the space, looking for any threat.

  What they found was the remains of Cynthia Vega, swinging from a rope noose she’d tied around the broken light fixture.

  The room was tiny, nearly as small as the storeroom in Shing’s restaurant, but unlike its cinder-block counterpart, it was furnished as if awaiting a guest. A daybed sat under a long window, its wrought-iron frame curling up and around the back, the white paint girlishly embellished with metallic pink flourishes. The floor was a wood laminate, cheap and easy to clean, but someone—probably Cynthia—had laid down a square floral rug to soften the room.

  Death had not come quickly to Cynthia Vega. Instead, it flirted with her, tantalizing her with promises of a numb forever as she kicked and struggled before losing consciousness. Without enough space and momentum to snap her neck, the frail-bodied woman instead choked slowly, her neck’s waxy skin bearing a scrabble of long, bloody grooves where she clawed at the rope with her broken nails.

  Those hands now swung freely at her sides, her body twisting slowly as the hot air from the room’s vent poured in. Kane stepped closer, careful to avoid touching the body. She wasn’t pretty in life, and the bloat to her dead face did little to soften the pinch to her sharp features. Deep grooves dug themselves in between her eyebrows and around her mouth, engraving a lifelong bitterness into her skin. The flowing white dress she’d put on as her final shroud was stained black from blood splatter and vomit, the eyelet at its hem yellowed from her body’s purge. Her legs were skinny and marked with blue veins, the blood drawn down to purple her bare feet in death.

  “How long was it they called her?” Sanchez asked. “Half an hour, maybe?”

  “Yeah,” Kane agreed. “For this much livor mortis, she must have done this right after she spoke to Dispatch. Fucking hell. Shit, Kel, look at her arms and legs. She was a cutter.”

  Cynthia’s bore signs of old cutting, small nicks allowed to heal over, then sliced open again. She’d taken a blade to herself one final time. Before she tied off the noose, she gouged out furrows from her bare arms, opening up the flesh to bleed out enough to pen her final words to the world she obviously fought to escape.

  The shock of her body was nothing compared to the horrors stapled to the walls.

  There were literally hundreds of photos, each more depraved than the one next to it. He recognized Miki’s face first. How could he not? The defiant, beautiful man he knew was laid out in front of him, younger and fearful. His face figured prominently among the others. Pictures of a young Miki were the most plentiful… and the most horrific in what Vega chose to do to the innocent boy he’d been given to raise.

  And all were smeared over with hateful words using Cynthia Vega’s blood.

  “Whore” seemed to be Cynthia’s favorite, but others were used as liberally, filthy accusations made against the young men in the images but none for the man who’d put the pain in their eyes.

  “I’m going to call it in,” Kel said finally. “The rest of the house is empty. This is the only room like this.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Kane murmured, putting his gun back into his holster. He needed to shove his feelings for Miki aside, at least long enough to finish up the job laid out before them. But as he turned, he caught a glimpse of bright hazel eyes, and his heart skipped a beat. Nodding at the carnage of lives splattered on the room’s walls, Kane stiffened his shoulders and reached for his phone. “Let’s see if we can’t get CPS to shake out the names of the kids who survived this asshole Vega. One of them murdered Shing and maybe even Vega by now. We just have to find out which one.”

  “What’s his beef with St. John, then?” Kel stopped dialing.

  “Maybe Miki was Vega’s favorite. I don’t know, Kel, but he’s all over this room. He means something to Vega,” Kane replied. “We’re not going to know anything until we find either that kid or Vega. My bet’s that Vega’s gone. Our only hope is to find the monster he made.”

  Chapter 7

  When Death took you, I didn’t notice.

  You left me behind you.

  In the rain.

  Tossed aside without looking back.

  Now you’re back in my dreams, telling me you’re sorry.

  I need Death to come and take you back again.

  —Letter to My Mother

  THE dog was back. Again.

  This time, however, he was on a leash, with a lanky, pretty-faced singer skulking in behind him, humming an old rock song that tickled Kane’s memory.

  He’d spent the rest of the afternoon chasing down Vega’s foster kids and writing reports. When the lab technicians showed up to catalogue the walls and remove Cynthia Vega’s body, Kel waited in the living room while Kane walked the remains out to the curb. They were silent on the way back to the police station, but once they sat down across from each other at their desks, they both breathed a soft sigh and forged ahead, scrambling to find answers in the muck Vega made of so many lives.

  When he finally got free, Kane headed for his workshop. A quick text to Miki, and he picked up his tools, needing to lose himself in the wood. A single chirp on his phone made him look up, and he smiled for the first time since stepping out of the unmarked police car and finding Cynthia’s body swinging from the light fixture. Miki was promising him company and some food. Kane replied, asking for a little time to shake off the day. Miki’s vow to bend over and kiss it better gave him his second smile… as well as a quick erection he needed to lose before stepping up to a power tool.

  Kane almost didn’t hear them approach. The lathe wasn’t loud, but the constant hum and the sound of the wood peeling away from the chisel often masked everything but a cacophony. He finished the pass he’d started, then switched the power tool off, taking his foot off of the pedal to let it wind down to a standstill. Shoving the safety glasses up onto the top of his head, Kane grinned and nodded a hello at the young man hovering at the threshold of his studio.

  Kane was surprised at the time when he glanced at the clock. He’d gotten over to the art co-op after work, intending only to put in a couple of hours, then see if Miki wanted to grab something to eat. Somehow, ten o’clock crept up on him and smacked him unawares. Or at least he was unaware until he moved, and then the strain of working the hard wood became apparent, and his shoulders whined in protest.

  Miki rattled the brown paper bag he brought with him. “Hungry?”

  “You cooked?” Kane grinned at Miki’s derisive expression.

  “You crazy? I poison a cop and they’ll shoot me,” he sniped playfully. Dude trotted in behind Miki as he made his way through the studio’s shotgun layout. Sprawling out in a metal folding chairs Kane brought in for him, Miki dug out a couple of sandwiches from the bag and held them out for the other man. “Pastrami or roast beef?”

  “Sauerkraut on the pastrami?” Washing his hands in a work sink, he dried off and used a shop towel to dust off his shirt and
jeans.

  “Doesn’t that make it a different type of sandwich?” Miki curled his lip at the idea. “And why would you put that shit on a sandwich? Kim chee, maybe, but sauerkraut?”

  “With kraut, it’s a Reuben,” Kane replied. He was okay with pretending they’d not spent ten minutes of their lives with Miki holding onto the cop for dear life, but his body burned with the memory of Miki’s lithe body pressed into his. “Well, and it would have some Russian dressing on it too.”

  “Then no, this is a pastrami sandwich,” he said, waving it at Kane. “Take it or leave it.”

  Kane took the pastrami, opened it up, and grabbed a few packets of brown mustard from the bag. He spread the mustard, then stopped to watch Miki as he arranged barbeque chips on his sandwich. One of the kettle-fried potatoes made it into Miki’s mouth, and he chewed noisily while he placed the sourdough slice back on top.

  The young man caught Kane watching him and visibly moved the chip to the side of his mouth, speaking out of the side of his lips. “What?”

  “Do you eat Captain-Crunch-and-sugar sandwiches too?” Kane chuckled when Miki gave him a quizzical look. “You are one strange kid.”

  “Not much of a kid,” Miki pointed out. “I’m twenty-six. Maybe. Pretty sure. Whatevers.”

  “You know what ‘whatevers’ means, don’t you?” The cop bit into a pickle spear, enjoying the garlicky snap. Miki shook his head, and he waved the end of the pickle at the man. “It means ‘fuck you’.”

  “Nuh-uh.” Miki shoved Kane lightly with his hand, barely nudging him. “Christ, you’re like trying to move a tree.”

  “Genetics,” he replied. “That, and in our family, the strongest survive.”

  “Even the girls?”

  “Especially the Morgan girls,” Kane teased. He liked coaxing Miki’s skeptical glances into the barest of smiles. “Ryan’s the youngest, and even Con’s scared of her. She bites.”

  “Ryan’s a girl? Shit, and I thought my name was fucked up.” He made short work of half of the sandwich, then picked out the tomatoes from the rest. “How many kids did your mom have?”