Depraved: St. Cecilia Slayings Book Three

by Blanco, N. Isabelle

  Her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline at the expression that greets her. “What?” she dares to ask innocently.

  “You know what,” I grit. “Cut it out before he catches on and starts his own inquisition. The last thing I need is for him to give the Cap more ammunition to force us together.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She’s out of the car before I can say another word, holding her head high, like the prideful, know-it-all little prick she is.

  Breathe, Maverick, I have to remind myself, inhaling a lung-full of air as I kill the engine and follow her out.

  I slam the door, too, to cement my point, which only half works. Ruby flinches just slightly, but rolls her eyes with a small scoff in tow as she comes to a dead-stop beside Nathaniel.

  That’s when the smug bastard cuts his stare my way, an amused smirk curling his lips. “Trouble in paradise?”

  God, do I wanna flip him off. I almost do, but Ruby elbows him in the gut—hard—and takes off toward the vic’s house, muttering under her breath, “Shut the hell up, Blackstone.”

  Nathaniel’s eyes bulge around a gasp. Clutching his abdomen, he folds over, allowing me a much-needed chuckle at his expense. I don’t even try to hide it. Shaking my head, I straighten my tie and clap the idiot on his shoulder before following after Ruby.

  “I could report her for that,” he wheezes.

  “But you won’t,” I mutter in return. Why I’m so sure of that is anyone’s guess, but I am.

  Minutes later, we’re being ushered by a uniformed housekeeper. into the grandest foyer I’ve seen yet. We’re asked to wait a few minutes inside the living room.

  Hurried steps head our way across the expressive flooring and that’s the first sign my gut needs to suspect this time’s going to be different.

  This vic’s loved one is going to care.

  Mrs. Digby enters the living room through the archway, eyes frantic, hands ringing. “I was just about to call. He’s never been away from the house without me this long.” Blinking back tears, she stares between all three of us imploringly. “Please. Tell me he’s okay, that nothing serious happened to him.”

  A look is exchanged with Ruby, who exchanges another look with Nathaniel, who turns to me with raised brows.

  Fuck.

  “Detectives?” Mrs. Digby whispers, beginning to shake, the curls that escaped from her up-do bouncing along her temples.

  What sounds like a low vibration pierces the silence. I gaze around, trying to locate where it came from.

  “May I please use your bathroom for a moment?” Nathaniel asks suddenly, in a soft, polite tone I’ve never heard from him before.

  Mrs. Digby, clearly bracing herself for the worst, is taken aback at the question, blinking even faster.

  Understandably.

  Her upbringing and manners take over, however, and she nods. “Oh. Of course. There’s a restroom near the main entrance, back in the direction you came from.”

  Nathaniel thanks her enthusiastically and then he’s gone. Just like that. High tails it back in the direction we came from, leaving Ruby and I to deal with this.

  Mrs. Digby turns back in our direction, eyes even wider. Pleading.

  Of course, Ruby has nothing to say.

  Clearing my throat, I grab the bull by the horns. “Mrs. Digby, I’m sorry, but your husband has been the victim of a—” I don’t even get to finish.

  “No. No!” She cries, shaking her head in desperate denial, those tears overflowing. Her skin goes so pale that I’m instantly worried for her. “No. Don’t say it. Please!”

  Even as she begs me not to confirm it, it’s clear she already knows.

  Mumbling her denial repeatedly, she stumbles backward, those tears spilling over. “Oh God. Oh God. Milford. No.” Mrs. Digby nearly loses her footing, too weak to withstand the force of this news.

  Ruby finally jumps into motion, rushing to her and helping her toward one of the couches. “Here, Mrs. Digby. Please have a seat.” She manages to get Digby’s widow to sit down.

  Mrs. Digby loses the last of her composure as soon as she does, crying into her hands. “Milford. Oh God. Why? How?”

  There’s no chance to answer her, those sobs gaining volume to an almost deafening degree.

  Ruby sits next to her, rubbing her shoulder soothingly although it wouldn’t be considered professional. A hopeless glance is thrown my way.

  All I can do, the only thing I can give this distraught woman, is the handkerchief from my pocket.

  Ruby takes it from me and hands it over to the poor woman.

  The breakdown continues though, her body shaking with the force. Minutes go by, an interminable eternity, especially when faced with this level of pain.

  It isn’t lost on me that Nathaniel hasn’t returned. It’s been at least ten minutes, if not close to it, but he’s still in the bathroom.

  No doubt he can hear this woman’s cries and is biding his time so he doesn’t have to deal with it.

  Eventually, Mrs. Digby calms enough to ask into my handkerchief, “How? What happened to my Milford?”

  “Given the laceration to the back of his neck, it appears he was being targeted by the same serial ki—”

  “Oh my God,” she starts up again, leaving the remainder of my statement on the tip of my tongue. “Oh my God . . . No. No, no. Not my Milford. Not my Milford!”

  The poor woman is full-on sobbing once more, on the verge of hyperventilation. I shut my mouth and stand before her, mildly uncomfortable, as Ruby continues trying to console her. Amber eyes gaze up at me questioningly. I nod, already knowing what she’s getting at, and quickly pull out a business card from my wallet, then hand it over.

  It’s clear I’m not going to be saying much of anything here today and we’re definitely not getting any answers. Mrs. Digby will get a free pass for this moment, one that’ll allow her the next several days to process her husband’s death and compose herself enough for us to question her.

  Not that she looks remotely guilty nor do I think she’s the killer, but we have to cross our T’s and dot our I’s, regardless.

  “Mrs. Digby, we’re deeply sorry for your loss. It’s not the type of news we like to deliver, and we wish we were here under different circumstances. However, we will need to collect your story and ask you some questions within the next few days or so. Here’s Detective Quinn’s card; whenever you’re ready to make your statement, please give him a call and we’ll arrange a time for you to drop by the precinct,” my partner explains before rising off the couch.

  The widow blows her nose into my handkerchief and graciously takes the card from Ruby, nodding in response. I cringe a little when she attempts to return the used cloth, holding it out to me with torment in her eyes.

  “You can keep it,” I tell her, throwing in a kind smile for good measure.

  Less than five minutes later we’re being escorted by the housekeeper back to the front doors with Mrs. Digby howling in the background.

  Where the fuck is Blackstone?

  My query echoes from Ruby’s mouth in a hiss as she nudges my side. I shrug and take note of our surroundings, trying to spot him, but he’s nowhere to be found. By the entrance, though, right where Mrs. Digby had directed, is a closed door, the light from within shining beneath.

  Is he really taking a shit in the vic’s home?

  The housekeeper opens the door for us graciously and steps aside to let us out. Ruby informs her Blackstone is still in the bathroom and the housekeeper assures us she’ll see him out when he exits. I practically grumble my way to the car, cursing him to hell and back. Now, we have to wait on him which means we’re wasting valuable time.

  “You don’t really think he’s in there relieving himself, do you?” Ruby asks as we slide into my car.

  “What else could he possibly be fucking doing?” Aside from shirking his duty to help us with this.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a figure approaching. The back door opens and Nat
haniel plops himself into the back seat.

  “What the hell took you so long?” I bark out, hands tight around the steering wheel.

  Nathaniel meets my glare head on in the rearview mirror. “Dang. Can’t a guy take a shit in peace?”

  Grinding my jaw, I swallow the sarcastic comeback I want to throw at him and shift the car into drive. The tension between all three of us only gets worse with every minute that passes.

  To add to it, Nathaniel’s phone vibrates constantly, one notification after another coming in.

  No. That isn’t notifications, I realize when he brings out his phone and hits the side button. Those are incoming calls and he just rejected the latest one. He fiddles with it a bit before slipping it back into his pocket.

  My gut tells me he just switched his phone to silent.

  Ruby, noticing the same thing I did, turns to the back. “Do you need us to pull over so you can handle that call in private?”

  Nathaniel turns his head to stare out the window. “No. It’s fine. Just a personal call. I’ll get back to them later.”

  * * *

  Back at the command, I’m once again in the break room, refilling my mug with some fresh coffee. Thankfully, no one else is in here at the moment, giving me a few moments of peace and quiet.

  “You see? You see? I told you he’s been acting weird!” comes a low hiss from behind me.

  I take it back. Screw the peace and quiet. Ruby found me.

  Although, I think, as I tear open a packet of sugar and add it to the coffee, this time I can’t shut her down. The easy denial and reprimand that would’ve come before is nowhere to be found.

  Hate to admit this, but after what I saw today . . . I might have to admit Ruby’s right. Nathaniel is acting oddly.

  In ways that might look innocent on the surface—him having a bathroom emergency that lasted forever while at a vic’s house, the “personal” calls that kept coming in subsequently, yet weren’t urgent enough to warrant being dealt with immediately—yet there’s no denying something’s off.

  Really off.

  Ruby might be onto something when it comes to Detective Nathaniel Blackstone after all.

  “Hatred stirreth up strifes: but love covereth all sins.” - Proverbs 10:12

  I promised Ruby we’d discuss Blackstone outside command, where they’ll be no risk of us being overheard, but I haven’t called her back yet. The whole debacle happened yesterday and I probably should’ve followed up with her by now.

  After another restless night, however, where my mind was right back to Kiera and that scene I witnessed between her and her brother, I needed to visit the gym and beat myself down.

  It was either that or another bottle of Jameson.

  I’m trying it get back on track with the healthy choices, okay?

  My inner demons laugh, knowing it’s a matter of time before I crack down again.

  Bag slung over my shoulder, I exit the gym and make my way back to the car parked a few blocks down. I’ve gotten all of twenty-feet from the door when my neck nearly snaps in half as I do a double take. Plastered all over a newspaper stand along the way is today’s issue of the Boston Herald.

  That’s not what’s ensnared my attention, though. It’s the headline itself . . .

  THE ST. CECILIA SLAYER.

  My blood runs ice-cold at the sight of it.

  At lightning speed, I snatch a copy into my possession and skim the story, the paper crinkling and crunching under the strain of my grip.

  A serial killer running rampant through Boston isn’t unheard of. In fact, it’s not the first time, and it probably won’t be the last, either. But as the bodycount continues to rise, each one slain in the same fashion as almost a decade ago, the question isn’t solely a matter of “who done it?” It’s whether or not The St. Cecilia Slayer is an evolved version of The Boston Slasher.

  The remainder of the article glosses over the similarities of the killing style, how it’s more precise and much cleaner now. It also mentions how they suspect law enforcement refuses to confirm a link because of the distinct dumping location.

  They’re not wrong, really.

  We can’t. Not yet anyway.

  Back in the The Boston Slasher days, the killer was scattering bodies unceremoniously in alleyways all around the city, never the same stop twice. But now, despite the kill technique, she’s dropping them in a place of worship.

  That in and of itself arises another, more important question as well.

  Why?

  If it is the same killer, why a church instead of an alley, and why St. Cecilia’s specifically?

  Same reason your cross is etched on her weapon, a piece of evidence now purposely left behind, too. She’s after you. She wants you to catch her.

  But why? Why me? I’m not the only one who’s been after her.

  No, but you’re the only one who’s obsessed. You’re the only one who pretty much ruined his life and almost screwed up his career chasing after her.

  That’s when I flip the page to read the continuation and see the image they’ve used for the article.

  The press conference.

  Captain Porter at the head, my colleagues and I behind him. While the situation was tense and quite grim given the subject, everyone looks calm, collected. Everyone except me.

  I look . . . savage as hell.

  This picture must have been taken the moment I caught Elon practically man-handling Kiera into submission across the street. Brow furrowed, eyes wild—I even appear slightly more angled in comparison to everyone else, too, as if I was about to bolt in their direction and rush the bastard at any given moment.

  Ah, the face of an obsessed man, that voice continues, all but snickering in the process. Perhaps you and Elon aren’t so different. He seems quite obsessive about his sister as well.

  Fucking great. Just what I want to be thinking about at this moment.

  “Hey buddy, you gonna buy that?” the owner of the stand asks.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I grumble, because at this point, after fisting the paper and damaging it, it would be rude not to. Fishing two dollars out of my wallet, I hand it to him and tell him to keep the change.

  On my way to my car, those commands are louder than ever. This case is spiraling out of control like never before, the press is over this in a way they haven’t been on a case in a while, and as always I’m stuck on Ms. DuBois.

  I drop my duffel bag into the passenger seat. Fuck, why was Elon grabbing her like that, though? Let it go. Just let it fucking go. As if I’m going to. I’d love to swear I will, but I gotta be realistic here.

  I’m hooked beyond my capability to handle. My soul’s always been weak to fixations.

  It’d be so damned easy to just pluck her number from that freaking file.

  “No. No. Just no,” I mumble to myself, turning on the car. Repeating it aloud on a constant loop, I head back home, determined to get into a freezing-cold shower.

  It hasn’t worked before, but maybe this time it’ll shock some sense into me.

  * * *

  Thank God there aren’t cameras mounted out here.

  Next morning, I’m in the hallway near the file room, and guess what’s in my hand?

  I fought it as long as I could. That’s all I can say.

  Peering over my shoulder, I make sure no one is around to see me breaking procedure to such an egregious degree. I’ve done some fucked up shit to risk my career while on the force, but this one has to be the worst of all. My hands tremble slightly as I open the file and locate what I’m looking for.

  They tremble even harder as I hurry to jot down her cell phone number. I get that file back where it belongs so fast, that it seems like I blink and suddenly I’m back at my desk.

  Shit. What the hell have I done?

  Paranoid, I dart my glance around the command, watching as my coworkers go about their day.

  Professional.

  Focused.

  Innocent.

  Whileas, here
I sit, with Kiera DuBois’ number stolen and saved onto my phone.

  Sweat breaks out along my forehead. Although my colleagues are too preoccupied with their daily business to look my way, I can’t shake the feeling that they know.

  That everyone can read on my face what I just did.

  Thank God Ruby isn’t here at the moment.

  Don’t bring God into this. You’ve sinned enough. That I have. Still can’t believe I broke down and took that number. But as long as I don’t actually use it, as long as I don’t contact her until I see her in person, then it doesn’t count.

  Right?

  You’ve already showed up at her house unannounced.

  And I’ve saved the number.

  Crap, what am I going to do?

  That question is answered an hour later when I finally break down and bring my personal cell back out.

  Scroll through my contacts until her first initial greets me. That’s all I’d had time to type out when I added her in, and now, I’m kind of thankful for it. Anyone in the world could be K.

  I can’t deny the thrill that rushes me as I start a new thread. Doesn’t last long. All too soon I’m warring with myself on what the hell I should even send her. I mean, she didn’t give me her number. I’m gonna look like a fucking stalker.

  Again, you’ve shown up at her house already. That ship sailed long ago, idiot.

  “Fuck it,” I mutter, typing and sending the next thing that comes out before I can think it through twice.

  Me: Hey, beautiful. It’s me, Maverick. I hope this doesn’t seem too forward or anything, but I had to talk to you. How are you?

  I hope this doesn’t seem too forward . . . What am I? Fifteen?

  Groaning softly, I lock the screen, set it face down on my desk, and drop my head into my hands.

  Smooth, Maverick. Real fucking smooth.

  To my surprise, her reply comes through much sooner than I’d anticipated, leaving me a minimal amount of time to chide myself.