Rite of Wrongs

by Mica Stone

  She was way ahead of him. “It was Willman. And no Willman owned property, either.”

  “Vital records, huh?” He nodded as if giving her props. “And the missing husband—”

  “Van Edward Lacey.” She turned her notebook to show him where she’d written it down.

  “And an official missing-person’s report was filed?”

  “Yep,” she answered, pleased that at least one of her searches had yielded fruit. “Vanished into the night. Just like the son said happened. Now I’m trying to decide if finding him, or figuring out what happened to him, would be worth it. Or a waste of time.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Saturday, 1:00 p.m.

  Miriam picked up her father at his office for their every-other-weekend lunch date. He’d dropped off his Volvo for service, and a courtesy car had taken him to his office on campus. He’d spent the morning there working, while Miriam spent hers at the UPPD.

  Her usual days off were Sunday and Monday, so being at the station while most people slept or played the day away was par for the course. A bigger deal was driving all the way to Rice University to fetch her dad, but the drive did give her a lot of time to think. Time she really didn’t need.

  She’d been doing nothing but thinking for days.

  For almost two weeks, this case had consumed her; she was dreading Monday’s arrival like she would a root canal. Especially now with her routine disrupted. She hated Judah’s insistence that she and her fellow detectives needed a consultant when they did this every day. It wasn’t as if Augie had been a better cop during his fifteen years on the force than any of them were now.

  So far, the Scriptures hadn’t been particularly insightful. She had a degree in psychology. She could tell she was looking at someone conflating religious and family issues—parents, at least, though probably siblings, too, whether their own or otherwise. Hopefully this afternoon, she’d find something about the Lacey foster children in the fort of boxes surrounding her desk. She was ready to return the smelly files to the basement where they belonged.

  “I’d offer you a penny for your thoughts, but that’s a cliché, and I’m already paying for lunch.”

  “You’re a funny man,” she said to her father, smoothing out her napkin that matched the white tablecloth and shaking off her thoughts. They could simmer in the background in the meantime.

  “Sorry to drag you all the way into town. We could’ve rescheduled, you know. Since you’ve got this case . . . the one with the kids and . . . everything. I guess that’s still going on?” he asked, pouring a cup of jasmine tea from the pot they’d ordered to share. The bird pattern etched into the porcelain was echoed in both the flocked wallpaper and the gold centerpiece statues on the tables. She nodded for him to fill her cup, too.

  “It is. And don’t be sorry. I needed the change of scenery.” She could look at fifty-year-old foster-care records and crime photos only for so long. Though the restaurant’s overwhelmingly bloodred color scheme wasn’t exactly soothing. Even the fish in the huge saltwater aquarium appeared predatory, fanlike tails whipping them through the water.

  Their server returned before her mind drifted even deeper into the metaphor. “May I take your order now, please?”

  “Yes,” Miriam said. She hadn’t even opened her menu. She didn’t need to. “I’ll have the General Tso’s shrimp with fried rice. And can we get another pitcher of tea?”

  The man bobbed his head. “Of course, yes. And for you, sir?”

  Her father pushed his glasses farther up his nose. “Beef and broccoli. Steamed rice. Ice water, too, please.”

  The server gave a quick bow, a lank of his hair falling over his forehead, then left them alone.

  Miriam pulled her tea closer. “Cold water to go with your hot tea?”

  “Gotta keep my body temperature regulated,” her dad said, lifting the small porcelain cup that was shaped like a shallow bowl in a toast. “Summer is coming.”

  Like she’d said. Funny man. “I’m pretty sure summer is here.”

  “Can’t tell it by the AC in my office.” He flexed his free hand. “I’m surprised I don’t have frostbite in my fingers and toes.”

  She could do him one better. “Be glad you’re in that office and not running around town chasing leads. By the time the SUV cools down, it’s time to park it and let it heat up again.”

  “You doing okay?” he asked, gesturing with his index finger in circles. “Looks like you’ve got some makeup under your eyes there. Unless that’s just you not getting enough sleep.”

  “The latter,” she said, resisting the urge to dab a damp napkin against her skin. Actually, the idea sounded great. Though an ice pack sounded even better. “You know how I get, keeping all the details straight, and this particular case has so many.”

  Her father frowned. “I thought you had a notebook for all of that.”

  “I do. But that doesn’t keep my brain from making its own bullet points. All night long.”

  He smiled, leaning an elbow on the table and sipping his tea. She was just reaching for hers when he said, “You know, your mom’s seventieth is coming up soon.”

  She nodded as she swallowed. “Hard to believe.”

  “Esther wants to throw her a surprise party.” Though his tone was even, the lift of his brow and the corresponding lines in his forehead gave her his opinion on that.

  Typical thoughtless Esther. “Mom will hate it.”

  “She will. At least until she admits that she loves it.”

  He was right, of course. Which didn’t negate the sensation of claws digging into Miriam’s spine. Rome family gatherings were brutal. Erik drunk. Esther drunk. Her mother in manic overdrive trying to cover for them. Miriam ended up sneaking away every time. Plus, if she hadn’t put this case to bed by then . . .

  “I love how well you know her.” It seemed a lame thing to say after what she’d been thinking.

  Her father shrugged, strangely morose as their food arrived. “She hasn’t been the easiest person to live with—”

  Miriam interrupted him with a snort.

  “And you know that as well as I do, but there have been a lot of times I could’ve been a better husband.”

  She supposed this was where she should admit to her failings, too. “I have a hard time believing that.”

  “It would mean a lot if you helped plan things—”

  And here we go . . . “Dad—”

  He held up a hand. “Not to Esther. And not to your mother. But to me.”

  “That’s not fair,” she said, stabbing her fork at her shrimp. He knew how busy she was. How much Esther would hate having to share the glory should she pull off a success. The blame, however, for anything going wrong . . .

  “I’m your father,” he said, his tone humor-filled. “Being fair’s not part of the job.”

  A smirk pulled at her mouth. “And here I thought parents were all about being fair. Especially with their kids.”

  “Good thing you never had any, then,” he said as he bit the floret off a piece of broccoli.

  His comment stung more than it should have. “Got that right.”

  “You sound okay with that. I’ve always wondered, what with Erik and Esther—”

  “Breeding like bunnies?” she asked, thinking again about the Gardner children, their blue eyes and blond hair and loss.

  “Well, yes,” he said with a laugh. “And I know your mother hasn’t exactly been subtle about wanting more grandkids.”

  “With Esther being as old as she is, she’ll have to depend on Erik for that now,” she said. Then she thought of Gina Gardner, who’d been just about Esther’s current age when Eloise was born. “Though I guess miracles have been known to happen.”

  Her father snorted. “Esther has enough miracles to feed already.”

  “And Erik?” she asked, wondering for what might be the first time why her father didn’t share her mother’s the-more-grandkids-the-merrier point of view.

  He picked up his
fork and frowned. “He did not learn that behavior from me.”

  Her brother would never be the man her father was. Or the man Augie was. It might not be the best change of subject, but since her mind had once again drifted in the priest’s direction . . . “I saw Augie earlier this week.”

  “Yeah?” Her father sat back, his eyes wide and curious. “How’d that go?”

  She shrugged, hoping she didn’t look as stiff as she felt. “It wasn’t personal. I had to see him for work.”

  “I see.”

  He sounded as doubtful as Nikki. “Judah sent me. The case. The one with the kids. He wants Augie’s input.”

  “So he’s back?” he asked, frowning.

  His words fell between them like a big brick wall. “Just to consult. It’s not like he’s giving up his calling.”

  At that, her father huffed. “I always wondered how called he really was.”

  And now she was going to have to stop for a margarita. Why was everyone in her family so critical of Augie? Unless it wasn’t Augie alone they had a problem with . . .

  “He’d planned to go into the priesthood while still in school. Then the thing with his brother happened, and well . . .” She shrugged, jabbing a fork into the last of her shrimp. “Plans change. You know how it is.”

  He looked down at his plate. “Plans. Life. Yeah. I know how it is.”

  Now what had she said? “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing.” He waved off her question to ask his own, looking suddenly older than usual in his wire-rimmed bifocals and plaid sports shirt, the neckband of his white undershirt showing in the open collar. “You’ll help your sister?”

  “Yes, Daddy. I’ll help my sister.”

  “And you’ll come in and say hello to your mother when you drive me home?”

  She didn’t even try to hide the roll of her eyes. “If I have to.”

  Her father gestured at her with his fork. “She did give birth to you, you know.”

  “I’ll need photographic evidence,” she said, causing him to break up with laughter.

  “Spoken like the true cop I know you to be.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Monday, 6:30 a.m.

  Smiting. The word rang of finality and end days, and sounded like a good way to die.

  One big whoosh of a bat or a lead pipe, and lights out. Though in biblical days, the weapon of choice would most likely have been a sword.

  He liked the sound of that, too.

  The second retribution had gone well, but then, how could a stoning not? He just wished he hadn’t been so focused on the dogs and the lettering and had better researched biblical executions before he’d started. If he had, he would’ve used a piece of flint instead of a knife the first time. He’d learned about flint from Armenian folklore and the story of Cain and Abel.

  Adam and Eve loved Abel dearly. Cain was jealous of their partiality. He wished to kill his brother, but knew not how. Satan took the form of a raven, picked a quarrel with another raven, and in Cain’s presence cut his opponent’s throat with a pointed black pebble. Cain picked up the stone, hid it in his girdle, proposed to his brother a walk on the mountain, and there cut his throat with the pebble. The peasants of Armenia to this day call flints “Satan’s nails,” and conscientiously break every pointed black one they may find.

  He wasn’t dealing with jealousy, or a parent’s love.

  He was righting a heinous wrong.

  He couldn’t remember ever hearing anyone with as foul a mouth as Autumn Carver. Those words . . . from a girl . . . spoken over and over to the woman who’d so generously taken her in and given her a home . . .

  Then again, for much of that time, it had been a single-parent household. Every one of the kids living there had gotten away with more than a man would’ve stood for. Hard to stand for anything when not around.

  And he that curseth his father, or his mother, shall surely be put to death. Exodus 21:17.

  Seemed pretty straightforward. Autumn needed to be put to death. And getting his hands on a sword had been a lot easier than he’d imagined. Oh, it wasn’t a real sword. Not one a pirate might swing. Or Sinbad the Sailor. He thought that one was called a cutlass.

  The one he’d decided on was more like a machete. It wasn’t so lengthy that he couldn’t hide it in his sleeve, as long as he kept his arm straight and didn’t cut himself. Especially as sharp as he knew the blade was, having spent so much time making sure.

  Painting on a glazed concrete floor was a lot easier than on Sheetrock or cedar fencing. Having positioned the tarp beneath her car door meant a huge pool of paint to use.

  He would’ve liked to have taken his time. He was getting really good at his art. But Autumn got to work early, leaving him a very small window before her coworkers arrived.

  Funny how the last words out of her mouth, when she’d seen him and recognition dawned, had been, “You motherfucker.”

  True to herself to the end.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Monday, 8:00 a.m.

  Miriam skipped yoga completely and picked up her coffee and blueberry muffin at the drive-through window long before Vikram’s shift. Flirting with her favorite barista would’ve taken her mind off this being Monday number three. Yoga would’ve done the same.

  Clearing her mind was the last thing she wanted.

  She had to be sharp and on point.

  Her focus had to be laser.

  Then there was the part where Augie would be in the office today. He’d be going through more of her and Melvin’s case notes, Judah had told her Friday. And he’d be judging her.

  Judah hadn’t added that last part. Miriam just assumed.

  It was why, besides the case needing her attention, she was working on her day off for the third week in a row. To answer any questions he had. And because she didn’t like being judged.

  Coffee in hand and already sweating, she brushed the muffin crumbs from her jacket and blouse and headed up the station’s front walk. The morning sun gave off a brutal glare where it hit the door’s glass. She reached for the handle just as Ballard and his partner, Seth Branch, walked up.

  She lifted a hand to shade her eyes. “Hey, Seth. How’s the knee?”

  Seth Branch was Miriam’s age but married with four kids: one sixteen, nine-year-old twins, and one who was nearly two. Miriam couldn’t even imagine. Well, she could. See Erik and Esther.

  Like Melvin, Seth loved being a dad. His wife, Annie, was an artist. They lived outside of town in an old farmhouse where the kids had acres to roam. And where Seth had torn his ACL playing driveway basketball with his son, Robin.

  He grimaced in answer. Obviously, his knee was still giving him hell. Then again . . . “Knee’s good. Coming back to a serial murder, not so much.”

  “Ballard get you up to speed?” she asked as the three headed into the squad room.

  “We grabbed an early breakfast at Abilene’s and went over things,” Seth said.

  Abilene’s. Yum. When was the last time she’d been there for cinnamon-pecan pancakes? “Let me get settled in and find Melvin—”

  “Melvin’s right here,” Melvin said, stepping out of the break room and into her path.

  “Good. We’ll huddle up at my desk—” It was all she got out before Melvin started shaking his head, and her nerve endings began to scream. “Don’t even tell me.”

  “It’s Monday.”

  Not again. Not today. Her stomach plummeted. “Please don’t say it. Please.”

  He set his free hand on her shoulder, his other holding his coffee cup, and turned her toward the door she’d just come through. “Serial is not just something you eat for breakfast. But after the second Scripture, I figured you knew what you had on your hands.”

  “Goddamn it.” She wanted to punch something. She motioned to Ballard and Branch instead. “Let’s go.”

  “Where to?” Ballard asked, keys in hand.

  “Call came in ten minutes ago. Parking garage downtown.” Me
lvin rattled off the address, drained his cup, then tossed it into the trash bin at the door.

  “Who was it?” The question came from Branch.

  Melvin looked over. “Attorney Autumn Carver. Coworkers found her.”

  Leaving them Darius and Corky to find. Miriam hated to ask. “Another stoning?”

  “More of a . . . sawing. Or chopping. She bled out—”

  “Onto a blue tarp?” she asked. That was the only detail she needed.

  “Yep. Hell of a mess,” he said, shoving at the door.

  Miriam blanched at the burst of light more than the thought of the blood. “And the Scripture?”

  He stopped on the top step to put on his sunglasses. “Something about cursing.”

  “Fuck me.”

  “Thought you’d like that.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Monday, 8:30 a.m.

  The killer had left his message—and Autumn Carver’s body—for her coworkers and anyone using the structure to find. The garage was dark on this lower level, with no access to outside air. It made for a claustrophobic crime scene, the smells of dank concrete and pungent exhaust hanging just below the metallic scent of warm blood.

  Hell of a way to start the workweek, Miriam mused, doing her best to ignore the cluster of sobbing women behind the crime-scene tape. Of course, they weren’t far enough behind that they couldn’t see what was going on. One of them had made the 911 call. Cheryl Grant. She worked in the same law office where Autumn was a junior partner.

  Where Autumn had been a junior partner.

  Autumn was known for coming in before the crack of dawn so she didn’t have to stay until midnight. Cheryl came in when the office opened at eight. The forensic investigator put the time of death between six and eight based on the body’s temperature and early signs of lividity.

  The suspect was doing some kind of job tempting fate with his timing. He was either really stupid, or really really stupid, or he didn’t care if he got caught. No one was that smart.

  She refused to believe that because she didn’t want the bad guy to win.

  “I’m going to guess this wasn’t a knife,” Melvin said, squatting near the blue tarp.