Sins of the Father (Book 2, The Erin Solomon Mysteries)

by Jen Blood

  “No jokes,” I said finally, when I could find my voice. “I’m just trying to imagine how anyone could do that to another human being.”

  Juarez nodded grimly. “Welcome to my world.”

  ◊◊◊◊◊

  After a very good lunch and a fairly dull meeting back at the Laboratoire with the crime scene guys who had analyzed the body dump site, we headed for Quebec City. We’d taken longer in Montreal than anticipated, which meant Diggs had already done whatever research and interviews he’d needed to do in the city by the time we got there. We met him in Quebec’s Old Port at a little after five that evening, at Mistral Gagnant—a little restaurant with a distinctly Provencal flair and a menu to die for, enough off the beaten path that it took Juarez and me half an hour wandering the narrow streets before we finally found the place. Diggs was already busy writing at a corner table, a tall glass of water and a nearly-empty bowl of potato leek soup off to the side while his fingers flew over his keyboard.

  Unlike me, it looked like he’d actually gotten a full night’s rest. All the time he’d spent with the top down riding around the countryside these last few days meant his hair was starting to bleach out again in the sun, and his face had taken on a beach bum glow I hadn’t seen in a while. I wondered what it said about me that I was only attracted to men who seemed to thrive on murder and mayhem.

  He took one look at my expression as I approached the table, however, and much of the sunshine vanished from his.

  “That bad, huh?” he asked when Juarez and I sat down.

  I shrugged, affecting my most hardened who-gives-a-shit air. “It wasn’t a picnic. I’ve seen worse, though.”

  Diggs’ mouth twitched. “Oh yeah, Ace? I forgot about all those years you were embedded on Beantown’s traffic beat. That’s rough stuff.”

  I flipped him the bird, a gesture that was not entirely appreciated by our waiter or fellow patrons. We ordered and then, once the waiter was gone, Diggs moved in closer and lowered his voice—as only seems appropriate when discussing serial killers over dinner.

  “Let’s hear it: What’s the latest?”

  Juarez gave him a very abbreviated version of what we’d learned back in Montreal. Then, he looked at me.

  “There was actually something else—Sophie gave me some more information after you left.”

  Diggs caught the look that passed between us, but made no comment.

  “You couldn’t have mentioned that in the six hours we’ve been together since then?”

  Juarez looked profoundly uncomfortable. Right. He hadn’t wanted to upset me. I’d become that girl in his eyes—the delicate flower men had to protect from harsh reality.

  “Okay, so… Spill. What else did you find?” I asked.

  He lowered his voice. “The cause of death—strangulation. For all six, the injury to the hyoid and some of the other indicators on the bones were consistent with strangulation, with the killer most likely using a thick belt or strap.”

  “Isn’t that what we expected?” Diggs asked. “I mean… If this is, in fact, the same guy who killed Erin Lincoln and maybe even Ashley Gendreau, wouldn’t the COD remain basically the same? Especially if that’s the thing he gets off on the most?”

  Juarez nodded. “True. What came as a surprise was the fact that the same amount of pressure wasn’t exerted with every victim.”

  “I’m not following,” I said.

  “Four of the six girls were strangled with the kind of force consistent with a man between two-hundred and two-hundred-and-fifty pounds.”

  “And the other two?” Diggs asked.

  “The hyoid bones weren’t broken,” Juarez said. “Less damage, indicating less pressure, because the killers were smaller.”

  “How much smaller?” I asked.

  “Sophie believes it was probably a female—one hundred to one hundred and ten pounds.”

  “What about Jenny Bishop? Does Sophie know whether it was the man who killed her, or a woman?”

  “It was the man—definitely. Or at least a man. Same with Stacy Long. The only two who weren’t killed by him were Grace Starke and Kelsey Whitehart.”

  “Who were they taken with?” I asked.

  Juarez checked his notes. “Grace Starke was taken three months after Becca Martineau, in ’84. Kelsey Whitehart was never actually reported missing, so it’s hard to pinpoint exactly when she was taken or when she died, but Riley Thibodeau went missing in ’85.”

  “Is it possible that he took Becca Martineau and she killed Grace Starke three months after she’d been taken?” I asked. “And then in 1985, he presumably did the same thing with Whitehart and Thibodeau?”

  “That’s my theory at this point,” Juarez confirmed.

  “And you honestly think the guy who raped, hunted, and killed Erin Lincoln in 1970 is the same nut job who started taking girls ten years later and running them through his own private death matches somewhere deep in the woods?” Diggs asked. “How does Hank Gendreau’s daughter fit into all this?”

  I looked at Juarez as he weighed those questions. “Ashley Gendreau doesn’t fit—at least, not in my mind. She was killed on site, no J carved into her chest, no body dump, no hunt… And it was all too rushed. Whoever he was, J. liked to take his time. More than anything else, he thrived on the fear, and the feeling of power derived from controlling every aspect of these girls’ lives. Ashley Gendreau was hunted for a few hours, no more, before she was killed.”

  “What about Erin Lincoln?” I asked.

  He hesitated. “If J. killed her as well, I believe she was his first kill. The hunt was unorganized, the method of torture and killing very… frenzied. Based on the evidence gleaned from the bodies in Quebec, we’re looking for someone fully in control of his impulses. A deeply methodical, highly organized individual with a history of sexual abuse—”

  “Why sexual?” Diggs asked. “So far the only evidence you’ve seen of rape was in Erin Lincoln’s case, right? Ashley wasn’t touched, and though it’s hard to tell so far, there’s no indication that any of these other girls were, either.”

  “The obsessive need for control,” I answered for Juarez, glancing at him to see if I was on the right track. He nodded. “Victims of severe sexual abuse who act out later in life typically have a need to either control or be controlled. They have a hard time relating in any other context.”

  Diggs raised an eyebrow in question.

  “That piece I wrote for the Globe a couple years back,” I explained.

  “Right.” Diggs nodded, then looked from me to Juarez and back again. “So, what else are we looking for?”

  Juarez looked at Diggs’ laptop, now safely stowed in a bag at his feet. “You do know this is all off the record, right? You’re here because Erin is here, and Erin is here because of the potential link to her father.”

  “And because there’s no way in hell you could have convinced her not to pursue it on her own,” Diggs added.

  “She’s sitting right here, actually,” I said. “And she hates it when you talk about her like she’s not in the room.”

  “Does that mean you do or don’t understand that this is all off the record?” Juarez asked.

  “Scout’s honor,” Diggs said, three fingers raised. I thought it best not to mention that Diggs never made it past Cub status in the Scouts, kicked out after only a week for consorting with a couple of cute Brownies in the classroom next door.

  Juarez started to dig out the files in his ever-present FBI tote when his phone rang. The whole restaurant turned to shoot appalled glares at him for the very American intrusion on their Sunday. He apologized to us and the world at large, then stepped outside to take the call.

  “So, what happened at the Laboratoire?” Diggs asked the second Juarez was out the door.

  “Nothing. It was interesting.” I kept my eye on Juarez in the vain hope that Diggs might let it go. Because there’s a first time for everything.

  “So interesting you had to walk out before the go
od doctor was finished?”

  Based on the pacing and the furrow in his well-formed brow, both of which I could see through the wall of windows looking out on the street, Juarez wasn’t happy with whomever was on the other end of the line. I turned my attention back to Diggs, who was looking right through me in that irritating way of his.

  “I got a little queasy, that’s all,” I said. “And you don’t have to tell me—I know they were just bones, so I shouldn’t have been bothered. I think it was the heat.”

  Instead of making fun, he shrugged. “This case is insane… I’m a little queasy myself, believe it or not. It happens to the best of us, Sol.”

  I sincerely doubted that, but I did appreciate the gesture. “I’m over it now. No big deal.”

  “Sure.”

  He took another bite of his salad and I took another bite of mine. I could feel him watching me. Before the silence got awkward—or, worse, he did something completely insensitive like try to make me feel better, Juarez returned.

  “What’s going on?” Diggs and I asked at the same time.

  “There’s been a new development in Black Falls,” Juarez said. “I’m sorry—I have to leave.”

  “Wait a second; what do you mean, you have to leave?” I demanded.

  He sat back down. “The police will be waiting for me when I get back,” he told us both. “I’ll go straight to the airport from here; I have a plane waiting.”

  “What about me?” I asked. “What am I supposed to do in all this, exactly?”

  “I’d like you and Diggs to go to Montreal,” Juarez said hesitantly. “Get a hotel. Lay low, just for the night.”

  Clearly, he’d lost his mind. “We’re not going back to Montreal; my dog is in Black Falls. Why can’t we just stay with you? What the hell happened?”

  “I can’t say anything about it right now,” he insisted. He lowered his voice. “I’ll just tell you that as of this afternoon, the case is no longer cold.”

  “You have a new victim?” Diggs asked.

  Juarez bit his lip, giving the very slightest of nods before he went all business again. “Which means I can’t be seen with either of you right now.”

  I’m a pain in the ass, I know, but even I understood the position Juarez had put himself in by including me in the investigation up to that point.

  “Are you in trouble?” I asked.

  Diggs looked at me in surprise.

  “What? I can be sensitive.”

  Diggs didn’t look like he bought it. Juarez shook his head. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “What happened to the whole objective of keeping Solomon with you so she’d be safe from the nut job out there?” Diggs asked. “Particularly if he’s gotten a taste for killing again. And who did you say that victim was again?”

  “I didn’t,” Juarez said flatly. “And as for keeping her safe, that’s where the hotel in Montreal comes in. I’ll arrange for a guard to be stationed there to be doubly sure. I don’t think it should be an issue, but I don’t want to take any chances.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be an issue? Because you’ve already caught the guy?” I asked.

  Juarez stood, hands raised. “Sorry, that’s the end of that interview, or you really will get me fired.” He turned his attention to Diggs. “Is this all right? I’m sorry—it’s not the way we planned it, but I don’t have a lot of options at this point.”

  “A night in Montreal living the high life sounds just fine to me,” Diggs said. He looked at me, his meaning clear. “I’m not the one you have to worry about, though.”

  I suspected Juarez knew that quite well. He nodded toward the exit. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  I followed him out to the sidewalk. We’d gone from the dead heat of an August morning in Montreal to the cool breeze and casual crowds of evening in Quebec City. Juarez found a secluded corner and led me that way, his hand at the small of my back.

  “Can you just tell me if this means my father’s cleared?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I don’t know yet—I’m sorry.”

  “But you’d tell me if you did know, right?”

  He hesitated.

  “Jack, come on. You can’t seriously think I’m gonna leave my dog, turn my back on a story, and go spend the night in a friggin’ hotel in Montreal while you solve the case. You have to give me something here.”

  We were in an alley off to the side of everything, cool brick at my back. Juarez advanced on me, pressing me against the wall.

  “I’m no closer to finding your father than I was when I first arrived in Black Falls,” he said quietly. “And I don’t believe he has anything to do with this latest victim.” He pushed my hair back off my forehead, his body trapping mine, his eyes dark and unfathomable.

  “But you won’t tell me who that victim was,” I persisted. “Will Rainier? Sarah Saucier?” I watched his face closely, but saw no sign that I was on the right track.

  “Erin.” There was a definite edge to his voice.

  “I know. Go with Diggs.”

  “Please.” He kissed me slowly and very, very sweetly, his hand on my cheek. His body was warm and solid against mine and I could feel my own responding despite the circumstances. After what was rapidly becoming an indecent display for passersby, he pulled back and looked at me seriously. “I’ll talk to you as soon as I can. The police will meet you in Montreal, but I don’t think you’ll have any trouble between here and there. Just stay on main roads, no detours. Call me on my cell or at this number if you have any problems.” He handed me a piece of paper with a couple of numbers written on it. “If you can’t reach me, you can speak with anyone at that second number. Just tell them who you are, and give them the code beside it when they ask about your emergency.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yes, Dad.”

  He rolled his eyes right back at me. “As soon as I can tell you something, I will. For now, just stick with Diggs. Go back to Montreal. Be safe. And when this is over…” He kissed me again.

  “When this is over, what?” I asked.

  “When this is over, we’re taking a weekend,” he said. “Somewhere nice. And quiet. No dead bodies, no long-buried secrets.” He kissed me one more time, with a little more heat. “Just you and me.”

  “And Einstein,” I added.

  “Right,” he agreed. He didn’t look as enthusiastic about that as I would have hoped. “You, me, the dog, and a romantic weekend away.”

  I stood on my tiptoes and gave him one last peck on the lips. “I think that could be arranged.”

  Chapter Twelve

  As soon as we were back in Diggs’ Jeep with Juarez safely on his way, Diggs turned to me with waggling eyebrows and a devilish grin.

  “So, ready to tear it up on Uncle Sam’s dime in lovely Montreal this evening?”

  Clearly, he’d lost his mind. “Are you kidding—what kind of reporter are you? We’re going back to Black Falls.”

  “Oh no we’re not,” Diggs said immediately. “J-Fed was very clear on that one—it’s Montreal or bust for you, young lady.” He put the Jeep in gear and headed out.

  “You heard Jack: They’ve already got the guy. This is overkill. I just want to get back to Black Falls, pick up Einstein, and figure out what the hell’s going on.”

  “And we can do that,” he agreed. “Tomorrow.”

  “Dammit, Diggs.” Fury built like a storm cloud in my chest, quickly obliterating any good humor I might have had about the situation. “I’m going back to Black Falls—you can’t just abscond with me and dump me in Montreal.”

  “It’s my Jeep, I can do whatever I damn well please.”

  “Fine, then.” I waited until he’d stopped at a streetlight and hopped out of the car. I leaned in before he took off. “I’ll just rent a car. No problem. I’ll see you back in Black Falls tomorrow.”

  I tossed my bag over my shoulder and headed off in the opposite direction. I’d already googled the nearest rental place on my phone and was working out the log
istics of actually getting to it when I heard tires squeal and Diggs pulled up beside me.

  “Get in the fucking car,” he said. He didn’t look amused.

  “I’m not going to Montreal,” I said again. “You do whatever you want, but unless you’re planning on tying me up and gagging me, there’s no way I’m going anywhere but Black Falls tonight. Just go on without me, it’s no big deal.”

  “No big…” He shook his head. He looked like he was about to blow a gasket. “Did you not hear what Juarez said? Have you been listening to me at all since we started on this thing?”

  “I’ve heard both of you. And I appreciate the concern, don’t get me wrong,” I said evenly. “But I’m a grown woman. If I want to take chances, that’s my right. It’s my life, Diggs.”

  A horn honked behind him. Diggs glanced back over his shoulder, then at me. His hands were clenched so tight around the wheel I expected his knuckles to pop clear through the skin.

  “You don’t have to worry about it,” I said. “I told you—I’ll just rent a car.”

  He sped ahead a few feet, found a place to pull over, and slammed the Jeep into park. I wasn’t sure about the wisdom of the whole tying-up-and-gagging comment; based on the look on his face, he was seriously considering it. I walked over to the passenger’s side door, but made no move to get in.

  “You don’t have to get so pissed off about this,” I said. I was starting to get a little pissed off myself. “I can take care of myself. I’m not some helpless little fool who needs to be protected all the time.”

  “Then stop acting like one!” Diggs shouted. People were staring at us. “I called Juarez the other day because I thought maybe he’d have better luck convincing you you’re not invincible, but you’re still picking fights with rednecks in bars and ghost hunting in the middle of the night. He’s right—the only way to keep you safe is to take you out of the equation completely.”