Gerard’s eyes widen and I’m not sure if it’s due to confirmation on Clive’s death, my comment about the Slayer’s victims . . . or both. “But . . . but why? Why would Clive be a target? He was a good man, a father—”
“Same reason the rest were targeted, Mr. DuBois.”
“And what would that be?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. Other than the fact they all seem to be a fraction of Boston’s wealth, we have nothing at the moment,” I answer truthfully.
Not like it’s anything the public doesn’t already know.
“What can I do to help? It was frightening enough when we found out about Woodward, but it’s only gotten progressively worse through the weeks. I’ve never been to so many funerals in my life and I could do without attending more after we lay Clive to rest. Jacqueline is as shaken as I am, if not more. These people, these good people, they were all dear friends of ours. Please, Detective—tell me, what can we do to help you?”
You can start by telling me why it appears your daughter has been the victim of a childhood crime.
The thought rings out loud and clear, and almost immediately thereafter, Gerard pales slightly. Panic floods me and I’m left wondering if perhaps I muttered it aloud.
“Let’s just start with Clive,” I blurt, pulling out my notepad and pen from my back pocket. “That’s the best way you can help me right now.”
Kiera’s father nods, alleviating some of my paranoia, and motions toward the small couch nearby. A tip of my head and I follow his lead, planting my ass on the fine, leather cushion. “The night Clive was murdered—where were you? Had you heard from him at all that day?”
“I was home for the better part of the day, but no, I hadn’t heard from him at all. In fact, it’d been several days since him and I last spoke. Not unusual, really. Clive and I didn’t have the time to chat daily.”
“I see, and, the last time you spoke, did anything sound out of the ordinary?” I press.
Gerard shakes his primly styled head. “Not remotely. We had actually made plans to go golfing this weekend.”
“Golfing, huh? Where did the two of you normally play at?”
“The country club.”
Figures.
Humming, I jot all this down and move onto my next question. “In the weeks leading up to his death, did he seem anxious at all?”
“He didn’t, no. He was perfectly himself all around.”
I nearly ask him what Clive being “perfectly himself” entails, yet one thing can’t be denied.
I requested to see both him and his wife, and only he’s here.
Pretending to note down a few more things, I keep my head bent toward my notepad and angle my gaze up to him. “You said you and your wife are devastated at his death. I take it he was a good friend of the entire family.” It’s not a question.
A fact he picks up on. As if in slow motion, I watch the series of micro expressions that ripple across his face. It happens in less than a few seconds, and he’s careful to keep his thoughts as guarded as possible, yet years of experience are on my side. “Yes. He was.”
Hm. I scribble a few more nonsensical lines into my notepad, mainly to distract him. “And is she available to speak to?”
This time there’s no mistaking it—his entire facial structure seems to shut down, a look so guarded it puts some of the most hardened criminals I’ve ever interrogated to shame. “She’s extremely caught up with the event. In any case, whatever you need to ask her, you can ask me.”
“I only ask because both of your inputs would be really helpful.”
“Maybe another time. I really can’t pull her away from such an important event at this moment.”
Funny. Two seconds ago he was ready to do just about anything to help catch his best friend’s killer. Wasn’t he? “As you know, Mr. DuBois, this killer is on a rampage. Anyone could be the next victim. I’m just trying to get all the information I can to help catch them.”
He’s on his feet faster than I can blink, straightening his tuxedo jacket. “As I said. Another time then. Jacqueline and I will call you and set up an appointment to come in and answer any questions you may have, Detective.”
Well, if that isn’t an epic shutdown, I don’t know what is. Filing this odd interaction into the back of my mind, I rise and shake his hand as we say our goodbyes. When he offers to have the housekeeper see me out, I decline, already knowing the way.
Passing by the many open doors leading to the ballroom, I search the crowd again, this time for either Kiera or her mother. Neither one of them are anywhere to be found.
That is, until I’m near the front door, passing by that hallway.
Which one? The one I saw Elon in. The white, veined-marble hallway with its dozen of dark wood doors spaced throughout.
There’s a couple at the very end, one I recognize very well. Slamming to a halt, I pivot in their direction—
It’s Elon and my girl again, trapped in another heated argument. I’m too enraged by the way he’s grabbing her arm to even pay much mind to how stunning she looks in her ball gown.
Obviously disgusted, Kiera tries pulling out of his grasp.
Scowling like some demented monster, he fucking yanks her through the very last door on the left.
I’m after them in a single breath, all but running, fucking livid and sick and tired of his nerve. Of the fact that he thinks he can manhandle my woman like that.
Wondering how many damn times he does it when I’m not around.
Face burning with fury, I practically tear the door they went through open, storming into—
Another hallway filled with doors. One even larger than the one I just came from.
They’re nowhere in sight.
My first instinct is to run, open each door until I find her, find them.
But what would be the freaking point? I have no idea which one they went through. No idea where each one leads. If I spend time searching and I’m caught, I have no means of explaining why I’m looking for them in the first place.
There’s no way to know where they went.
No way to explain my continued presence here.
Once again, that asshole was manhandling my girl and I’m powerless to do anything about it.
“Do your best to present yourself to God as one approved, a worker who does not need to be ashamed and who correctly handles the word of truth.”
- 2 Timothy 2:15
Ruby’s lying.
I know it with every single fiber of my being, can feel it.
How?
Because as predicted, she hit me with the stomach bug story. Sad part is, I almost bought it. But she’s too twitchy. Too quiet.
And we all know Ruby is never quiet, or standoffish for that matter, which is exactly what she’s doing. She’ll answer when spoken to, then turns right back to her computer, knee bouncing a mile per minute.
I’m about to bring it up to her when the Cap roars at the top of his lungs and shouts for Nathaniel to get in his office. Everyone freezes, Ruby and I included, as Nathaniel rises from his seat with a befuddled expression and stalks into Porter’s space.
The door slams behind him and the silence rolling through command lingers as we await a showdown.
It never comes.
Whatever the Cap is chewing him out for, he’s doing it quietly so as not to be heard. Upon realizing as such, my colleagues go back to work, everyone milling about at a hushed volume in hopes of picking up on anything.
Less than five minutes later, Nathaniel strolls out looking as irate as ever. I expect him to return to his desk where Jared’s patiently waiting for him, but he heads for mine instead.
What the fuck?
“You,” he says, sidling up beside me. “We have to go.”
“What? Where?”
“Alley 821. Another body was just found behind the Huntington Theater Company.”
“Holy crap—in broad daylight again. This psycho is getting reaaal
ly ballsy,” Ruby chimes in, practically shooting to her feet. “We need to get there before—”
“You aren’t going,” Nathaniel counters. “Cap wants Quinn and I on this one together.”
Ruby’s face falls, paling slightly, too. She plops back into her seat in a defeated fashion and bounces her stare between Nathaniel and I. “Why?”
Shrugging, I look to Blackstone because I sure as hell don’t know.
“I wasn’t given details, Saunders, only orders. If you have an issue with it, take it up with Porter once Quinn and I get out of here.”
We leave shortly after that. Neither Ruby nor Jared seem pleased with being left behind, but it is what it is. I’m sure Ruby thinks I had something to do with it after threatening a partner change over the weekend, but I’ll sort her out later.
Whether she chooses to believe me or not will be on her.
“They kept this one hushed at the command,” he comments, pulling up to the scene.
“It’s the A-1 and A-15’s. No doubt they already dispatched half an army to the scene.”
As always, Nathaniel and I arrive to pure chaos.
Not only are there squad cars littering the perimeter of the building, there’s an anxious crowd barely contained by the yellow tape, and at least two reporters already dishing out the news to the cameras aim at their faces.
“You need to cut that thing off,” Nathaniel tells one of the crews as we’re crossing the street, flashing them his shield.
Given our current pressing situation, they merely snicker and continue on about their business.
Hence why I don’t bother enforcing it, either.
The captain of the A1 and A-15 is waiting for us near the area where the body was dumped. “Detectives.” We exchange nods. “We have another female vic that matches your killer’s M.O.”
Another woman.
Fuck.
He leads us past the yellow tape, to a shadowy corner behind a dumpster.
Considering it’s 10:22am, not even that can hide the sight of the woman’s feet sticking beyond the edge of the green container.
We walk around it, the rest of the body coming into view. The pool of blood gathering beneath her head. The short, parted hair, streaked through with gray.
The blade sticking out of her nape.
The style of dress and hair give away the fact that this victim isn’t as young as the first female the Slayer killed a few days ago.
“Any ID on the body?” Nathaniel asks the captain, who nods and jerks his head in the direction of a discarded bundle feet from the woman’s head.
Another purse left behind on purpose, to give us a way to identify the victim.
Just what the fuck is the killer playing at?
“M.E is en route. We’ll be able to go through the purse contents after they arrive.”
“And the witnesses? Who stumbled upon the body?” I ask, analyzing the blood accumulated beneath the head. It’s a perfect puddle. No drag marks. Did she attack the woman here, in this alley, instead of depositing her here after the murder?
If so . . . I tilt my head back, looking at the backs of the buildings on either side of us, hoping beyond hope . . .
There. A surveillance camera.
“The body was found by a resident of the condominium next to the theater,” the commander is saying, nodding toward the residential building mentioned, “they came out for their morning jog and had the scare of their life.”
“Has anyone spoken to the management of the theater? That camera up there might’ve picked up something.” I point at the small orb overhead. Going by the captain’s expression, no one had even thought of that, a fact that annoys me to no end. I bite back the comment building in the back of my throat and face Blackstone. “How about you get the witness while I try to get my hands on that footage?”
He shrugs one shoulder, reaching for his notepad. “Sounds good to me.”
Within minutes, the management of the theater is allowing me in through the rear entrance, flustered at the police presence both in the alley and on the Avenue of the Arts in front. It’s a quick back and forth, the woman I’m speaking to assuring me that they’ve already begun an inquiry to see if anyone that works for them saw anything.
Doubtful. It’s early morning and the theater isn’t even open to the public yet. Not that their proactiveness isn’t appreciated.
She promises to get me the footage on a disc and bring it back outside to the alley. Perfect timing, because when I step out once more, the M.E has just arrived and pictures of the body are being taken in rapid succession.
Blackstone meets me by the steps leading out the back of the theater.
“As soon as they wrap up those pics, we can search—”
“I’ve seen enough bodies over the last several weeks to assure you that is one-hundred percent another victim of the Slayer,” Doctor Conley states surely, leaving Nathaniel with his mouth popped open mid-sentence. The fact they sent him down here personally just proves how dire the city believes this situation now is. “Even from here, the correlation is obvious, starting with that blade.”
I gulp at the mention of it, almost reaching up to grasp the crucifix—the marking—that’ll undoubtedly be engraved on it. I may not carry it with me anymore, but it still weighs heavy around my neck on a daily basis.
A reminder that I may have tried to hide it away, but I’ll never escape it . . . or my faith.
Or my connection to this twisted, murdering psychopath.
“Detective.” Conley’s voice breaks through.
Dazed, I meet his stare and note his now gloved hands proffer me the victim’s purse. I hurry to slip on a pair of gloves before reaching for it. “T-thank you,” I stammer, taking it in my possession.
He tips his head and goes back on about his business, crouching beside the body.
“Look for a wallet,” Nathaniel says as he moves closer to the M.E.
No shit, Sherlock.
I have to bite my tongue to avoid repeating it aloud, or anything else that could have my ass for speaking out.
Flashing him a tight smile instead, I make quick work of going through this woman’s belongings and locating her wallet.
And like the last time, everything is there, ready and waiting for us to see.
To learn.
Evelyn Blount.
White female.
Early sixties.
“Got it,” I blurt, flipping through the few photos she has in the protective sheets.
Nathaniel rushes back to my side, observing my every move. “You think women are her new pattern?”
“Could be. Could be temporary, too. Maybe even a distraction.”
“Distraction from what?”
“Her next move. We were catching on, catching up to her. Switching things up threw us for a loop. Slows us down, giving her an advantage.”
“True,” Blackstone agrees. “She’ll fuck up soon enough. Watch.”
I hum, seemingly in accord, but inside, I couldn’t disagree more. This girl has had the upper hand for years. She got away nine years ago, and if we don’t start making some serious moves, she’ll get away again.
“As I said, victim number seven,” Doctor Conley says, rising to his feet.
Nathaniel and I both drag our gazes over to where he stands with a plastic bag in hand.
And inside that bag is . . . Well, you know.
Another blade. Another cross engraved.
“Tally mark behind the ear?” I press, grinding my jaw as everyone in the near area has turned their attention on us.
Conley nods solemnly. “Number seven.”
“We need to move,” Nathaniel pipes up. “Need to get back to command and do our research on this woman. We’re losing speed and she’s gaining. That psycho could be out there killing another woman as we speak.”
My blood runs ice cold and that accustomed shiver settles at the base of my spine.
I already knew this, of course, but him voicing it for all
the world to hear brings a new and very terrifying prospect to light.
If she’s killing women now, women of wealth, the same wealth that’s somehow been associated with the DuBois family . . .
Is my girl on her list?
Could she be next?
It has been more than twenty-four hours since you last heard from her, that treacherous voice whispers.
My stomach churns. I feel myself pale as the awareness hits me. It has been more than a day. Head spinning and heart in my throat, I pass Nathaniel the wallet and mutter something about needing to make a quick call as I barrel to the opening of the alleyway. On my way across the street, I whip out my personal and pull up my thread with Kiera, typing out the shortest message possible.
Me: Please tell me you’re okay.
“When Judas, who had betrayed him, saw that Jesus was condemned, he was seized with remorse and returned the thirty pieces of silver to the chief priests and the elders.” - Matthew 27:3
She’s okay.
Not that I found this out because she replied to me, mind you. I sent her the text yesterday and her radio silence sent me into a frightening frenzy. So much so, that I ended up parked outside her house like the stalker she’s turned me into.
Thank God I decided to check Kiera’s social media before storming up to that door and truly ending my career. An Instagram post, a snapshot of her desk at her father’s investment firm.
The one where she works with both her father and Elon.
I’ve given up on trying to reach her at this point. Not because I’m done with her—far be it—but her behavior is too odd.
Almost defensive.
The more I press, the further she seems to distance herself.
Whether I’m right or wrong about my assumptions, there are some weird secrets in her family. Secrets she seems determined to protect.
Could I have been wrong in my assessment of her? I’ve only known her for a short time in the grand scheme of things and it’s all been such a whirlwind. What if Kiera is different than I want to believe?
Is she the kind to protect her family and their secrets just to keep up the appearance of perfection? Many people are. Rich and poor alike.
Coveted: Saint Cecilia Slayings Book Four Page 3