Shattered by Death (A Jo Oliver Thriller Book 2) Page 11
“Looks like I’m riding shotgun with Nick on the way back, Mitch. Think you can manage the drive home without me?” I winked, tossed the keys toward her, and laughed as she snatched them out of the air.
“Whatever.”
“Muttering does not become you.” It felt good to get our banter back.
“Whatever.” She turned and trudged to my car without looking back.
“Madame?” Nick held his arm out to me, and I took it. That familiar warmth oozed through me.
How could I even question my Nick? “What the heck? Do we believe in coincidences all of a sudden? Or am I in some kind of deep, deep trouble?”
Nick paused at the passenger door and opened it for me. Worry was etched across his face so deeply that chilling fingers tapped up and down mine. If I was hoping for reassurance, I was about to be disappointed. Badly.
He waited until I was seated and belted in before addressing my fears. “We’re in it up to our eyeballs this time, Jo.”
“Is it that bad?” He’d just spoken, but my thoughts trekked over muddy, sludge-filled rows of half-tilled soil.
His silence filled the front seat, accentuating the drumming in my head. I pressed my fingers to my temples in surrender to short blasts of pain sparking behind my eyes.
“I didn’t sign up for this.” I sighed and shook my head. Bad move. A subtle groan escaped my lips.
“Someone is and has been targeting you. You’re being set up.” His matter-of-fact tone forced its way around my heart and squeezed.
“Ya think?”
“Yes, I do. No one believes you killed Del and the woman.” Nick’s voice was all business. I loved him for that… and for not saying her name. “And the perv? The circumstantials put you two closer than six degrees of separation—but that’s because you’re you. And you made your views pretty clear.” His driving was just like him: smooth and fast.
“And by pretty clear, you mean everybody and their brother could go on record to quote me saying how much I’d love to get my hands around his puny neck and choke the life out of him until he couldn’t hurt kids ever again?” I turned my head toward Nick and slid down in the seat, stretching my legs.
“Yes. That was pretty clear. And pretty public.” He glanced over at me, eyebrows raised. “And distressingly frequent.”
“Yeah. Not arguing that point. But everyone wanted him dead. Any cop alive who had seen what he’d done to those boys would’ve wanted the same things, would’ve said the same things.” I raised my hands, palms up, and stared at him.
“But you’re the only Chief of Police on record as having said it. And not only to colleagues.” He accelerated, moving left to pass a milk truck.
“Oh, yeah. That.”
“Yes. That.” He didn’t need to fill in the blanks. There was TV footage of me saying the same thing into the camera, in the rain, at a crime scene. He swerved the car back to the right, blinker on and off.
“My judgment may not always be stellar.”
“But you have a heart of solid gold. Unfortunately, it’s not always visible.”
“Hey now! I’m not that bad!” I sat up and gave him my full attention.
“Did you really tell Kira that you’d love to, and I quote, ‘see that SOB rot in hell, the sooner the better’ and that you’d ‘like to be the one that puts him in the ground’?”
“Ah, well, it mighta come up. But those records are privileged. Just because she chose to share that with Mr. Handsome Secret Agent Man, doesn’t mean anyone else will ever see them. That’s a need-to-know kind of comment. And as far as I’m concerned, no one else needs to know.”
“I didn’t talk to Kira.” He kept his eyes fixed on the road straight ahead.
“Then how?”
“Flick of the wrist. If I can gain access to your confidential records online with the help of one of the newbies in the Computer Crimes Commission as easily as I did, any prosecuting attorney worth their salt will find a way in too. And so could an average teenage hacker.” His voice was steady, even. He kept his eyes trained on the road ahead.
“So, someone has targeted my known enemies and killed the four people I’d most love to see dead. And they’ve left breadcrumbs any toddler could follow to all three crime scenes.”
“So far.”
Gray, hooded shapes wielding scythes and spiked clubs pulled victims though black, mist-shrouded trees in my hazy mind. Moss-covered stones lined my stomach. My head wobbled like a wrecking ball on a rusty chain.
A pasture full of newborn foals galloping by my passenger window snapped me out of my internal descent.
I swiveled my neck to give Nick my full attention as he drove.
“So, we’ve got some whack job on the loose, killing in my name. Only the real signature we’ve found so far happens to be the choice of the targets. Culling victims off an imaginary list similar to one only I would create. Talk about your invasion of privacy! And I thought spy drones were bad.” My tone sounded forced, even to me.
How much more did Nick know? Were there new details that would strengthen the beliefs of the multitude of garden-variety cops hungrily clinging to the notion that I’d suddenly unhinged and gone on a killing spree? Did I even want to know?
“This is where you might want to speak up and share anything else you know. Preferably something that will point suspicions elsewhere. If you have anything. Anything at all.” My hands emphasized what my mind couldn’t quite verbalize, all but finger spelling to underscore my point. Talk to me, Nick! Don’t give up on me!
“Desperation is not attractive—not even on you.” Half his mouth smiled, giving him that Cary Grant appeal as he pulled into the parking lot of the Rocking Horse Lounge.
I turned to him, eyebrows arched.
“I thought you might like to talk it out.” He put his hand out, waiting for mine.
The moment our hands met, he wrapped his fingers around mine. I closed my eyes, drinking in the warmth. Safe. I drew his hand up, pressed it against my cheek, and let it go.
Tension fell away from my temples, eased down my neck. I smiled. Mitch pulled in just as I was getting out of the SUV. And there, across the lot, sat Gino’s gleaming Z28. We threw each other a nod and headed up the wooden steps.
Stale beer and cigar smoke greeted us as we pushed past a curtain of heavy beads on our way to the bar. Sawdust covered the floor. The red vinyl covers adorning the bar stools had seen better days. War-torn bistro tables with taller stools were scattered between the bar and the pool table. We claimed a four-top and ordered a pitcher of diet pop and a pot of coffee. Gino’s booming voice heralded his arrival.
“M’hija, while this is a dark day for some, the light is about to dawn all around us. But first, we eat.” He set down a tray loaded with breakfast plates, complete with napkin-wrapped utensils, and placed them around the table.
Gino set the tray on a tabletop behind ours and joined us. “Bon appetit, amigos. And for those of us who may have a bird-like appetite for food and a voracious appetite for information, perhaps you would like to feast your eyes on this.” Gino pushed my untouched plate aside and replaced it with a large manila envelope. “You had another special delivery back at la hacienda. I managed to get a set of copies for us to review together. Cuidate, m’hija.”
I gave him a puzzled look and opened the envelope.
I pulled out another envelope. This one was a quarter of the size of the other, compact, and white. “More photos?”
No one spoke. Nick frowned and handed me his butter knife. I pried the envelope open, pulled out four glossy, black and white photos, and placed them on the table. My nostrils flared, and I sucked in as much air as I could. White noise roared inside my head.
Pushing myself away from the table, I walked over to the wall and braced myself there for several seconds on shaky legs. I took a few deep breaths and stretched up straight, waiting until my heartbeat slowed to a fast trot before I pushed past the swinging doors to catch a breath of fresh air.
“Now, just what on God’s green Earth is this? And what are we going to do about it?” My words jarred my senses back to order.
Mitch’s eyes were shiny with tears. She was like me—we both soldiered through horrific scenes in the moment. But our emotions always showed up later. Gino stood behind her, one protective hand resting on her shoulder. He put the other hand on my shoulder. Nick slid his stool over close enough so that our shoulders touched, like puppies crowding into one another for warmth and protection during a thunderstorm. I can handle this. I’ve got my pack.
Each photo depicted one of the three murder scenes, spotlighting the victims. Nick picked up the shot of Del and his girlfriend and studied it out of my field of vision. He placed it back on the table, face down, and picked up Derrick Deter’s shot.
“Anybody else notice the two things that turned my blood to ice?” He pulled his gaze from the photo long enough to look each of us in the eye for a few seconds.
“Si, mi amigo. Only, I think we have all noticed three things of great concern.” Gino was holding the fourth picture. I couldn’t piece together who was featured in that shot.
Nick looked up at Gino and frowned. Had he missed the third thing? “Each one of the victims of our three murder scenes is represented in the photos, and they’re not tech shots. They had to have been taken by the killer.” Nick spoke slower than usual, as if hoping one of us would finish his thought out loud. We didn’t. “And all of the victims are still alive in the photos. Barely, but clearly still alive.”
“Right. There’s movement in these pictures. It’s as if the killer said or did something to make them move right before taking the shot. Schlichting’s hands seem caught in mid-air. It’s like he was trying to sit up.” I was focused now, buzzing with awareness.
“See that?” I pointed to an image in the dirty glass windowpanes on the shack behind Schlichting.
“What is that? Is that...” Mitch’s whisper set my teeth on edge.
“Yeah. A reflection. It looks like the killer isn’t very big. And she’s got a lot of hair.”
“And a sledgehammer.” Nick’s voice was low, cold.
“Yeah. Looks like it.” Mitch, leaned in, shaking her head.
“Either that, or she or he is wearing a wig. Let’s not get tunnel vision and limit our options.” We had to be missing a whole lot more.
The pictures were fresher than death—they caught the terror of the victims right before they died. Del and the other woman, bloodied, eyes dull and pleading. Del’s mouth hung open in impotent debate. Derrick Deter, propped up against his van in the parking lot, two freshly smashed legs and one black eye, staring into the distance and not right at the camera. Schlichting’s puzzled eyes looked straight into the killer’s lens. But there was something different about the fourth photo.
Nick and Gino exchanged glances and, at Nick’s nod, Gino placed the fourth photo down, face up, a little further apart from the others. “And these are copies. The killer must’ve wanted you to see them. But who could know how soon you would see them? Unless this monster also has friends on the force?”
“Richardson’s beginning to feel like a one off to me. A rogue cop maybe? Too soon to say. All we have for sure are three murder sites. Three sets of victims, each depicted in the perp’s macabre photos.” Nick had taken on the role of leader again, gesturing to the photos. “We know these four are dead, and we know how they died. But what we don’t know, is anything at all about the woman in the fourth photo. Who, as far as we can tell, was very much alive when this picture was taken.” Nick picked the shot up and held it out for all of us to see.
The last photo was hard to decipher. It was grainy, blurry, black and white. No time stamp, no date. It revealed a stern-looking woman, seated in a straight-back chair in what looked like an office, but could have been a cubicle, it was too fuzzy to tell for sure. She had one hand on a phone at her ear, the other on the keyboard of a desktop in front of her.
“So who is she, and how much time does she have left?” I took the photo from Nick and held it in front of me. The woman’s features were completely obscured. Why? Who was she? Why had she made the killer’s list?
“What are we looking at, compadres?” Mitch would go all cop on us, helping us move from the soft side of our hearts to the stone-cold man-hunters we had to be. We needed her leading right now.
“These photos were delivered to you, m’hija, after you left last night. By courier, paid via a gift card bought with cash. Thus completely untraceable. The way the envelope was marked bothered the receptionist, and she called the commander on duty. He opened them, catalogued them, and they were entered into evidence last night.” Gino was gathering the photos up and placing them back into the envelope.
“And our close personal friends in evidence sent a file to Nick, and he had you print them on the way to see us this morning, is that about the size of it?” Mitch’s voice flowed with chastisement and admiration in equal parts.
“Something close to this, si.” Gino was not displeased with himself.
“So, safe to assume we’re all thinking, we’re all fearing, the same thing about the woman in the fourth photo?” I cut to the chase. I had to. The crepey threads of my nerves started popping.
“She’s everything different from the others.” Nick nodded, tapping a finger on the Formica tabletop.
“She’s alive, for starters.” Mitch moved a hand to her hip and leaned forward. “Making this anything but a pre-murder shot.”
“Por cierto. This is no death shot. This, this is surveillance.” Gino crossed his arms in front of his chest and sat back, narrowing his eyes. “This is the strongest message we could receive from the killer.”
My face scrunched up. A new set of worry lines started settling in. “Sure, right. I got it. I just don’t know what that message is, G.” I turned to Nick. “Do you?”
“Oh, yeah. And it’s coming through loud and clear.” He ran a hand through his silky curls.
“I get the loud part, but not the clear.”
“’Come and get me. The race is on.’” Nick stood and stuck his phone in his pocket.
“And don’t spare the horses.” Mitch was up and on her way out the door.
A cold wave washed over me. I turned and followed them out of the dark bar and into the hunt.
Nick reached the passenger door of his SUV and had it open by the time I caught up. Gino and Mitch were fanning out across the parking lot, heading for their cars.
“Guess I’m riding with him.” I stabbed my head in Nick’s direction and slid into the seat. My cell phone buzzed as Nick shut my door.
“Jo Oliver.” My voice was heavy, unnatural.
Static jammed my ear, spiced with labored breathing. My shoulders quivered.
I drew the phone away from my ear to check the caller ID. Mom. I sighed. “Mom?”
Cement churned through my belly.
“I know you’re there, and I want you to know I love you. Whatever you need, I’m on it, and I love you. Okay?” Tension edged down my shoulder into my bicep, begging my hand to loosen the death grip I had on the phone. I listened as she breathed into the receiver and waited for the words that would not come. She rarely spoke on the phone, but she’d called. Why? A single tear slid down my cheek.
“I love you, Mom. I’ll take care of you. Just sit tight. It’ll be okay.” Stiffness rolled down my body from straining to catch any message she was willing me to hear. The call ended abruptly.
“How is she?” Nick stared at the road. We’d already crossed the line back into Illinois.
“Not so good.” I drummed my fingers on my phone. “Hang on, gonna make a quick call.” He took a sharp turn, and I had to hold on for dear life while punching in the numbers.
“Riverside. This is Cindy. How may I help you?”
“Cindy, hi. Jo Oliver here.” I did my best to smile through the phone.
“Chief Oliver. You must be a mind-reader. I was just going to call you.” Her business-like voice filled me with apprehension. She only snapped into professional mode when something wasn’t quite right.
“What’s up?” I tried to keep my voice pleasant. Or at least in the non-shouting range.
“Well, you might want to stop by sooner than later, if you can. Your mother’s okay, but she’s not as active as we’d like lately.” She was choosing her words carefully. Too carefully.
“And?” Get to the point!
“And we think maybe you should consider having her reassessed. It might be time to talk about adding more memory care to her daily routines.” She could have been reading from a script. An expensive script.
“I’m open to that. I’ll call her doc and get the ball rolling. Get her on the books for another assessment.” Which meant I’d have to take her to and from said assessment. When was I going to have time to do that?
“That would be great. I know you’re busy, so I don’t want to keep you. Let me know when you’ve got things set, and we’ll do all we can to help make it happen.” She was dripping in relief.
“Will do. And Cindy? Thanks for all you do for her.”
“That’s my job. And besides, we love your mom. She’s a hoot.”
I ended the call.
“What, pray tell, is a ‘hoot’?” Nick turned toward me, a smile edging over the side of his face.
“I’ve got a better question. Where are we going?” Rows of cornfields streamed by on either side of the two-lane road we were on. Not a highway. Familiar territory, though.
“Just making a little stop on our way back to the station.” He eased up to a stop sign, turning right toward the small town that had grown up on the banks of the Kickapoo River decades before Riverside Senior Living Center existed.
“A little stop? Like a pit stop, maybe?” It was now obvious where he was headed… and that we didn’t have that kind of time.