Shattered by Death (A Jo Oliver Thriller Book 2) Page 8

  “Mitch, you gotta knock off this crap. I get it that your faith in me is maybe waning a little bit after spending time alone with the guys. Maybe it’s getting harder for you to have my back in front of them when they don’t know all the facts. But you gotta choose, girl. You can’t have it both ways. You got my back, or not?”

  Her face softened for a second. Then she disappeared into a brooding silence again. Her lips quivered in defiance. “I dunno, Chief. I don’t like it.”

  “You don’t like what?” My eyes narrowed to a squint.

  “We’ve got three high-profile murders in as many days. That’s more action than this village has ever seen. And, two of them were… Should you really be involved in this?” Her defiance melted into frustration.

  “I know, Mitch. He was my husband. But I can’t just sit this one out. Maybe I should. Maybe a better woman would. But I can’t.” My admission came out in a steady cadence.

  She sucked in a belly full of air and let it out in a noisy gush. “I know, I know. I’m sorry. It’s just that if this were my investigation…”

  “But it isn’t.” I cut her off.

  “Right. But if I were the Chief of Police, I might not necessarily think it wise for you to be leading the charge on this one.” Her tone was apologetic, but her body remained tense. “I’m sorry, but that’s the way I feel.”

  “Well, that’s just great that we’re sharing our feelings here. ‘Cause I got some of my own to share.” My voice sharpened with every word. “There’s only one Chief in this station, Mitch.” I stood up and moved into her personal space, towering above her. “And you ain’t it.”

  Dark red clouds moved across her face. Her hands, gripping the slender armrests, were turning white. I moved back two steps to lean on the desk again. The clouds lightened, and her shoulders lowered two inches, but she kept her eyes trained on the wall beyond me.

  “You got a problem with that?” I folded my arms, keeping my voice strong and steady.

  “Not yet.” She shook her head without relaxing another muscle or meeting my gaze.

  “Good.” I wouldn’t be fazed. “’Cause I need you. This place needs you. Heck, this whole village needs you. A heckuva lot more than you need it, that’s for sure. All I ask is that you put your fear and doubt aside—at least until we get this guy. The rest is up to you.”

  “I can’t promise you it’ll be like it was before.” Her voice was still and low.

  “Mitch! What is up with you?” Tension rocketed through my body. I must’ve missed something. Something big.

  She stared at me, neck reddening. Her right eyelid twitched, and she snapped out of the chair, rifling through her jacket pockets. She pulled out a manila envelope and slammed it on the desk beside me. “There. Now that we’ve cleared the air, what do you make of this? Here’s a full copy of a little special delivery sitting on Liz’s desk this morning.”

  “What the heck is this?” I picked up the envelope and pried it open with my fingernails. Two glossy black and white photos slid onto the desktop. Each of them was a photo of one of the crime scenes, possibly right after the victims had been attacked. Definitely post mortem. One look at the lifeless eyes told me that much. I stared at Del’s face, masked in death. Tears sprang from my eyes, and my stomach lurched.

  Mitch reached for the photos and turned them over. She pointed at the name of the town, watermarked onto the paper. “You’re seeing this, right?”

  The pictures had been printed on the crime photo paper issued only to us and paid for by the taxpayers of Haversport. It was a sacred commodity, and very few people had access to it.

  “Yeah, so?” I crossed my arms.

  “And you agree with me that these shots had to be taken at the scene, right?” She looked at me.

  “Yeah. So, someone did their job, catalogued the crime scene. And…?” I stomped my foot down on the carpet. Picked up my foot, stomped it again. Thank God for sensible shoes.

  “So that’s the problem. We did have a tech—the same tech, in fact, responsible for recording evidence at both scenes.” She folded her fingers, cracked her knuckles, unfolded them. “Only problem is, we checked. Neither of these photos were taken by him or anyone else in our department. They don’t match the ones you took with your cell phone either.”

  Her acknowledging I’d been at Del’s crime scene alone lit a dim light. Was that why she was mad at me? I’d put myself in harm’s way once again? I scrunched my brows and looked at her. “But then…”

  “Exactly. Who took these shots? And how did they get the paper? And why put them on Liz’s desk? And how did they do that without being seen? While we’re at it, who would’ve known your whereabouts today?” Mitch moved over to the club chair and sank back into it, folding her feet underneath, giving her the appearance of a delicate warrior.

  “Why are you asking?” Wariness flowed through the air between us.

  “How many people would have had clearance and access to evidence from both crime scenes?” She glanced at me, pulled out her phone, and pressed it on.

  “The real question is, how many cops were present at both crime scenes?” I leaned over the chair behind her. The staff report we were after materialized on her tiny screen.

  “Five, six maybe? Check this out.” Curiosity softened her voice.

  “Good grief. Take a closer look. Read it to me.” I pushed myself away, preparing to hear what I was certain I’d just read. I slumped into my chair behind the desk.

  “Garrett. You. Me. Schlichting. Two of the FBI guys, counting Nick.” She was whispering as the gravity of it all sunk in. She waited in silence for me to say what we were both thinking.

  “Six of us, all told. So, which one--“

  The muscles in her face bunched up as she stared at the tiny screen. Had something new cropped up?

  She looked up at me, and blinked. “Corey Richardson not only has a history of assaults, but he works as a lab tech at Mercy Hospital.”

  Mitch rocked back on her heels, edging her body ever so slightly away from my desk. I swiveled in my chair, rattled by the loud squeak of the base. Her body stiffened as she inhaled several little breaths.

  “Jumpy, huh?”

  “Chief… there’s more on Richardson. He’s been charged with assault; the report summary says it was over his wife’s alleged infidelity—with a cop. And, you want to take a stab at his hobby?” She took a step back. Two more and she’d knock into the mahogany credenza lining the wall.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I got nothin’.”

  “He’s a world-class amateur weight lifter.” She nodded, as if this pulled the package together with a bow on top.

  “’Roid rage? You’re saying Richardson what, found out about the affair, and waited until the night before the divorce was final to take them both out? Why wait? And what possible connection could he have to Deter?” I looked up at the ceiling. “But we can’t just give up on our dirty cop theory, can we? Who else but one of us would have access to these photos?”

  Mitch’s stony face gave nothing away.

  “It’s a lot to take in, I know. But what else could it mean?” I kept my eyes trained on hers.

  “What does it mean? Is this the killer, playing with us?” Suspicion lined her face. It didn’t look good on her.

  “Well, these shots didn’t take themselves. And they’re, without a doubt, from the crime scenes, but they are for sure not our work. Not officially anyway.” I looked her right in the eye and cocked a leg out.

  She stared at me with wide eyes. “Which tells us, what—that one of us took them at the scene right after we murdered a few people, then came down to the station to print them on 5x7 glossy?” Color drained from her face. She looked down at her feet. A slight tremble rolled over her. “So, Garrett is known as somewhat of an amateur photography buff.”

  “So are you. But I’m not even going there. How hot is Schlichting for this kind of thing? You know he hates my guts. Ever since I had him written up for ‘conduc
t unbecoming’ back in the good old days.” I sat on the edge of my desk.

  “Before he even started working for you. Yeah. Fun. I was there, remember? But I don’t know, I’m not feeling it. How could it be him? Or any of the rest us?” She had backed into the credenza, and stood like a newborn calf in front of it.

  She always hated the way I used anything as a chair. How much did she want to straighten the chair in front of my desk? I pushed my own chair out further at an odd angle with my foot.

  “Or any of the rest of us. We’re going to set this aside for the time being instead of dancing around each other. I don’t have the energy to get into a pointless cat fight—”

  She snorted, interrupting me. “Maybe a little Mitch slapping would be more appropriate.”

  That was pretty good. She was lightening up.

  She snapped her head back and forth once. “So, if it isn’t you, and it isn’t me, that leaves four possibilities: Garret, the federal agent, and Nick.”

  “You forgot about Schlichting. And it ain’t Nick. I can practically guarantee you it ain’t Nick.” At least, I hoped I could.

  She sighed. “Practically doesn’t do us much good. We don’t know what we don’t know about Nick.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Pain stippled through my heart. Was she holding something back?

  “I know you two have a history. I know you’ve been through a few wars together. When you worked homicide in Chicago, nobody could beat your solve rates. And I know there’ve been one or two Nick sightings in the past few weeks.” She fidgeted, casting her gaze away from me, picking up a paperweight from my credenza, studying it.

  “Yeah, so?” I grabbed a pen off my desk and started clicking the top with my thumb.

  “He’s been seen in the company of a particular brunette.” Her eyes stuck like glue to the wall of windows beyond us.

  “A certain slender, rich brunette?” My heavy heart deadened.

  “Yes.” Mitch drew her eyes away from the window, closer to me.

  “More than once?” Rapid heartbeats pounded through my body. White noise rushed my ears.

  “Yes.” She straightened up and fidgeted with her phone again.

  “So, she’s maybe back in the picture, then.” Exhaustion rolled through me.

  “Yes.” She was scrolling through some photos. Her nervous tell. She would scroll through pictures of herself with her husband. Reminders of her life beyond the job.

  “But we don’t know what that means.” I looked within myself and found a thousand possibilities. Most impossibly bleak. One or two could be legit.

  “Well, I know one thing—he can’t be trusted. Not completely.” She seemed to choose her words with the utmost care. She stopped on one of the pictures. Her husband’s square jaw came into view under her thumb.

  “Could mean anything. Could be purely professional.” Could be.

  “Watch your back, Jo.” She shoved her phone back into her jacket pocket before straightening my office chairs, nodding at me, and leaving me alone.

  A flash of pain pulsed through my temples. My stomach was full of sludge. I wanted to sink into my chair, but I was paralyzed.

  Nick and Kira? Again?

  Mitch’s steps smacked down the hallway toward the bullpen. The quiet in my office was far too loud for comfort, but nowhere near enough to drown out the roaring in my head. Steel rods shot up from my stomach, jamming my throat. I fought against the memories. Distorted thoughts slammed around me like an iron tomb. First Del, now Nick?

  Would I ever be compelling enough for anyone to stay by my side forever? Would I always be that woman—the one men walked away from? How could I be so easily replaced?

  I dragged myself over to shut the door and locked it for good measure. A darkness grew around me. Every fiber of my body was hardening cement. My arms and legs buzzed as they grew heavier, leaving me so weighted down that the walk over to the leather sofa against the wall felt like trudging through quicksand. I plopped down hard.

  Nothing mattered. All I craved was ‘out.’ Of this mess. Maybe out of more. Or maybe a drink. Anything to fill the great nothingness I swam through every day since Del left me… twice. I was standing on the edge of a slippery cavern floor, hot lava from a lake of sulfur gurgling just off shore. I struggled in my darkness for a moment, and then warmth like a blanket eased around me. Silk-wrapped words rolled through my mind, gilding a path, leading me into the light.

  “I will allure her, and bring her into the wilderness, and speak tenderly to her… And in that day, declares the LORD, you will call me ‘My Husband’.” Gino’s pastor had been preaching out of a little book called Hosea lately—about God’s intimate love for us. God used the prophet and his less-than-virtuous wife, Gomer, to demonstrate the depth of His love for us, for me, even when we’re at our worst.

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Lord, help me to see my life through Your eyes. Help me to look to You first, to take comfort in You. To remember that You love me more than any earthly husband ever could.

  Maybe I wasn’t ready to return to work after all. Conflicting beliefs and images rolled around in my psyche. The scene I most regretted tumbled back to mind. My naiveté knew no bounds.

  Del and I, in bed. Days before he left. Me, in his arms, wrapped up in the soft bliss of willful ignorance.

  “Del?” I had turned my head to search for his eyes in the dark.

  “Hmm?” He tightened his hold.

  “I’m so glad we have each other.” I nestled my head into his chest and relaxed.

  “Mmhm.” He rested his chin on my head.

  “I heard rough stories tonight—saw so many sad faces. Being here with you makes me feel sad for the many people going it alone. It’s such a luxury to wake up in your arms, to know you’re always here for me.”

  I tasted despair and relief at the same time as we lay there in the dark. His random tenderness confused me. Nights like that made me wonder if I’d made up the rest. The daily agonies and indignities faded, and I clung to the warmth offered, willing myself to believe it could last. This time.

  “And I always will be.” He kissed me on the head, and I fell asleep in his arms within minutes.

  Less than a week later, he left me for another woman. How was I supposed to come back from that?

  I slid off the sofa and sank to my knees, my head slumping onto my chest. Why do you even try? Dry eyes stared long moments into nothingness. Since my department-issued Glock was still in the station’s safe, my personal, privately-owned handgun was in my shoulder harness. I pulled it out and placed it on the floor in front of me.

  Someone else’s voice wrapped itself around me like a warm cloth on my icy forehead.

  Call Him husband? Puleeze! You’ll never have another man wanting you for a wife. You don’t deserve that kind of happiness. And what’s the point of going on if you have to go it alone? Because you do.

  Have. To. Go. It. Alone.

  And why not? Do. It. Who’s gonna miss you? Even Sam will be better off with anyone but you for a mother. One little bullet. One little bullet standing between you and sweet relief. One little bullet to the head. Just think how warm the barrel will feel up against your temple. A quick squeeze of the finger, and it’ll all be over.

  I whispered a frantic prayer, “I need You, God. You’ve got to swoop down and clear my head of these lies. I need You to fortify my heart. Lead me through this moment into Your light. Forgive me for exercising my keen ability to pull things down into the mire in record time.”

  Another voice rang out, clear and strong: Resist the devil, and he will flee.

  I chose resistance and kept up my desperate prayer. “Lord——I need You to get me through another day. Another hour. Another minute. Another investigation. There’s too much riding on this for me to break down now.”

  I stood and moved to the windows, resting my forehead against the glass. Two young boys wearing bright blue and red windbreakers rode small would-be dirt bikes
in tight figure-eights in the parking lot below. They’d pulled a wheel and a plank between two empty parking spots.

  Blue Windbreaker Boy broke from the pattern and pedaled a large, fast circle around his cache. My heart beat faster as he stood up on the pedals, turned, and headed as fast as he could into the makeshift jump. The wobbling front tire gave him away—he wasn’t going to make it. What he lacked in strength and speed, he made up for with his fierce battle cry. He was still yelling as he slammed into the board and hurtled head over heels across his handlebars.

  I gasped, nearly turning away to run outside and help him, but his yowls turned into glee so fast it lifted my heart, and I started laughing too. His friend rushed over and fell on the ground beside him. He put his arm around him, and both sets of skinny shoulders shook with a kindred laughter. They pulled off their helmets and squealed even louder together.

  I was smiling so hard my face hurt, and I turned around, refreshed.

  My gun was on the floor where I’d left it. I snapped it back into the shoulder holster. All the power of heaven rejoiced when I bowed my head to thank the God who’d just answered a prayer I didn’t know I needed: Insight into what needed to happen next to jumpstart this investigation flooded through me. I buttoned up my blazer, fluffed my hair with my fingers, and headed toward my waiting crew, humming.

  Let’s get this party started.

  Heads swiveled and hushed tones filled the room before I started barking orders to the reluctant detectives. Garrett was the only one who met my gaze. For a third generation cop, he’d broken from family tradition and embraced both technology and the idea of female authority figures. Normally a friendly face in the crowd, his blue eyes held little warmth for me today. Friend or foe? Who knew? I turned my attention to him anyway.