Grounded (Out of the Box Book 4) (12 page)

No.

Wait.

I don’t think this craziness started it at all, now that I think about it. I think it might have started earlier, with Ariadne and Reed in the training room. Like a symphony, warming up. Bows across strings, discordant noises, horns blowing out of tune and time. It was that isolated feeling, that sense of being cut off from the world, from everybody, from having Andrew Fricking Phillips sending me hourly email requests, updates and orders.

Not having received an email from him in a while had been a nice change of pace. I’d “accidentally” disconnected my email account from my phone and couldn’t remember my password. Whoops. I probably needed to call J.J. about that.

I don’t think I’d even realized how stressed I was until I was hovering over that crime scene, Calderon pulled close to my side. He smelled good, even with that musk of sweat from a day’s work underlying it all.

Marcus! That was his name. I remember it now.

All those thoughts of Kat, of what she’d done to me, all the media onslaught. The orchestra was done with the warm-up, was in the middle of the damned overture, and it sounded like cats howling in pain to me. There was other stuff, too—guilt that made up the supports beneath, kept it all from falling down on itself.

If this had been a normal night when I was at home, I think I would have retired early to my closet and shut the door, leaving the world outside.

But I wasn’t home, and there was no quiet, safe space to hide in, and the symphony was playing so loud in my brain that it made my hands shake.

So instead, I’d just clutched tighter to the handsome man who had been pushed in my direction and shown him how someone who can’t touch people with her skin has figured out oh so many different ways around that particular obstacle.

I didn’t hear any complaints from him. Maybe one about slowing down once, but other than that …

My head sunk into a thin pillow. Calderon’s place had the scent of masculinity about it—deodorants and shampoos and stuff that smelled unmistakably manly. Laundry soap that lacked any perfuminess to it. Straightforward, bare-bones, clean but not frilly or whatever. I liked it; it reminded me of my own personal aesthetic.

But it was still a little uncomfortable, and I hadn’t slept super well. I didn’t really love being away from my own bed, but under the circumstances, I couldn’t complain. Besides, I always won the cover tug-of-war. I am meta woman, hear me rip cotton sheets completely by accident. Whoops.

“You coming out anytime this decade?” I asked the blank door to the bathroom. “I thought girls took a long time in the bathroom.” I presumed he could hear me through it. Calderon had an apartment not too far from the crime scene, and it wasn’t too big, but it was well kept. People were on the stairwells at midnight when we’d come in, and they cleared out at the sight of him. Or me. Probably him. I just looked like a bloody mess, that was all. He was just a cop.

Okay, it might have been me that caused them to flee.

“It takes a while to keep all this looking tip top,” he said and cracked the door. He was shirtless, standing in front of the mirror but not giving it so much as a look. Dude was reasonably ripped, looked like he worked out. Only a light layer of black chest hair covered his dark skin, and he was fiddling with the phone in his hand. “Got the preliminary back from the scene.”

I clutched the torn sheet (I’m super strong; it seriously happens) in front of my body, feeling the mood shift back to all business, and suddenly a little self-conscious about my lack of clothing. “What does it say?”

“A lot,” he said, looking up. “A whole lot.” His dark eyes were slightly wide, like they’d just taken in a whole heap of info in one big eye-chug. “Here’s the biggest nugget: we have identification on two of them through dental records.”

I sat up, keeping the sheet clutched tightly to myself. “Who are they?”

“David Murphy Griffin and Miguel Alonso,” he said, looking up to meet my gaze. “Griffin was a Gulf War vet, Alonso was a former auto mechanic, according to social security administration. Both locals.”

“Huh,” I said. “That’s not much to go on.” I lay back on the bed, smelled a rush of Calderon’s scent as I pushed my face into the pillow.

“It actually is,” Calderon said, stepping forward, brandishing the phone like Exhibit A. “Because these guys have something in common that a cop would pick up on immediately.”

I stared at him. “Well … so … what is it?”

He grinned at me. Nice smile. I still liked him in the morning, which was a good sign, right? “You glad you came to Atlanta?”

“I’ll be gladder if you’d stop holding out on me and spill it, already.”

That did not make him smile less. “They’ve both got records with infractions for loitering, urinating in public, vagrancy … bunches of minor stuff that all spells—”

“They were homeless,” I breathed, jumping to the conclusion before he could spell it out. “And they were found in the yard of someone who worked at a homeless shelter.”

Calderon cocked his head at me. “The coincidences just keep piling up, don’t they?”

It only took a call to the shelter and a quick chat with Yasmine Colon to confirm that the victims were former residents who had gone missing. That hacked and slashed straight through any possibility that it was mere coincidence. Yasmine said that Flora knew both the men in question, without doubt, and that they’d disappeared shortly before Flora had been killed.

I was in Calderon’s bullpen at the police department, pacing back and forth in front of the little cubicle he called his own while he did a lazy half-spin around to watch me move. I wasn’t restrained in my motions; I was churning at full meta speed, right along with my thoughts.

“You’re gonna wear a hole in the carpet,” he said as I passed him again.

I paused, my cell phone in hand. “This is big. This is really big. I don’t know how you can just sit there—”

“We all get our twitches out in different ways,” he said, looking cool as a cucumber. “And this isn’t as big as you think. It’s not like we have a name, someone we can go slap cuffs on. We’ve just got a little bigger web to troll for flies, that’s all.”

“Bigger web?” I stared at him, my mind racing. “Okay. I’m not exactly a seasoned investigator like you, so I’ll bite. How does this not narrow the field?”

“Because there are still a lot of possibilities,” Calderon said, and started ticking them off on his long fingers. “One—an individual serial killer, praying on the homeless, experimenting on metas in their ranks—”

“What kind of serial killer hires mercenaries?” I asked, smiling.

“One that has money,” he said. “One that’s connected. Pretty much the worst kind, actually.”

“I don’t buy it,” I said. “Too pat. Doesn’t feel like a serial killer, does it?”

“Tons of homicide victims buried with less regard than most people give to disposing of their pets?” He raised an eyebrow at me. “That feels a little serial killer-ish.” He paused, thinking it over. “Esque, maybe? Serial killer-esque?”

I ignored his word search. “Second possibility: a group of killers, working to … I don’t know, slaughter people?”

“See, we need motive,” Calderon said. “Means, motive, opportunity. Those are the legs of building a case and finding our villain.” He gave me a second for that to sink in. “There’s always the wild card possibility, too—a
conspiracy
.” He said the last word with silly emphasis, like he was discounting it.

“So how do we figure out who has those things?” I asked. “Means, motive and opportunity, I mean?”

“Gotta investigate the victims,” he said, hands behind his head like he was totally relaxed, the old pro at this. “You’ve delved into Flora Romero pretty well, but you haven’t even touched on Kennith Coy, Roscoe Marion or Joaquin Pollard. Remember, they were the victims of lightning man, not whoever killed these homeless guys. Pollard has to be tied to Flora Romero—”

“But maybe Coy and Marion aren’t,” I said. “Different killings, different MO, different case?”

“The lightning man is the common link,” Calderon said. “He’s the thread that runs through the whole case—your mercs that tried to hide bodies of evidence, Pollard who killed Flora, and lightning man who wiped out Pollard, Coy and Marion.” He spun a little in his chair, about ninety degrees back and then forth. “Like I said—big web. Lots of spiders.”

“Okay,” I said. “You take Pollard, and I take Coy and Marion?”

Calderon got a pained look on his face. “Can’t.”

“What do you mean, ‘can’t’? You’ve got a yard full of bodies.”

He eased his way to his feet, still looking like he was in great discomfort. “Yes. Unfortunately … my boss isn’t buying the idea of lightning man. He’s actually, uh …” he searched for words again, “… well … the phrase ‘head in the sand’ comes immediately to mind. Makes me want to walk on over and give him a kick in the hind parts, correct his perspective.”

“Bad boss?” I smirked. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“Things are the same the world over, huh?” He gave me a smirk of his own. “So … much as I’d like to help, unless you want to call your boss and get him to move some pressure onto mine, I’m stuck investigating my current case load … and a bunch of skeletons that were dug out of Flora Romero’s yard. I might be able to widen that to include Joaquin Pollard, since he did kill Flora, but other than that … you’re gonna have to dig on Roscoe and Kennith all by your lonesome.

I felt my phone buzz and looked at the faceplate. I didn’t have the number in my phone memory, but it said “Atlanta, GA” under the number. “Maybe,” I said, and pressed the talk button. “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Augustus,” came the voice from the other end of the line. “Boss gave me the day off. Where you want to meet?”

I covered the mic. “Give me the info on Coy and Marion, and I’ll start canvassing with my new partner.”

Calderon did not look super impressed. “You’re really going to take junior along on this?”

“He’s only a few years younger than me,” I said.

“Uh huh,” he said and picked up a couple files from his desk. “I’ll copy these and be right back.” I watched him thread his way around me, nearly tripping over a rut in the carpet as he went. He looked back at me accusingly, and I realized that … whoops, yes, there were some slight ridges in the carpeting where I might maybe have left some tread damage.

“Hellooo …?” Augustus asked from the other end of the phone. “You still there?”

“Yes, sorry,” I said, watching Calderon’s retreating back for a few seconds. “I’m at the cop shop at the moment. Calderon is getting me copies of files on some guys we need to investigate.”

“Anyone good?” he asked.

“Lightning man’s victims,” I said. “What happened to your job?”

“I told you, boss gave me the day off,” he said. “I guess he saw me on the news and wants to make a positive contribution to society.”

I saw Calderon disappear into an alcove. There was a coffee pot sitting on a ledge just inside, and a microwave. “Who is it you work for again?”

“Edward Cavanagh.”

That one perked my ears up. “Like … the billionaire?”

“The very same.”

“Hm,” I said.

“What?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“You had that tone.”

“What tone?” I asked.

“That tone women get when they think about a billionaire.”

“Billionaires are quite hot right now,” I said, “though I think most people miss the fact that very few look like Edward Cavanagh. Most of them look like Warren Buffett.”

“What’s wrong with Warren Buffett?” Augustus asked. He sounded a little cross, like I’d stepped on his toes.

“Nothing,” I said. “I’m sure he’s a perfectly lovely guy. But he’s not exactly Christian Grey in the looks department, is he?”

There was a pause. “Who’s Christian Grey?”

“
Fifty Shades
… never mind,” I said. “Point is, billionaires are old guys, not young ones.”

“Except for Edward Cavanagh,” Augustus said. “Or Mark Zuckerberg. Or Tony Stark—”

“Tony Stark is a fictional character,” I replied tautly, “also like Christian Grey and countless erotic romance heroes.”

“Why are we talking about this again?”

“Because—” I stopped. “I don’t remember now.” Calderon started making his way back through the aisles toward me, the files and some sheets of paper in hand. “Oh, good, here comes my info.”

“What are you expecting to find?” Augustus asked.

“A murderer, I hope.” My stomach rumbled. “Also, possibly some breakfast.” Calderon’s fridge had been that of a bachelor. The only thing in it was expired ketchup. I could sympathize, having a very similar setup myself.

“Do you just, like, fly through the McDonald’s drive thru?”

“I’ve tried,” I said. “Pretty much every time, they try to call me a walk-up customer and make me come inside. It feels a little ridiculous—”

Calderon arrived, not bothering to apologize for cutting off my conversation. “Coy and Marion’s addresses, employers, some other basics.” He held out a couple of sheets of paper to me. “I withheld the lab reports so you’d have less to carry. Only thing of possibly any relevance was that Coy had some traces of THC in his system, which would have been a violation of his parole if he’d been caught.” He pointed to a page as he handed it to me. “Number for Coy’s PO is here. You might want to talk to him.”

“What’s a PO?” I asked.

“Probation officer,” Calderon said.

“Oh,” I said. “Anything else on Roscoe Marion?”

“Home address,” Calderon said. “Looks like a buttoned-up guy from what I can see. I’d start with Coy. With his priors, he just seems like a more interesting character, and the criminal theme in his past might be easier to dig up. If Marion was connected to the seedy side of things at all, he did a marvelous job of hiding it. You’ll have a tougher time cracking that one open, so I’d go for the low-hanging fruit first.”

“And you take Pollard?” I asked.

“I’m going to try,” he said. “If I can’t, I’ll get you his details later.” He ran a hand over his head. “I’m gonna be up to my eyebrows in paperwork for a while anyway, I promise you that.”

“Okay,” I said. “Augustus, we’re going to check out Kennith Coy first. His address is—” My stomach rumbled again and it was loud enough that Calderon looked at me funny. “Is there a Burger King near this?”