Me, Myself and Why? (18 page)

I confess: I was surprised. Opus rarely engaged anyone. Cadence was developing a bit of a soft spot for him, and I could not say he had offended me during his time with us thus far. A withdrawn, disheveled, gentle giant of a man, he had been with us for nearly two years. He had no concept of small talk, time, or dates, but could name pi to the thousandth digit after the decimal in less than twenty minutes. I have seen many things, but if I had not seen that myself, I would never have believed it.

He answered questions from Tracy Carr—what was his morning like, where did he buy groceries, and so on—slowly and deliberately. To her credit, she did not stare or laugh or refuse to make eye contact; or was she overly bluff and hearty.

Refreshing.

She caught sight of me, gave Opus a farewell pat on the shoulder, and walked right over. “Hi. You wanted me to come in?”

“Yes.”

“I’m here.”

“Clearly.”

Opus was standing in what I thought of as “his” way: shoulders slumped, head down, and quiet as a stone.

“Thank you for entertaining my guest,” I said to him.

“I’m here.”

“Yes.”

He paused so long I assumed he had finished, and started to turn away. I turned back at his “She’s here, too.”

“Yes.” I think I would have found this irritating had it been someone else. But I was not insensitive to his issues. He went out and found employment (or was recruited), which could not have been easy. Others would have chosen a simpler path. Others would have hidden from the world. And the world would not have noticed, or thanked them. “Thank you.”

“Okay.” He walked out with a stack of emptied bins.

“Do you think he’ll be all right?”

A rude question, but courteously phrased. “He is perfectly fine within his parameters.”

“Oh. That’s good. Listen, I wanted to talk to you about supper. If you and I went for a coffee, I wouldn’t need the bodyguard. And I’ve been thinking about what you said and you’re right; it would do me good to socialize.”

Cadence and her socializing! I had the courtesy to intervene when she got herself into physical confrontations; why could she not return the favor when she tossed out meal invitations like confetti?

Oh, good. Here she came.

Chapter Fifty-three

“So thanks,” Tracy said, lifting her coffee.

“You’re welcome. We should do this again sometime.” I meant it—I had enjoyed the conversation with Tracy, who regaled me with polite and increasingly articulate questions: about why I liked coffee more than tea, why I loved my career, what sports teams I liked, and my colleagues at BOFFO—even Opus, whom I gathered she had talked with while Shiro was around.

“I’d like that.” She winked. “I promise to ask fewer questions next time, and let you ask your share.”

“Hey, no problem. Heaven knows I’ve asked you my share of questions already.”

My phone rang. It was Michaela; even if I hadn’t recognized her strained voice, the chopping sound in the background was a dead giveaway.

“Shiro Jones!”

“It’s Cadence, boss.”

“Yes, yes. Pam tells me you’re off having coffee. If you’re done socializing with civilians, I thought you might get yourself to a crime scene.”

“Well, not that you asked, but I’m actually working. I—wait. Is it—?” I cut myself off, noting Tracy’s presence.

“It is. Your partner’s already on the way. Move; he’ll pick you up at Nicollet and Tenth.”

I barely said a proper good-bye to Tracy, which made me feel bad. There was no excuse for being rude, no matter how quickly a serial killer was escalating. We didn’t all have to be savages. At least, I used to think so.

Chapter Fifty-four

I had barely climbed in before George was pulling away from the curb; the door swung shut and nearly closed on my ankle. I jerked my foot out of the way without a word; time was definitely not on our side.

But I had to complain when he threw a large wad of crinkly paper straight at my face.

“What the—?”

“It came about two seconds before we caught the squeal. Who’s the asshole?”

It wasn’t a wad of crinkly paper. Well, it was, but it was paper wrapped around what appeared to be three hundred purple irises. George took the next corner at roughly the speed of sound, so I was squashed against my door when I tried to find a card.

Never mind the card; my life was in danger. I clawed for my seat belt and, after way too long, heard the comforting click.

“I have no—” There it was, the little sneaky card. I grabbed for it, missed as George stomped the accelerator to catch the light, swiped again, missed as he whipped over to the far left lane (aaggh! this wasn’t England!), then finally got my hands on it.

“To my three favorite girls—let’s try it again.”

“Barf,” was my partner’s comment.

“He certainly is brave,” I admitted, secretly pleased. “Also persistent. It’s a known quality when dealing with bakers.”

“Oh. Your friend’s wack-job brother.”

“No, my friend’s quite normal brother. Your trouble, George, is that you see wack jobs everywhere.”

He didn’t bother to respond, not that I could blame him. The truth was the truth, after all.

“So’d you jump him or what? No, wait—course you didn’t. Guys don’t spend a hundred bucks on flowers if they’ve already gotten laid.”

“That’s not—” Wait. He was right. Um.

“So you should keep ’em crossed until he coughs up something better than dying plant life. Hold out for jewelry,” Dr. Love counseled, “or plane tickets. Then claw his back and beg for the big hairy banana. Or any hairy banana, I s’pose—is he a big guy? Tall? Big hands? Because you can usually tell if they’re—”

“I may puke, and this is a new record, George—I’ve been exposed to you for only twenty seconds.”

“If you puked as often as you said you might puke, you’d be fifteen pounds lighter.”

“You’re in a mood,” I observed.

“I’m sick of this fucker. I’d like a night off from his pathetic shit. Just one night. Why’d he escalate in our fucking town?”

“He definitely should have checked with you first.”

I don’t know why I bothered. Sarcasm was almost always lost on him, and this time was no exception.

I sniffed my flowers and tried to remember the last time someone had sent me irises. Of course. Cathie—on my last birthday. She must have told Patrick irises were my favorite.

It was absurd, but I was actually cheering up a little despite being en route to a murder scene.

Minutes later, I sighed as George pulled into the nearest parking spot. Had I been so silly to say I loved crime scenes? Shiro was right; I
was
an idiot.

I stared out the window and decided I hated crime scenes. Particularly when the bad guys escalated and body after body kept showing up.

Yes. Definitely. Hate them.

Hate
them.

Chapter Fifty-five

I carelessly tossed the vegetation in the backseat and looked over the scene. I knew Cadence did not care for crime scenes, despite what she told others—despite what she told herself. As for myself, I appreciated the efficiency most law enforcement officials showed at these locales. There was not a lot of bluster or turf battling, and virtually no socializing.

On the other hand, I disliked getting blood all over the bottoms of my shoes.

I assessed the scene and determined there was no danger to Cadence. Why had she

Chapter Fifty-six

“—Showed up, don’t you think?”

I blinked and glanced at my watch. In the short time I’d been gone, George had parked and gotten out of the car, crossed to my window, and rapped on it. And thrown my flowers into the backseat, the pitiless bum. His tie—drawn and quartered penguins—flapped in the wind.

“Huh?”

“Hey! Wake up!” Then he pressed his mouth against the glass and inflated, fogging it and distorting his face so that he looked like an angry bullfrog. “We got work!”

I sighed and got out. The place was already teeming with dozens of techs, cops, and agents. Dozens more reporters were held back behind the tape line. Poor guys, they were only trying to make a living. I sure hated seeing them back there waving mikes and lugging cameras.

Several of them saw George and me approaching, guessed correctly that we had a role here (or perhaps even recognized us from past ThreeFer scenes), and rushed us with a blitz of questions and

Chapter Fifty-seven

Flashes really bother me. Each photographic flare looks, sounds, and feels like something stealing your dignity. Which is really what is happening, if you think about it. People reduced to images. Professionals on scene, stripped of their thoughts and voices. Clothed pornography.

The ratings-obsessed panderers to society’s idiot box crowded George and me like a pack of rabid bloodhounds, baying and howling and waving microphones.

It was sickening. There they were, skulking behind the First Amendment and excusing atrocious behavior by claiming the public had a right to know.

The public had a right to know, indeed. It had a right to know what we—the government—knew would actually inform it, be of use to it. Nothing more; nothing less.

An ambulance pulled up and they started squealing like piglets, waving and pushing and shouting. The temptation to reach out and break a few noses was getting more and more difficult to ignore. I stormed past them, hitting my shoulders against cameras, deciding my presence here did more harm than

Chapter Fifty-eight

“Good, you’re here!”

I blinked; I was just past the line of photographers and reporters who had rushed me, just in front of the house. It was a nondescript starter home, white with red shutters, a roughly tended yard, and a modest “two-car” garage, if your cars were bicycles.

“I didn’t think you were ever going to come.”

It was Detective Clapp, and he looked ghastly. I’m sure I did, too. This triad-obsessed jerk was running everyone ragged.

“C’mon, you gotta come in, come in here!”

“Clapp, you’re gonna stroke out if you don’t take a pill.” George studied Clapp’s pupils and smelled the man’s breath. “Holy shit! How many Frappuccinos have you had?”

“I lost count after eight.”

Wow. Detective Clapp was actually vibrating. I’d never seen him like this before, and the man loved coffee like astronauts loved oxygen.

“Do we have another live victim?” I asked, preparing to be relieved.

“No. Come on. Come on!”

“All right, Detective. It’s all right,” I lied. At this time, nothing was all right. “Go ahead, we’re here, lead the way.”

“Right. Right! Okay! Come in!”

George and I traded glances and shared a rare moment of mutual understanding. Clapp had no idea he was screaming.

What was in that house? And oh God, why was I approaching?

“Wow,” George muttered as we followed the detective through the house and toward what was apparently a back bedroom. “Maybe we should call him an ambulance.”

“He’ll be all right,” I said doubtfully. I was a little cheered to see there were no signs of violence anywhere. A false alarm? A copycat? One ThreeFer crime scene that wasn’t awful and gory and staged? Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

But George was rattled, which made me terribly nervous. George hadn’t even noticed Jerry Nance in the kitchen, meticulously picking through cupboards, sinks, and the fridge. God knew how many condiments he’d smuggled into his handmade pockets.

“Oh my fucking
God
,” George gasped, stopping so suddenly I ran into him.

I opened my mouth to scold him for being unprofessional, and then I saw what he did and slammed my teeth together so hard I almost amputated the tip of my tongue.

A bedroom. Pastel walls. Furniture by HOM. A door leading to what I assumed was a closet. Three victims. Three
women
—that was new. My nostrils involuntarily flared at the heavy, nauseating smell of fresh blood. And although the bedspread was soaked with blood, the three bodies were propped up against the far wall, held standing I don’t know how and holding hands.

A tall, lean blonde.

A petite Asian American woman.

A muscular, leggy redhead.

And above them, written in blood, one word:

SOON
.

I was going to puke. Or faint. Or faint then puke. Gritting my teeth wasn’t going to stop it. Slitting my own throat wasn’t going to stop it. He knew me, he knew my sisters, he knew about us, he knew our secret, and oh my God, what was going on here, oh please God, please please tell me what

what

Very faintly, I heard George’s voice. Odd. He sounded . . . alarmed? No. Scared. How very, very

“Oh, shit! She’s gonna blow!”

odd.

“—back! Everybody get back right now!
Don’t touch her!”

what

no oh no

what

(Daddy watch out! The goose, Daddy, the gooooooose!)

“WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?” I screamed, and then fell backward into a blood-covered tunnel that rapidly widened.

Believe me, I was happy to go.

Chapter Fifty-nine

I looked at the wall and could not bring myself to judge Cadence. She just was not up to this kind of stress and never had been.

Poor Cadence.

Poor me.

“Uh . . .” George was creeping forward. “Shiro?”

“Yes.” Sighs of relief from all over the room; I almost smiled. Our reputations preceded us. “For now.” Everybody tightened up again. “I see now why you were so anxious for us to get here,” I told Detective Clapp, who looked like he was going to jump out of his Men’s Wearhouse suit at the first opportunity.

I turned to George. “Perhaps it is time to work?”

So we did.

Chapter Sixty

“You got
any
idea what this means?” a tech asked me. We were bonneted and booteed, collecting evidence and taking pictures and doing the thousand other jobs a crime scene entailed.

“Not yet,” I replied. I was always privately amused at how relieved most techs were to see me, as opposed to Cadence. Her admitted charm could be exhausting. All the techs I had ever met had a very orderly and linear way of looking at the world; they did not want pep talks and charm. They wanted facts.