Mortal Sin (34 page)

“Find out who talked, get a description of the individual. Got it. I’ll get Padilla on it immediately.”

“Phone work only. I don’t want that kid going into the field. If he gets anything, have him talk to me. If I’m not here, then Hank. One of us will follow through.”

Rod nodded and made a note on his desk. “Go see Juan. If I can get you anything else about the Bertrand’s murder, I will.”

“I’d rather Truxel not know how closely we’re working together. I don’t trust him. Moira thinks he’s part of Fiona’s cov—cult,” she corrected. She had to be careful who was hanging around and might take what she said out of context. Or in context and spill to the wrong people.

She could see the headline now:

Sheriff on a Literal Witchhunt; Catholic Priest Killed by Coven.

Her phone rang. “It’s David,” she said to Rod, then answered.

“Before you go to the station, you need to see a security tape from the high school.”

“Where?”

“I have my laptop in my car. Where are you?”

“The morgue.”

#

Skye walked into the Sheriff’s Department, still stunned by the video David had just shown her. How the hell could she explain what she’d seen to anyone? She could show the video to Truxel, but he could claim it was doctored, or a cruel joke, or irrelevant. And if he was somehow involved? Skye would be tipping her hand.

Moira would understand.

Skye had grown dependent on her new friend. Almost dying together a couple times might have been part of the reason, but Moira had a confidence that made Skye more confident in her own decisions.

Moira would also know how they’d done it, and what else that
triad
of witches was capable of. Had
they
stolen the knife and killed those two men?

Except, that didn’t make sense. Skye had heard someone leaving the church by the side door, and Father Isaac had only been dead a few minutes. The fire had started less than five minutes after Rafe and Skye had entered the church. There would have been no way the girls—even just one of them—could have killed Father Isaac and run to the school in time to go through the fifteen-minute ritual. They were there, in the school, while Father Isaac was murdered.

Which meant they were working with someone else.

But how did Richard Bertrand fit into all of this? Juan had said that Truxel himself had killed Richard, but why had Juan been there in the first place? And in Juan’s weakened state, how had he gotten away from Truxel? Why had Truxel let him live if Juan was a witness? Unless Truxel hadn’t seen him.

Juan’s prints were all over the room. Juan is obviously mentally incapacitated. Truxel framed him.

There was no way to prove it.

Martin Truxel was the District Attorney. She couldn’t run an investigation against him without bringing in the state authorities… and what would she tell the Attorney General? That Martin Truxel was a member of a coven—no, a
cult
—and he’d killed a fellow cult member then framed a mentally incompetent detective who had a nervous breakdown after investigating the case of twelve slaughtered priests.

And, sir, if he says he was possessed by a demon and killed a cop
—
well, just don’t listen to anything he says.

That would go over
so
well.

Skye was screwed.

She already sent Rafe a message about the video, but he hadn’t responded. She supposed she hadn’t expected him to, since he was probably still on a plane, but she wanted to know more about these girls.

They’re a triad. They’re stronger together.

That’s what Moira had said before she skipped town for Canada. Maybe Skye could find a way to interrogate them separately.

She would have to.

Before she could figure out who to send to pick them up—because if they were so powerful as to use a spell to burn down a church, she would have to be cautious—reporters assaulted her in her own waiting room.

She should have seen it coming.

“Sheriff McPherson! Is it true that former Detective Juan Martinez has been arrested for the murder of Doctor Bertrand?”

“Sheriff! Is the D.A. interviewing Detective Martinez because you are personal friends with the suspect?”

“Sheriff! Is it true that you assisted in Martinez’s attempted escape?”

Skye ignored all of the questions and walked through to the bullpen. Her team closed ranks and kept the reporters at bay.

She turned to the desk sergeant. “Where’s the D.A.?”

“Interview room two.”

She turned, then the desk sergeant said quietly, “Dr. Wicker is sitting in your office. The D.A. told him to go home.”

“Thank you.”

She crossed the bullpen to her office. Charles Wicker sat there looking both angry and dazed. He wasn’t young, but he looked positively ancient now.

He jumped up when he saw her. “Sheriff, that man is a witch.”

“We suspected that. Doctor—”

“Juan is in danger.”

“Juan is a suspect in a murder investigation,” she said. And so was the D.A., but Skye didn’t know how to question Truxel without a reliable witness. Or statement. Something more than Juan Martinez! “I need—”

“You know he’s not stable!”

“Hold on!” she exclaimed and put out her hand. “I know you’re angry. I’m trying to figure this out.”

She walked over and sat on the corner of her desk. She motioned for Wicker to sit back down in the chair. He complied.

“I want to know how you were pulled over. No one knew you were here.”

It was a bit ironic, she thought, that six months ago, Juan—while possessed by a demon—had shot and nearly killed Charles Wicker. And now Dr. Wicker was his staunchest defender.

“I don’t know. We left your house and Juan was resting. I wanted to get him back to my place. I gave him a mild sedative for the car ride. After fifteen minutes, right before we got to the San Luis Obispo County line, he had a vision and started to open the door. I pulled over abruptly, and he got out and threw up. He kept repeating something in a language I don’t know. Almost immediately, a police car came upon us.” He paused. “I’ve been thinking about this, and I think we’d been followed for quite a while.”

“I didn’t tell anyone about you even coming down here. I don’t know how they learned about it.”

“Maybe they were watching the mission or your house and saw me leave with him.”

Skye didn’t want to believe it, but it was clear that someone had known. She hadn’t told anyone about Juan. Only Rafe knew that Dr. Wicker was taking him away.

“Shit,” she mumbled.

“What did you do?”

She didn’t like the accusation in his voice. “Nothing. But I called in that I’d located Juan Martinez and he was being admitted into a hospital for observation.”

“Did you mention my name?”

“No, but maybe you’re right about them watching my house.” Did that mean Truxel and his people knew about Anthony’s condition?

“Or they could have used a spell to locate him, once they knew you’d found him.”

“Then why not use the spell before? When no one could find him?”

“I don’t know. I don’t understand magic. I only work with the victims.”

Skye didn’t want consider all the possibilities—she didn’t even know if she believed it was possible. “Right now, we need to get Juan to safety.”

“Do you have a friendly judge? Someone who would remand him into my custody?”

She considered who she could call. “I don’t know who I can trust. Six months ago, I would say anyone. But now? Truxel’s the District Attorney.”

“I’m a board certified psychiatrist.”

“No judge is going to let Juan Martinez walk. And I’m already in trouble for handing Juan over into your custody.”

“You did it by the book—at least close to by the book. Yes, we should have gotten a court order, but I’ll argue that he was deteriorating rapidly and needed immediate medical attention.”

“Can we get him hospitalized under your care? Do you have privileges in Santa Louisa?”

“Yes, I do. Let me work on getting him a room in the psychiatric wing of Santa Louisa General, and once there, it’ll be easier to transfer him to another facility.” He pulled out his phone, but before he made the call told her, “Go make sure he’s okay.”

Skye left Wicker in her office and walked down the hall to interrogation room two. Instead of opening the door, she stepped into the observation room in order to get a handle on what she would be walking into.

The window shade was pulled down, and the sound had been turned off.

“Damn you, Truxel,” she muttered and walked back into the hall and opened the door of the interrogation room.

It was empty.

She checked IR-1, and it, too, was empty. Ran ran back to the bull pen and shouted, “Where’re Juan Martinez and D.A. Truxel?”

“Interview two.”

“They’re not there.”

The desk sergeant frowned, and picked up the phone. “They were fifteen minutes ago.”

Damn, damn, damn!

Skye searched the entire police station and the adjoining jail. Neither Truxel nor Juan were anywhere.

When she returned to the bull pen, Dr. Wicker came from her office. “I got it!” He smiled. “They have a room for Detective Martinez and are waiting for us. I need to bring him in STAT.”

“He’s gone,” Skye said. “Truxel took him.”

A voice behind her said, “Of course I did. I can’t trust the Sheriff’s Department not to aid and abet a wanted fugitive.”

Martin Truxel.

Skye spun around and demanded, “Where is he?”

“He’s in custody, in a medical environment. You have no authority here.” He handed her a court order. “This states that you are removed from the investigation into Dr. Richard Bertrand’s murder. I’m running the investigation through my office. You and the CSI unit are to turn over all evidence pertaining to Dr. Bertrand’s murder and anything found in the search of Juan Martinez’s residence to me by six p.m. tonight.” He looked at his watch. “You have twenty-seven minutes, Sheriff.”

Skye stepped forward and said in a low voice, “I know what you are. I know what you’ve done.”

He smiled. “I know,” he said in a voice no one else could hear. “And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

He walked away, smug.

Dr. Wicker shook his head. “This isn’t right.”

She stared at the court order. “I can’t do anything about it.”

“I can. I’ll petition the court as Juan’s psychiatrist.”

“But you’re not.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I am. Anthony had Juan sign papers months ago, just in case something happened. Truxel will have to let me see him.”

Anthony had never told her. Another secret he’d been keeping.

“Be careful,” she told him. “You were almost killed by these people six months ago.”

He said quietly, “I was almost killed by a demon six months ago. Witches don’t scare me.”

Skye went back to her office, sat down heavily in her chair, and put her head in her arms. She had no idea what she should do.

She sat there for five minutes, wallowing in self-pity and defeat. Wishing she had someone to help her. Wanting Moira here. Rafe. Even Anthony, with all his lies of omission. She needed help.

The triad. They were involved with the arson fire at the church. Bring them in. Separate them. They will break.

She sat up. She couldn’t investigate Bertrand’s murder, but she
could
investigate the murders of Joe Smith and Father Isaac.

She had to find a way to bring in the girls separately. Maybe even in separate buildings. She didn’t know how this triad thing worked, but all she needed was one.

She watched the video of the three girls in the chemistry lab. Watched their body language, and how they interacted. Brianne Graves was definitely the leader. The other two deferred to her. Should she bring in Brianne, or one of the weaker links?

Cut off the head, the body will die.

Skye picked up her cell phone and called Hank Santos. “I need your help bringing in a suspect, but we have to do it very carefully. Can you meet me at your house in thirty minutes? And Hank—don’t tell anyone about this call.”

Moira felt like shit.

As soon as they’d left the tunnels, Phineas, the leader of Gabriel’s Sword, had drugged her. She shouldn’t have gone. She knew that—Rico had trained her to
fight
. Never be taken.

That they didn’t want her dead—no, only drain her blood, she thought—gave her the time to figure a way out of this mess. She was confident they couldn’t break her. She’d been tortured by her mother, possessed by a demon, and had watched her mentor, Father Philip, die.

Phineas and his people couldn’t do anything to her that hadn’t already been done.

So she would bide her time and use what she knew about the organization against them. Because while they might know of her, they didn’t
know
her.

She just didn’t count on feeling like death warmed over. Her head hurt, her limbs were limp, and she was restrained. Her eyelids were heavy, and she imagined that was from whatever drugs they’d injected her with.

Slowly, she opened her eyes. Her eyes quickly adjusted to the dim light. She was alone in a large room. It smelled old, a bit musty and worn, almost like a library that had recently been dusted, but not thoroughly cleaned. It was a nice enough room with dark paneling and built in shelves and turn-of-the-century furniture. Four tall, narrow windows were covered with a dark damask drapery. If she was on the second story, she could jump out. Third story? Maybe. But if she broke her ankle, she wouldn’t be going far.

She was tired. She didn’t like drugs—beer, she could handle. The occasional shots of Jack Daniels, no problem. But she stayed away from drugs. Whatever they’d dosed her with had knocked her out, and she felt like she’d been out for hours. Worse, her body felt sore. Tender and bruised liked she’d spent an hour being tossed around in a cement mixer.

She looked at her restraints. A shackle. They’d
shackled
her right wrist to the floor. But just one. She was right handed, but damn good with her left hand. She reached into her jeans pocket and dug around in the seams for a bobby pin she kept there. Her movements were hindered, like she was swimming in molasses. Not good. And she was thirsty. Escape, then find water.