Jericho's Razor (18 page)

“Okay. That's good news.”

“Good news?”

“Bet your ass. I would much rather have him come after me than some innocent, unsuspecting person. Let him try to take a shot at me. It'll be our best chance at getting him.”

“You need to take this seriously,” I told her. “Even at fourteen, Eli was one of the best hunters in the state. He was always a natural at it.”

“He's killed two people in less than a week,” she said. “I'm taking it seriously.”

Torrez stared daggers at me from across the table. His fist clenched his coffee mug so hard I waited for it to shatter.

“I can't fucking believe you,” he said. “You had this information, and you kept it to yourself? We've wasted more than a day. We could have been circulating photos of your brother. If we knew who we were looking for, we would have had him at the bookstore. Instead, he managed to walk in and out of our trap without being noticed.” Torrez leaned across the table, glaring at me like he was auditioning for a role in yet another NCIS spinoff. “Or is that the idea?”

Jagger leaned over. “Easy, Eddie.”

He completely ignored her. “You and your brother Eli are working together. Is that it?”

“No. That is not it.”

“Sure it is. You both killed Booker. Then you two arranged for you to ‘find' him and call the cops. How about Eric Watts? It must have taken some real restraint for you to allow your brother to kill him. You must have wanted him all for yourself. But you needed the alibi, so you managed to get yourself thrown off the roof of the building. It gave you the perfect cover.”

“Are you even hearing yourself speak right now?”

We were shouting and drawing the attention of everyone in the diner. Someone yelled that he was calling the cops. Jagger flashed her badge, letting him know that the cops were already there. It didn't seem to ease anyone's mind.

“You don't fool me. I know you and your brother are behind this, carrying on the family name. And when I can prove it, don't worry about prison. I'll shoot you both in the street like the animals you are.”

“Blow me, Torrez.”

Jagger pounded her fist on the table. “Enough! Both of you!”

Torrez stormed out, slamming the door. I got up, but Jagger stood in front of me to make sure I wasn't about to charge after her partner. Good thing, because I had been considering it. Strongly. I took a minute to calm down and then sat back down. Screw Torrez. I was going to finish my coffee. After a moment, Jagger sat down across from me.

“That was the best good cop, bad cop act I've seen in a while,” I said. “You two are pretty good.”

“It wasn't an act. Eddie really does think you and your brother are behind this.”

“How about you?”

“It makes a lot of sense.”

“Occam's razor again, huh?”

“That's right. Like I said, it always works. But now that Eddie is gone, is there anything else you want to tell me? It seems like you're still holding something back.”

I was. But I still wasn't going to tell her about the Camaro.

“Nope. I'm good.”

I drank my coffee. Jagger let me finish the rest of it silence. I had to give her credit for that. When I was done she leaned across the table.

“Answer me something, Sands. Honestly.”

“Okay.”

“Why did you lie to me? Why did you protect him?”

It was a good question, one with a complicated answer. There were several reasons. But they all boiled down to one. It was the reason that kept me from telling her about the car and the reason that still made me hold back information in the hopes that I would find Eli first.

“He's my brother.”

Jagger looked at me. In her place, I probably would not have believed me, either. She stuck a ten-dollar bill on the table under the saltshaker, waving away my offer to pay. She was just past me when she stopped and spoke over her shoulder in a tone so soft that I had to lean back to hear.

“I know you don't trust me, Sands. But if you really do want to help your brother, and stay alive in the process, maybe it's time you started to trust somebody.”

Evil now had a face.

The news went out like a firestorm. Eli's picture was on TVs, laptops, iPhones, and iPads. If it had a screen, his face was on it. The media was running live, twenty-four-hour updates of the search for Eli Sandborn, River City Slasher.

My brother.

People drove with their doors locked and looked over their shoulder. Gun sales saw record numbers, and hospital emergency rooms were kept busy with terrified new gun owners who accidentally shot themselves or their family members. A sixteen-year-old boy had been shot in the arm by his father while climbing back through his bedroom window after sneaking out to go to a party. It was only luck, and the father's inexperience with firearms, that saved the teen from being killed. The chief of police issued a statement urging calm and caution, but his attempt to cool the climate was like pissing into the wind. People felt helpless and scared, and they were less and less convinced that the police could keep them safe. The pound had been cleaned out of all dogs that looked the least bit menacing. Ads for pit bulls dominated Craigslist, with people offering top dollar.

Searches for Eli continued to produce nothing, despite nearly every eye in the county looking for him. The FBI theorized that my brother had somebody helping him and paid me a visit on their first day in town. They were predicable in their stereotypes. Agent One was a white male, midthirties, and spoke with no discernable accent, cadence, or inflection. His partner was African American, but identical in every other way. They spoke to me at length, clear in their belief that I was Eli's security blanket. They threatened to come down on me with the full force of the United States government if I did not cooperate.

I told them to get lost. On the way out the door, Doomsday pissed on their shoes.

Chapter Fourteen

The call came at two-thirty in the morning. I rolled over, fumbled for the phone, and prepared for bad news.

“We need you to come down and see something,” Detective Jagger said. “Now.”

I sat up in bed. “Who is it this time?” I asked, thankful that it wasn't her. Then a horrible thought occurred to me. “It's not Kat, is it?”

“No, Sands. Your girlfriend, or whatever she is, is fine. Just get down here.” She told me where “here” was and hung up. I dressed and hurried to my truck. I drove the deserted city streets with only my thoughts for company. Jagger had offered no details on what I was driving toward. No identity of the victim. No manner in which he or she had been killed. But her tone had conveyed a tight sense of outrage, as though she were struggling to compose herself. After what she had already witnessed, I wondered what could possibly rattle her.

The answer waited for me in a park on the river's edge.

It was Jason Rourke, the officer who transported me downtown after the first murder. He hanged from a tree, swinging by the neck on a taut yellow line. The killer had ripped open Rourke's uniform shirt and carved a large number 3. The wound was deep and jagged, exposing bone and tissue. Blood ran from Rourke's chest down to his legs and pooled beneath him. I remembered the way he had turned his back on me at the station. Staring at his swinging corpse, I wondered who else he had turned his back on. Both of the detectives radiated fury. Jagger kept pacing. Torrez just stood there, scowling and looking like he wanted to shoot something.

“Where are those two feds?” I asked.

Torrez spat on the ground. “A step behind us. Beyond that, who the fuck cares. Fuck ‘em.' Where the fuck were they when
this
was happening?”

“This isn't from
Black as Night
.” Jagger said. “I've been reading it and there's nothing like this in it.”

“It's from
The Devil Wears Black
.”

“So he's not just sticking to one book now. Why?”

“I don't know. Maybe to make it harder for you to figure out what he's doing. It makes more sense to draw from all nine books instead of sticking to one.”

Torrez cracked his neck. “Sands. I assure that right now is not the time to be a wiseass. And in my book,” he pointed towards Jason Rourke swinging from the tree, “anyone who sits around thinking up sick shit like this isn't right in the head.”

“That's beside the point, Eddie.” Jagger said. The rope rubbed against the tree trunk. “He did it to one of us! The motherfucker killed one of us!”

“The way I figure it,” Torrez said, “your brother was hiding out down here. Officer Rourke came by and approached without realizing what he was walking into.”

“Why was he alone?” I asked. “Don't you guys roll with partners now?”

“Rourke was on his time off, but he volunteered to come in. There weren't enough bodies to fill every car with partners, so he was rolling alone.”

So there it was. Rourke was dead because he was dedicated.

Torrez saw me thinking. “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit, nothing. I've had enough of you keeping information to yourself. You did it before, and now a cop is dead. If you know something, you had damned well better cough it up.”

“Fine. It could have happened how you said. It probably did.” I hesitated. Torrez was already pissed, and what I had to say wasn't going to improve his mood.

“But?” he asked.

“But there is another possible scenario.”

“Well, don't make me wait to read it in your next book.”

“I think Rourke knew his attacker. He arranged to meet him down here for some reason, and the killer got the drop on him. That's how he managed to get him from behind, because Rourke didn't see him as a threat.”

“You're just trying to get your brother's nuts out of the sling.”

“You asked what I was thinking, and I told you.”

Jagger turned her back to the body and faced her partner. “We have to consider it, Eddie.”

“Don't you start.”

“I'm just saying. I hate to admit it, but Sands brings up a good point. And we have to consider everything.”

“Fine. But that leads to some fairly obvious questions,” Torrez said. “Who was Rourke meeting down here, and how did he know him? Who would Rourke feel comfortable meeting down here in the middle of the night, alone?”

The question hung between us like Rourke's body. I knew neither of them would say it, so I did.

“What about another cop?”

“How about I shoot you right here?”

“Striking a little too close to home, Torrez?”

Jagger threw herself between us. “Dammit, Sands, you're telling a couple of people who have a combined thirty years in law enforcement that you think a cop did this. To one of our own. I should let Eddie shoot you.”

“What happened to ‘we have to consider everything'? That little credo sure disappeared fast.”

“Hey, fuck you, Sands! I'll do my job. So will my partner.”

The sky lit up with swirling lights from the crime scene van and a score of police cars. Jagger's face was illuminated in the flashing light.

“Do it faster,” I told her.