Blood of Innocence (Sloan Skye) (15 page)
Read Blood of Innocence (Sloan Skye) Online
Authors: Tami Dane
JT stretched and yawned. “Maybe the husband didn’t mention it because he didn’t think it was relevant. I’d like to go talk to him.” He gave my noisy stomach a pointed look. “But we’d better stop somewhere along the way and get you something to eat. Or we won’t hear what he’s saying. He’ll have to shout over that noisy stomach of yours.”
My face probably turned ten shades of red. “Yeah, I could use a little something to eat.”
After calling Fred Isbell, the victim’s husband, to set up an appointment, making copies of some photos and documents, and calling Grigsby to thank him for giving us access to the files, we headed down to the lobby and stepped out into a sauna.
We dripped to our rental car. We zoomed up Canton Center Road, made a right at Ford, and considered our lunch options. I decided Burger King was as good as anything else, so JT maneuvered through the drive-through. Minutes later, I was munching on fries and a Whopper Jr. JT stuffed chicken fingers into his mouth as he drove.
Frank Isbell’s house was only a couple of miles from the restaurant. Fortunate enough, he still lived in the house he’d shared with his wife so long ago. We parked in front of the brick-and-vinyl 1970s boxy Colonial and finished our lunches. I grabbed Gabe’s laptop bag, looped the strap over my shoulder, and climbed out of the car. Right on time, we headed up to the front door and rang the bell.
Isbell answered right away.
We’d looked at pictures of him back then. Twenty-eight years ago, he’d been a young man in his prime. No longer youthful, but he still looked good for his age. His dark hair was now tinged gray at the temples. His body was thicker, and not nearly as sculpted. Otherwise, he hadn’t changed much.
“I’m Special Agent Jordan Thomas,” JT said as he offered Isbell his hand. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us on such short notice.”
“Not a problem.” Isbell motioned us inside. “I was glad to hear someone had taken an interest in my wife’s case. It’s been such a long time. I assumed it had been forgotten.” He led us into a living room, furnished with pieces that had to be original to the house. On the far wall was a fireplace. And above that mantel hung a painting of his wife. Isbell followed my gaze. “That’s Evelyn. Beautiful, wasn’t she?”
I nodded. “She was.”
“Evelyn was pregnant with our first child when she died. I lost both her and the child that night.”
“We’re very sorry for your loss,” I said.
Isbell cleared his throat. “How can I help you, Agents?”
Standing beside me, JT pulled out his little pocket notebook and flipped to an empty page. “We realize it’s been a very long time since that night, but we’d like to ask you some questions.”
“Sure, I’ll do my best.”
I pulled the picture of the window out of Gabe’s bag. “Do you happen to recall whether your bedroom window was open or shut that night?”
“Open, I believe.”
“It’s shut in the picture.” I handed him the copy we’d made.
“Yes, I shut it when it started raining, right after I discovered my wife. But I didn’t think anything of it. Surely, nobody climbed up the side of our house and into the window.”
He motioned for us to follow him. We went up the curved staircase to the second floor and turned in the first bedroom. He pointed at the window, which was narrow, maybe sixteen inches.
“This window looks out onto the attached garage’s roof, so I guess someone could climb up there. But it’s too small for an adult to fit through.”
I inspected the window, noting the aluminum sliding frame, which looked exactly like the picture.
“And do you remember noticing anything strange or unusual about the window when you closed it?” I asked as I slid the pane to the left to open it.
He squinted at the photo for a moment; then he looked at the actual window. His lips twisted. “Well, I saw something move as I shut it. It was a strange pink thing that looked a little like a worm or an insect.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, a few days later, I found a dead bird on my garage roof. But what would that have to do with my wife?”
“What did you do with the bird?” I asked as I poked my head out the window to check out the garage roof.
After twenty-something years, I had no hope that any evidence had been left behind, but I looked, anyway.
“Dumped it in the trash, of course.”
“Of course.” A rumble of thunder signaled an approaching storm. Just for kicks—the window frame was a little grungy, and there was a reddish smudge. I motioned to JT. “Swab?”
He pulled a swab out of the bag he was carrying and ran it along the window frame; then he stuck it into a plastic bag. I shut the window and turned to face the bed. JT was standing next to Isbell, looking tired and ready to leave. I guessed he was ready to head back to Quantico.
“Finished?” he asked.
“I guess so.” To Isbell, I said, “Thank you again for meeting with us. I appreciate it.”
We headed out.
In the car, JT gave me a sidelong glance. “What do you think you’re going to find on that window? That was over twenty-five years ago.”
“It was worth a shot.” I put the sample in Gabe’s laptop bag for safekeeping.
JT maneuvered the car to the main road. “Any DNA you find after all this time is bound to be contaminated, not to mention degraded.”
“Maybe. I’ve read very old DNA samples have been processed. Granted, under better conditions. The warmer and more humid the sample is kept, the faster it degrades. But what do we have to lose, right?”
“Sure.” After a beat, he asked, “So what do you think? Are we dealing with one unsub? Or a whole species?”
“I wish I knew.”
My phone rang. After a quick check, I answered.
It was bad news.
Confusion is a word we have invented for an order which is not understood.
—Henry Miller
14
Delivering bad news to Mom was always a dodgy prospect. She rarely ever took it well. Now she was pregnant. I’d never seen her pregnant. The last time she’d been pregnant
I’d
been the bun in the oven. All that to say, I had no idea how she was going to react to hearing the venue she’d chosen for her wedding was booked solid for the next year and a half. There was absolutely no chance she was going to be married at Maryvale Castle.
I’d
been the bun in the oven. All that to say, I had no idea how she was going to react to hearing the venue she’d chosen for her wedding was booked solid for the next year and a half. There was absolutely no chance she was going to be married at Maryvale Castle.
An hour after landing at the base in Quantico, I was standing outside my folks’ place. JT was at the office, taking care of a few things. We were meeting later at my place to go over my dad’s research.
I braced myself for a hysterical outburst and headed in, nodding to Sergio.
“She’s in the media room, downstairs,” he said.
“Thanks.” I hadn’t been in the media room downstairs, but I had some general idea of which direction I should be going. On my way toward the back of the house, I ran into my father. He was in the den watching a baseball game; or rather, he appeared, at first glance, to be watching a baseball game. Since his eyes were closed, I doubted that he was actually watching much of anything.
I didn’t wake him, just kept going. I found the basement stairs in the kitchen, closed behind a white paneled door. I knew what she was watching before I’d opened the door. She was definitely testing the capability of her surround sound.
Not bothering to knock—she wouldn’t have heard me—I headed down the narrow steps. At the bottom, I found myself in a full-fledged home theater, the kind with the fancy recliners set on risers. The TV/movie screen was positioned on the far wall. It wasn’t the size of a full movie screen, but it was pretty damn big. Which made what Mom was watching all the more disturbing.
A woman screamed, blood spurting from her neck as the guy with the mask attacked her with a chain saw.
Mom was reclined in a chair up front, munching on popcorn.
I took advantage of a rare quiet moment to shout, “Mom!”
She jumped a little, then twisted to look my way. “Sloan? Is that you?”
The room was dark. I’d give her that. But who else would be calling her “Mom”? She pointed a remote at the screen and the movie paused.
“What are you watching?” I asked.
“It’s some silly movie. I don’t know why I’m watching it. What are you doing here?”
“We made plans. Remember?”
She looked at me as if she had no clue.
“We’re meeting with the woman you’d talked to on the Internet about officiating the ceremony.”
“Oh, yes!” Staring at the screen, Mom stuffed a handful of popcorn into her mouth. Chewed.
I checked my cell phone. “We’re going to be late.”
“I thought she was coming here.”
“No, she couldn’t,” I said to her profile as I rounded the front row of chairs. I stood smack-dab in front of her. “Remember? She has a wedding later. She agreed to squeeze you in.”
“Oh.” She leaned to one side, looking around me, and crammed another handful of popcorn into her mouth.
“Mom, if you don’t want to go—”
“Thanks! Let me know how it turns out.” She shooed me away.
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
Mom acted like she hadn’t heard me. She picked up the remote, made the volume higher, and resumed stuffing her face.
I was about to let her know I was not going alone, when someone tapped me on the shoulder.
My father.
“I’ll go with you.”
“All right.”
My father motioned for me to head upstairs, which I did. I heard him say something to my mother before joining me in the kitchen. Upstairs, he said, “I’ll drive. This’ll give me a chance to talk with you.”
“Is there something in particular you want to tell me?”
He motioned for me to wait, which I did. We headed out to the attached garage and boarded his black Lincoln Navigator. It looked fresh-out-of-the-showroom new. He didn’t speak until we’d turned onto the road.
“I’m worried about your mother.”
“Worried? Why?”
“Because of the baby, she’s chosen to stop taking her medication.”
I knew what that meant. I should’ve realized what was going on when I’d found her downstairs watching that movie.
“How long has it been?” I asked.
“A week.”
“Really?” I would have expected a full-blown psychotic episode by now. Or at the very least, some tremors, nausea, pain and anxiety. It was actually shocking she was doing as well as she seemed to be. “Has she been hallucinating?”
“She says she’s hearing some strange birdsong. She says it’s talking to her.”
“Hmm. Bird?” Ironically, I hoped it was a hallucination. With Mom being pregnant, though in the earliest weeks, she could be a target for our unsub.
“I’ve looked,” Dad said. “There’s no bird. It has to be a hallucination. But she insists on staying off the medications. She says it’s too dangerous for the baby.”
“It would be a good idea to talk to her doctor, see if there’s something else she can take to avoid a full-blown episode. Then again, she’s tried a lot of medications. Most of them haven’t worked.”
“What do I do, then?”
“Call her doctor. Tell him your concerns. And don’t let her out of your sight.”
“But I have to travel. It’s my job.”
“She’s your wife, or rather, about to be your wife. She’s the mother of one child. And she’s pregnant with a second. She needs you now. Can’t you let someone else take over those duties for a while?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think you’d better find out.”
Allegra Love (the name had to be an alias) was a bizarre-looking woman, bedecked in head-to-toe beaded robes; a crown of daisies sat on top of a mane of frizzy red hair. She took one look at my father and me and something flicked in her eye.
My father extended a hand. “Jim Irvine. Good to meet you.” He motioned to me. “My daughter, Sloan.”
That something in her eye vanished. I realized then what it was and swallowed a chuckle. It seemed an apparent twenty-year or more age discrepancy between bride and groom made her a little uncomfortable. And she called herself “A Minister of the New Millennium”?
Reverend Love gave my father’s hand a shake; then she took mine. “I was expecting your future bride.”
“She’s feeling a little under the weather,” I explained.
“This could be a problem,” she said, the slightest hint of concern pulling at her features.
“I’d be happy to answer any questions you may have for my mother. I will also relay any information—”
“That’s not the issue.” Reverend Love was walking as she spoke, leading us down a hallway to a closed door. “You see, my current success rate is one hundred percent. And I have no intention of losing it.”
“One hundred percent of what?” I asked.
“One hundred percent still married.” Allegra Love opened the door, revealing a room that was utterly, completely dark, with the exception of a single candle, sitting on top of what must have been a table covered with black material. It almost appeared to be floating. She moved into the room. “I must do a reading before I marry any couple.”
“How interesting,” my father muttered.
“I’m sorry, but I won’t risk my reputation. Before I will agree to marry you, sir, I must do a reading.”
My father and I exchanged glances. “Okay,” he said. “I guess we’ll reschedule for another time.”
Reverend Love nodded. “How does next week look for you?”
“Well ...” He slid a glance at me.
“He’ll take whatever opening you have,” I blurted out before he told her he would be out of town for work. I heard him sigh.
“If you have an unexpected opening this week, I’d appreciate a call,” he said.
Birds sang, twittering and tweeting and chirping.
Reverend Love held up an index finger, pulled a cell phone out of her dress somewhere, and answered it. She said an “uh-huh” and an “okay,” then hung up.
“It seems that you’re in luck. I have an opening for tomorrow. At noon.”
“Sold.”
My father grumbled all the way out to the car. I didn’t catch much, bits and pieces. But I got the gist.
JT was waiting for me in the parking lot as I rolled up to my apartment an hour later. He was out of his car before I had mine shifted into park. And by the time I had my car door open, he was standing next to it, offering to take Gabe’s laptop case.
I handed it to him, not because it was too heavy or anything, but because such an old-fashioned, polite gesture couldn’t be ignored. We strolled up to the building; our steps were perfectly synchronized.
“How did it go with your mother?” he asked as I let us into my apartment.
I did a quick sniff test after cracking the door, to make sure it was safe to enter without a gas mask. “As well as could be expected, I guess. She’s pregnant. And she’s stopped taking her medications. So she’s a hormonal, chemically imbalanced, ticking time bomb. My father has no idea what he’s in for, I think.” I motioned for JT to set Gabe’s laptop on the coffee table and headed for the kitchen. “Something to drink?”
“Water’s fine.” JT made himself at home on the couch. I must say, he made our dumpy old couch look pretty darn good. As I approached with the water bottle in hand, his gaze swept up and down my body, and he gave me some hungry-man eyes. “Thanks.” He accepted the bottle. Our fingertips brushed. The memory of that kiss in the hotel blasted through my mind. My brain short-circuited. “Hungry?” he asked.
“I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“I’m starving,” he said.
I wasn’t 100 percent sure he was talking about food.
My face burned. A few bits of my anatomy sizzled. “I ... I think I’ll go see what I can dig up.” I stepped away from him before I did something crazy, like fling myself at him.
This was insane.
This was dangerous.
Get yourself together, girl. You’re playing with fire.
I wandered into the kitchen, stopped, then, forgetting what I was in there for, stared at the sink.
“Would you like some help?” he asked as he came to stand next to the refrigerator. He was leaning a shoulder against it, arms crossed. Thick arms.
“Um, no thanks. I can manage.” I stared at the sink.
“Is something wrong?”
“Nope. Not a thing.”
“Why are you staring at the sink?”
I remembered just then why I’d gone into the kitchen. It irritated me how brain-dead I became sometimes when I was alone with JT. Particularly when he looked at me like
that.
that.
“I’m thinking. That’s all. Thinking.” I opened the refrigerator. A tub of margarine. A few slices of American cheese. A container of soy milk. And a mostly empty jar of green olives. I grabbed the jar. “Olive?” I asked, thrusting it toward him.
“No thanks.”
I returned the jar to its place and shut the door. I opened the freezer. Ice. Lots of it. And not much else. There was one slightly crumpled frozen dinner. I checked it. “Tuna casserole?” I asked.
JT wrinkled his nose.
“Look, I never claimed to be Betty Crocker.”
“It’s okay. I didn’t expect you to be.” He stepped closer. Too close. No, not close enough. He slid his arms around my waist and pulled me toward him. “I’m thinking ... Italian?”
“Italian what?” I asked, staring at his lips. Did he have the world’s most perfect mouth, or what? Yes, he did. And a perfect face. And his eyes. And his hair. It was shaggy and a little messy, and I loved how that one wave swooped down over his forehead.
“Italian food.” He lowered his head. “Or maybe we should go for French.”
He went for French. But it wasn’t food.
His French made me weak in the knees. It also made my head spin; so I had to fling my arms around his neck to hold on.
He took my desperate attempt at staying upright as a sign that I needed to be saved. While still kissing me, he scooped me into his arms, like a romance novel hero, and carted me to the couch. When he set me down, he climbed on top of me and kissed me until there wasn’t a single neuron firing in my brain; plus, all the blood in my body had rushed to other places, where it didn’t normally collect.
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