Devil in the Deadline (15 page)

“About seven million times.” The words strangled around the lump in my throat.

“This week?”

“No.” I shook my head, dropping my chin to my chest. “I can't do it. I always chicken out.”

“I think you might have found a reason to face your fear, Nicey. Something's not right about this. I don't need detective experience to tell you that.” Kyle's face was somber when I looked up. “You want me to sit with you?”

My lips tipped up. “Thanks, but no. I'll think about it. I want to talk to my mom again. Now will you tell me?” I crossed my legs at the knee and bounced one foot.

“I kind of like this knowing something you don't know thing.” He grinned, popping the last bite of sandwich in his mouth.

I offered my sternest glare.

He swallowed, leaning his elbows on the table. “We are off the record?”

I rolled my eyes. “The house isn't bugged.”

“Just have to ask.”

“Of course,” I said, my fingers working a thick lock of my hair into a knot. “So?”

“We've been tracking a weapons ring through twelve states for two years.”

“Guns.” I stuffed my mouth full of sandwich to keep from saying anything else. Of course Joey knew what was going on. Damn damn damn. “What does the church have to do with a weapons ring?”

“My buddy is pretty sure you're right about money being laundered through Way of Life. And maybe more than that. He said a few of the other guys have the place on watch lists, but he didn't want to let me in on someone else's case without permission.”

All that money. It was the perfect cover for anyone looking to clean up massive amounts of cash. And not a casino or a garage, which are typically associated with the criminal underworld. Who would think to look behind Golightly's perfect hair and rows of Stepford Bible students?

Kyle's friend, evidently. “But knowing it and proving it are two different things,” I said.

“Indeed. Especially with someone so well-connected. They've got quite a legal firewall over there.”

“You're sure it's him?”

“We're not sure of anything. Reasonably convinced it's someone in his outfit? Absolutely. But can I tell you who, or if the good reverend knows anything about it? It's a big place. A lot of employees. And we can't get close enough to find out.”

“I don't exactly need a warrant.” I half-smiled.

“What you need is a gun of your own.” Kyle's voice dropped and he leaned across the table and grabbed my hand. “Listen to me, Nicey. These are not people you want to fuck with. The mob is in this up to their necks.”

I squeezed Kyle's hand and fixed him with my most capable stare. “I can't walk away.” And I couldn't even tell him the whole reason why.

“I suppose I knew that when I came over.”

“Then why talk to me?”

He shook his head. “The phrase ‘too damned smart for your own good' mean anything to you? You would have gotten it anyway.” He balled up his napkin and drained his soda glass. “I didn't want you stumbling into the middle of this without knowing what you were getting into. You want to make a conscious choice to dig around? I might not approve, but I can't stop you. I couldn't live with the idea that you might happen in and get hurt, when I knew how dangerous it was the whole time. So here I sit.”

“That which doesn't kill us makes us superstars, right?”

“I think you took some poetic license.” He smiled, folding his arms across his chest and not-so-subtly flexing a bicep.

I met his eyes to find the blue lasers half-lidded, underlined by a grin that made my palms break out in a sweat. Oh, boy. “Thank you.” It came out a touch too bright as I scrambled to my feet and moved toward the door. “Really. It looks like I have more research to do.”

He shook his head almost imperceptibly and stood, smoothing the creases out of his khakis. “I'm around if you need me,” he said as he stepped out the door.

I kissed his stubbly cheek and promised to do my best to avoid getting dead. Leaning against my side of the door after I shut it on the deep indigo gloaming outside, I considered the five million nine hundred ninety eight thousand ninety four questions clamoring for my attention. Following the money was a good strategy. As long as there was a trail.

Large glass of Moscato in hand, I snapped up my laptop and padded to the living room, propping myself on the couch.

I didn't know a huge lot about money laundering or the illegal weapons trade, but if that's what the ATF thought Golightly was into, I'd learn.

The sketches of Jasmine flashed up on my screen when I opened my web browser. We'd run them every day for a week, and they'd spread through the wires to TV stations and newspapers all over the east coast. Still nothing. Why?

Elise's voice floated through my thoughts. “All Jesus, all the time.”

Of course. If no one at Way of Life was allowed to watch TV or see the paper, how could anyone ID her? One more tick in the “Way of Life is shady” column. Which was getting longer by the day—and the PD hadn't released anything beyond basics about the second victim yet. I made a note to call Aaron about that first thing and flipped my thoughts back to Golightly, money, and guns.

Joey's face flashed on the backs of my eyelids and my stomach tightened.

Illegal arms trafficking puts weapons in the hands of murderers every day. How many people had died already? How many more would before Kyle could get a warrant?

Whoever was behind this—Golightly, Wolterhall, Jenny of the disdainful glare, the whole damned lot of them—was going down.

No matter who they were in cahoots with.

Or how good he might be in bed.

I clicked into the Google bar on my screen.

Information is a reporter's best friend.

1
7.

  

Confessions

  

A
aron's blue eyes sported weekend-getaway sized bags when he stepped onto the dock where his boat was tethered at five-forty-five on Wednesday.

“Trouble sleeping, detective?” I asked from my perch on a bench in the corner.

I'd spent two days mired in a mess of court cases, phone calls, and copywriting. And being avoided by the only cops I really wanted to talk to. Which I did not appreciate.

I filed my fourth story of the day at a quarter to five and headed out into a perfect June afternoon, too frustrated with the lack of time to dig around my biggest story to enjoy seeing the sun. Larry was still working on Wolterhall's photo, and the Internet hadn't coughed up anything new on Way of Life—though it was helpful in explaining the finer points of how to launder money.

As far as I knew, both murder victims were still unidentified.

Add all that to Aaron's sudden scarcity, and my tolerance well was tapped out.

As such, I'd lost my ability to care if I annoyed my generally-favorite police officer. Turnabout's fair play.

Halfway home, I turned for the freeway and drove south to the marina where Aaron kept his boat on the Appomattox River. I knew he liked to fish when wrestling a tough case, and the evening was perfect for it. Clear, warm, and not a hint of a breeze.

He didn't even look surprised to see me.

“You want a Coke?” he asked. “I don't feel much like beer today.”

“You want to tell me why?”

“No.” He waved me aboard the Alyssa Lynne, named for his daughters.

“You're not playing fair, Aaron,” I said.

“I really am sorry.” He disappeared into the belly of the boat and returned with two cans.

I opened mine and sat on the bench opposite the captain's chair. Aaron started the engine.

“This whole thing stinks, Nichelle.”

His words, his haggard appearance, and Girl Friday's Monday post clicked puzzle pieces into place.

“Who are they arresting, Aaron?”

“Her friend.” He sounded somewhere between beaten and disgusted.

“The boyfriend? Or the jealous chick?” Crap. Maybe I was farther off than I thought. Someone who knew her—but the obvious choice, not the crazy mystery one? I wondered if Charlie had anything yet.

“The one who called it in.”

No. My eyes fell shut. “But he didn't do it.” I didn't bother with a question.

Aaron just shook his head, his eyes on the open river.

“What the hell is going on here?” I asked.

“There was something in the autopsy report we didn't tell you,” he said. “We didn't tell anyone.”

“You going to tell me now?”

“She'd been pregnant, but she'd never delivered a baby,” he said. “The coroner found significant injury to her uterus.”

“A miscarriage?”

“Nope. Poorly executed abortion.”

Holy crap.

“Like, coat hanger poorly executed, or backwoods doctor poorly executed?”

“Who knows? I don't even know if there's a way to tell. Just another piece of this freaky puzzle.”

“When?”

“A year or so ago, based on scarring.”

So right before she turned up on the streets of Richmond. Which meant it wasn't Flyboy's kid. “Anything else?”

“The damage was easy to spot, seeing as how the killer removed the organ for us.”

I flinched. It didn't take a leap to get that Golightly's congregation probably wasn't the most pro-choice bunch of folks. Her family might not be, either—that could explain why she'd been on the streets.

Picasso's voice pinged around my thoughts, followed by Kyle's. Family.

Church family.

Maybe my gut hadn't failed me.

Aaron eased the throttle forward, and I shifted mental gears. “I went back three times and looked for her friends this week,” I said. True: I wanted to return the journals. I kept photocopies of several pages, but didn't want to break my promise. “You won't find him.”

“We already did,” he said. “Landers picked him up at the scene an hour ago. He was drawing it. In horrifying detail, considering it's been cleaned up.”

“There's no way he did this, Aaron. I'd stake my shoe closet on it.”

He nodded. “I know that. You know that. But the public doesn't know that. And with this blog drawing attention to the gorier aspects of the case, the brass wants you to splash an arrest across the front page. Settle people down. Stop every wacko in the city from calling in confessing. They say it'll give the guy a place to sleep.”

“In jail? They're not seriously convincing themselves they're doing him a favor.”

“They're sending him to psych. For as long as a court order will keep him there.”

Deep breath. “If they want me to ‘splash it across the front page,' why have you been giving me the brush-off for two days?”

“They wanted him in custody before we announced an arrest.” He sighed. “I may not agree with their method. But they're doing it anyway, and I like my job. So there it is. You showing up here saved me a phone call.”

Whatever, I guess. “On the subject of things you're keeping to yourself, do you have an official ID yet?”

He shook his head. “It's the weirdest damned thing I've ever seen. Every media outlet in three states is running the sketches on a loop. We get a dozen nutjobs a day, but nothing we can work with.”

I nodded, spearing a chunk of something that looked like one of Darcy's treats onto my hook and casting it. My feet itched to run the fifty miles to Way of Life and broadcast the sketches on their in-house TV.

Time to come clean. I sighed.

“Aaron, I have a hunch.”

I sucked in a deep breath and spilled my guts for a good fifteen minutes. Journals, doodles, Golightly, money, weird cultish Bible school.

“She was out there,” I finished. “I'm sure of it. I just haven't found her real name, or why she ended up here. I think I'll take the sketches with me and see what they turn up.”

“A TV preacher, huh?”

“They have lawyers coming out their ears,” I said.

He nodded. “The simplest thing would be to grab Landers, ride out to have a talk with the local law enforcement, and go question a few folks. But say you are onto something. If we go flashing badges, how fast do you figure any evidence of the victim will disappear? Especially if someone there had something to do with her death?”

He turned the crank on the fishing rod and pulled his line back a little, his face lost in a storm of thought as he stared over the water. “And if they're as lawyer-happy as you say, interrogations won't get me anywhere.”

“You could drive out and pop into the service on Sunday.” I grinned. “I might've done that last weekend.”

He nodded. “I'll talk to Landers and see if he wants to ride along.”

“Blend in,” I said. “They don't seem to like outsiders much.”

“Noted.”

I paused. “Anything on the other murder?”

“Waiting for the dental. Forensics is paranoid after the clusterfuck with the first one, and the state police have them elbow-deep in some cemetery relocation business this week.”

“Naturally. Keep me posted?”

“Of course.”

We fell into easy silence, each lost in our own thoughts.

The room was set up like an altar.

They cut out her freaking uterus.

My inner Lois grew surer by the cicada chirp that Way of Life was tangled up in this.

“Where was the cow's blood?” I asked.

“Excuse me?” Aaron furrowed his brow.

“The cow's blood y'all found at the murder scene. Where did the scrapings come from? The walls? The corners?”

He sighed. “The altar. And the floor all around it.”

Huh. I pondered as Aaron guided the boat back to the dock.

I told him goodnight and continued the debate the entire way home.

Darcy pawed at my foot, and Emily's comment about a group being in on the murder together surfaced as I bent to pick up the dog.

“I'm lobbying Bob for hazard pay,” I told Darcy, grabbing the phone and hoping my brilliant psychologist friend wasn't busy.

  

Two glasses of wine later, Em and I had rehashed everything I thought I might know about Jasmine, Golightly, and lots of things in between.

She listened as I described every rabbit trail in this crazy forest, her earring clicking against the receiver when she nodded occasionally.

I took a breath after I described my chat with Aaron. “So. That's where I am.”

“Girl. You have had a week. Do I need to come up there?”

I laughed. “I think I'm dealing. Mostly, I want to figure this out. If you want to help play detective, hop a plane. But otherwise, you can stay there and keep your phone on.”

“There's a lot here, Nicey.” Papers rustled. “You say no way the autistic guy is your killer. You're sure about that?”

“So are the detectives. They're going along with it because the brass wants a show.”

“And you're okay with that?”

I gnawed my lower lip. No. But what else could I do?

“I'm pissed. But also in a corner.”

“Sure.” She didn't sound even a little convinced.

“Okay, I'm going to talk to my boss,” I said. “I can't tell which way is forward anymore. But you said last time we talked if it was a sacrificial thing there was probably more than one person. I blew that off because the cops started off so focused on a serial. But the abortion, the murder scene, the freaky amateur hysterectomy—the church fits it better. ”

“It's logically sound. Not that most murderers are horribly logical folks,” Emily said. “I think you still have two distinct possibilities here. One is you do have a serial. It's not like they kill someone every day. The second victim makes that more likely. It sounds like your cops are still leaning that way, but without knowing what else they're keeping from you, I can't say it's more likely than your theory. Two is this poor woman did run away from the religious outfit. Or maybe even some other one. But you really need a rock-solid connection before anyone is going to take you seriously.”

“These people are into some bad stuff, Em,” I said. I'd glossed over the nitty-gritty because I was paranoid about Girl Friday's seeming psychic powers. “Really bad. Stuff Kyle's guys have a hand in.”

“And Kyle is helping you with this, but Kyle's not the one you slept with.” It wasn't a question. She clicked her tongue. “I might hop a plane. At the very least, grab a charger for your phone and the rest of that bottle. We're going to be a while getting you straight.”

“I'm not crazy, am I?”

“Nah. But you sure are tangled up,” she said. “Talk to me.”

I did. I told her as much as I dared about Joey, and how much I wished I wanted Kyle as much as he seemed to want me. My mom. My grandparents. The dog, my bloodtype, Shelby, the blogger, my bra size. Words streamed out for an hour.

“It's a good thing you get paid for listening to people ramble,” I finished. “You're good at it.”

“Everyone needs a good ear now and again.”

“So, how do I fix it?”

“What do you think you need to do?”

“Aw, come on, Em,” I said. “I want advice, not head shrinkage.”

“What I would do for myself in that situation might be entirely different from what you need to do to be happy.”

“Right now, I really want to talk to my mom.”

“I think that's a wise start.” She spaced the words out.

“I know. You think Kyle's right and I should call my grandparents.”

“It's not like I haven't made my opinion about that abandonment issue known for years,” she said.

“I can't.”

“You can. You don't want to. You're afraid of rejection. Which is perfectly understandable. You're also holding a grudge. Again, understandable. But not healthy. And kind of childish. I love you, but it's true. And this is starting to affect other aspects of your life.”

A dull ache took up residence in the back of my throat, matching the heaviness in the pit of my stomach.

“I don't want to hurt Kyle,” I said finally. “I love Kyle. I think part of me always will. It's complicated.”

“I think it's simpler than you want to admit.” She wasn't arguing, exactly, but her voice was firm. “You keep telling me there are all these obstacles to being with Mr. Mystery.”

“But he's—” I paused. “You don't understand, Em. We just click so well. He fits.”

“Uh-huh.” She paused. “What's his last name, Nicey?”

“Not fair,” I said. “You don't know everything, and you're turning me into a country song.”

“Look, sweetie, I'm not saying this is your fault. Commitment phobia as a result of paternal abandonment issues is so common I can't go a week without a new case walking in. You want to conquer it? Call your mother. Call your grandmother. Then let me know why you want the guy it can't work with more than the one it could.”

“Emily—” I stopped, my stomach twisting into a boy-scout-worthy knot. Damn.

“I'm here if you need a sounding board, doll,” she said. “But I can't tell you what to do.”

“Can you tell me where to look for this murderer? That'd be awesome all by itself.”

“I'd stay with the church,” she said. “I think you're onto something. The reverend might be in the thick of it, or he might not know anything about it. What you need is a friend on the inside.”

I nodded agreement. If only that were as easy to come by as question marks this week.

“Thanks, Em. Love you.”

“Back at you, girl. Holler if you need me.”

I clicked off the call, putting the phone down and picking the dog up.

Staring at the bright reds and blues in the abstract of a mother and child Jenna had painted, I wanted nothing more than to curl up in my mom's lap, tell her all my worries, and have them fixed with a lollipop and a kiss. Maybe I wasn't such a grownup, after all.