Did You Miss Me? (4 page)

‘Almost over, guys,’ Daphne murmured. ‘Soon.’

Sondra folded her hands in her lap. ‘I wanted . . . we wanted you to know that whatever happens next, we know you did your best for our parents. Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’ But even if they got a conviction, it wouldn’t be enough. Sondra and DeShawn had lost their parents, brutally. Nothing would bring them back.

But a conviction was better than nothing. Better than no justice.
This I also know
.

Daphne sympathized with the victims who relived their trauma in the courtroom, but also envied the closure they got from the process. She’d never confronted the man who stole so much from her. From her family. She’d been too young. Then too scared. And then he’d been too dead. The passage of time had taken the choice out of her hands.

‘Did you make provisions for them?’ Grayson whispered, facing forward so that the Turners’ children could not see his face.
In the event of a riot
, was what he left unsaid.

‘I did.’ Daphne lifted her eyes to the back of the standing-room-only gallery to the detectives who’d made the arrest, JD Fitzpatrick and Stevie Mazzetti. They’d promised to protect Sondra and DeShawn if courtroom tensions boiled over. The promise had not been easily won from JD, who hadn’t wanted to abandon Daphne should a melee erupt.

JD shouldn’t even be here
, she thought.
He should be home with Lucy
. JD’s very pregnant wife was due any day, and even though she was already on maternity leave, she’d come in to testify the week before. As the medical examiner who’d autopsied the Turners, Dr Lucy Trask Fitzpatrick’s testimony had been invaluable, painting the picture of a brutal attack on a middle-aged couple who’d tried to defend themselves, but had been overpowered by someone much bigger and stronger. Someone just like Reggie Millhouse.

JD gave Daphne a hard stare now and mouthed, ‘Vest?’

Daphne nodded, then her eyes flicked to the door at his right as it opened. The older Millhouse brother had arrived, uncharacteristically out of breath. George had been running, his face red and sweaty. He shot her a cold look before taking his place between his parents.

‘Looks like George made it after all,’ Grayson murmured.

‘Lucky us,’ Daphne muttered sarcastically. George had been escorted from the courtroom many times for his outbursts. She wasn’t eager to see what he had up his sleeve today. She turned in her seat, facing forward. ‘At least Marina isn’t here.’

‘Maybe she finally had that baby,’ Grayson said.

‘Lucky us,’ Daphne muttered again. That child didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell with a sixteen-year-old KKK groupie for a mother and Reggie Millhouse for a father.

Normally Daphne felt empathy for teen mothers, having been one herself, but she felt very little for Marina. Daphne clearly remembered what it had been like to find out she was pregnant at fifteen – the fear, the despair, the disappointment that her dreams would never be. But those feelings had quickly taken a backseat to the need to protect her unborn child, to give him the best life she could. It had been one of the greatest challenges in her life.

Marina – and the Millhouses – seemed to view pregnancy in a far more calculating way, using her baby to manipulate public opinion in their favor. There were some who pitied Marina, believing that the Millhouses controlled her actions, but Daphne had seen the sly gleam in the girl’s eye. Marina not only knew what she was doing, she reveled in it. Daphne worried about that baby, worried at the life the child would lead. If Reggie was acquitted, the baby would be raised to become another Millhouse, racist and violent, but with that shiny veneer of charm that had fooled so many. If Reggie was convicted, his baby, who
in
utero
had already become the symbol of the Millhouses’ ‘hope for a purer America’, would become . . . Daphne shuddered to think about it.

Marina had been absent the past few days, a welcome relief from her soulful sobs. A pretty girl, she was a media favorite who used those baby blues of hers to influence anyone on the fence.

Unbelievably, there were people on the fence. Hopefully none were on this jury.

Daphne sucked in a breath when the door to the jury room opened.
Finally
. Clearing her mind, she studied the jurors, noting that some were pale. All were grim.

‘I’m going back to my seat now,’ Grayson whispered. ‘If things go south, you will not act the hero. You tuck and roll. Got it?’

‘Honey, if things go south, I’ll be dusting the floor. Guaranteed.’

The bailiff entered solemnly. ‘All rise.’

They did, then sat when the judge had been seated. Daphne held her breath as the judge asked the jury foreman for their verdict. The foreman stood, the paper he held fluttering as his hands shook. But he wasted no time in reading the verdict.

‘We the jury, on the charge of murder in the first degree, find the defendant, Reggie Millhouse, guilty.’

Yes
. Daphne closed her eyes as cheers and cries of outrage rose around them.

‘No!’

Twisting in the direction of the shriek, Daphne could only stare. One second Cindy Millhouse was hugging her son over the bar, sobbing, then suddenly she was barreling through the gate.

‘Bitch!’ Fingers like claws, face contorted with rage, Cindy lunged, coming for . . .

Me
.
Oh my God
.
She’s coming for me
.

Tuesday, December 3, 10.10
A.M.

Joseph texted photos of the dead cop’s face to Bo, but didn’t think they’d do much good toward an ID. The pics were too grainy because the alley was too damn dark, the rooftops of the buildings blocking what little natural light there was. The sky was gray and darkening by the hour, the forecasters calling for more snow.
Which is all we need
.

He was about to put away his phone when a string of very terse texts came through.
Hell
. He’d forgotten about his father. Joseph sent a quick answer:
Working a case
.
Victim is not Ford
.
Will call when I can
.

He aimed his flashlight at the victim’s face and upper torso – all he could see until CSU processed the scene and removed the pile of boxes covering him to his ankles.

There didn’t seem to be any injuries to the face and head. Nothing but that mawing slice across his throat. The blood that had pooled behind the victim’s neck and head had frozen. The cop had been lying here for hours. Probably since last night.

Why were you here, man? Why are you dead?

Joseph frowned. And why was the blood frozen in a pool close to the man’s head? He stood, shining his light on the walls and pavement looking for spatter, but saw none.

The blood had seeped, not spurted. Which meant Red Socks was already dead when his throat was slit. This guy was big, his neck thick and muscular. So how had his killer taken him down? And why slit his throat if he was already dead?

Joseph searched the area beyond the victim and found part of the answer. AFID tags, about an inch in diameter, littered the ground five feet from where the victim lay. Like confetti, the brightly colored anti-felon identification tags were ejected from a taser when a cartridge was deployed. Serial numbers on each tag matched the cartridge, intended to deter anyone from firing a taser unlawfully and to track them if they did.

It obviously hadn’t deterred Red Socks’s assailant. Still, a taser blast wouldn’t have killed the victim. So what happened in between the taser and the knife?

Joseph lifted his head when he heard a car door being closed. CSU was still five minutes away. But it could be somebody returning to the scene.

Drawing his gun, Joseph stepped into the shadows behind the dumpster closest to the alley entrance. And waited. He didn’t have to wait long.

A man crept into the alley. As big as Joseph, the collar of his leather jacket was pulled up, hiding his face. Still, there was something familiar about him. The way he moved. Like a soldier. The way he held his gun at his side. Like a cop. A recent memory flickered and Joseph narrowed his eyes.
No way
.
Couldn’t be
.

‘Tuzak,’ the man hissed. ‘Are you here?’ He paused, tilting his head to listen.

The movement exposed his face and Joseph’s suspicion was confirmed. Clay Maynard.

Joseph knew this guy. Resented the fucking hell out of him. Came perilously close to hating him.
So of course he shows up
. He’d worked with the PI once before. The day he’d met Daphne. Clay Maynard had met her that same day. Except it was Maynard she’d come to rely on in the months that followed. Months when Joseph had flown all over the country, tracking domestic terrorists, waiting for his transfer into VCET so that he could stay close to home. Close to her.

What the hell is he doing here?
That he was carrying a semi-auto didn’t bode well.

However, as much as Joseph would have liked to believe the guy was dirty, he knew better. He could hate Clay Maynard for sharing Daphne’s bed, but the man had earned the respect of the Carter clan. Of Joseph’s brother, Grayson, specifically.

Clay’s partner in his PI firm was Grayson’s fiancée, Paige Holden. Paige trusted Maynard with her life. Importantly, Grayson trusted Maynard with Paige’s life.

Maynard continued toward him. In another few steps, he’d discover Red Socks.

Remaining concealed, Joseph kept his voice even, not wanting to surprise a man with a gun in his hand. ‘FBI. Drop your weapon.’

‘Fuck,’ Maynard muttered. ‘Let me see the badge.’

Joseph held it out and Maynard’s chin came up, his eyes wide. ‘Carter?’

‘That would be me. The gun, please.’

Maynard handed it over, handle first. ‘Why are you here?’

‘I was going to ask you the same thing.’ Joseph pocketed Maynard’s gun.

‘I have a permit to carry,’ Maynard said, eyes narrowing.

‘You’ll get it back when we’re done. Why are you here?’

‘I’m looking for someone.’

He’d called the man
Tuzak
. ‘A friend?’ Joseph asked.

‘An employee.’ Maynard hesitated. ‘And yes, he’s a friend, too.’

Joseph thought of the slice across the victim’s throat. As much as he resented Maynard, he hated for the guy to see his friend that way. ‘Is he a cop?’

Maynard’s narrowed eyes turned wary. ‘How’d you know?’

There was no good way to say the words. ‘He’s dead, Clay. I’m sorry.’

Maynard’s eyes closed, shoulders sagging as if he’d been expecting it. ‘How?’

‘Throat slit.’

Maynard’s eyes flew open, denial warring with grief. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’m also looking for an employee.’ Ford Elkhart was his father’s employee, but it was close enough for now. ‘Why was this man here? What was he doing for you?’

‘Where is he?’ Maynard pushed past Joseph.

Joseph grabbed his arm. ‘No. Clay, wait.’

Maynard snarled, pain in his eyes. ‘Let me go or I’ll break your fucking arm.’

‘He . . . looks bad. If he was your friend, you don’t want to see him this way.’

Clay’s lips thinned. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen worse. Let me go.’

Joseph released him, following to make sure he didn’t disturb the scene. Maynard probably had seen a lot worse, but it was different when you knew the victim.

Maynard abruptly stopped when he saw the red socks and sucked in a strangled breath as he walked around to see the head, the color draining from his face.

‘Oh God,’ he whispered. ‘Not again.’ Slowly he fell to his knees. ‘Not again.’

Not again? What the— Oh, shit
. Maynard’s story came back to Joseph in a rush. He’d lost the partner before Paige, discovering her body gutted by a vicious killer and left to rot. Now this partner was nearly decapitated.
If I’d remembered, I would have held him back harder, kept him from seeing this
. But Joseph knew it would have been fruitless to try to control Maynard.
I would’ve pushed him away under the same circumstances
.

‘
They cut him.’ Maynard uttered the words in a choked whisper. ‘They cut his head off. Oh my God. Fucking hell.’ He lurched to his feet and stumbled backward, his expression a mixture of shock, nausea, and pain.

Joseph turned him so that he no longer stared at his dead friend. ‘Who is he?’

‘Isaac Zacharias. Sergeant, DCPD. Oh God. What am I gonna tell Phyllis?’

‘What was he doing for you?’ Joseph shook his shoulder. ‘
Clay
. What was Zacharias doing for you that got him killed?’

Maynard drew a breath and pulled himself together. ‘Bodyguard duty.’

Bodyguard duty
. The sick feeling in Joseph’s gut spiked. That Daphne would trust Maynard to protect her son made sense.

New horror mixed with the grief on Maynard’s face. ‘Oh God. Ford. Daphne’s son.’

‘Zacharias was protecting Ford?’

‘Ford is the employee, isn’t he? Your father’s employee.’ It was calmly stated, but the vein in Maynard’s neck visibly throbbed. ‘Where is he?’

‘He appears to be missing,’ Joseph said grimly.

‘Does Daphne know?’

‘Not yet. We’ve tried to contact her. She hasn’t answered her phone this morning.’

‘She’s in court. Jury verdict today on the Millhouse case.’

‘How did you know to come here?’

‘Tracker on Tuzak’s car. All my people carry one, just in case they need backup. His relief called to say he hadn’t phoned in Ford’s location. I called Phyllis to see if he’d come home from his night shift. He hadn’t, so I tracked him here.’

‘Tuzak is Zacharias?’

‘Isaac Zacharias. Two Zacs. We called him Tuzak at the Academy. It stuck.’

‘You were in DCPD together?’

‘Yeah. I left, he stayed. He was a good cop. Smart. He never would have let some punk get the drop on him. How the hell did this happen?’ He turned to Joseph, his eyes suddenly suspicious. ‘And how did
you
know to come here?’

‘Ford didn’t show up for work this morning. Dad asked me to check it out. I found Ford’s SUV on the street at the other end of the alley. It’s probably been there all night.’