Eleven (19 page)

“Yep.”

“Hmm.”

“Why do you do that?” The question slipped out. I wished I could reverse time like in my novels.

“What?”

“Hmm. You say that a lot.”

“Hmm.”

I detected the hint of a smile. He activated the hands-free signaling the end of another conversation. When Nadia answered, he said, “Where are you with the followers?”

“Have you noticed the time? Nope probably not. Little Nadia here is putting in OT to get this done.”

The clock on the dash read ten.

“You started on this yesterday.” Although the smile wasn’t visible, it was audible in Jack’s voice. For an instant, I was jealous of their relationship. At least, he called her by name.

“Like I’ve said before we’re not on TV here. In real life, things take a little longer.”

Jack glanced at me. “She likes to pass the blame too.”

I knew he referred to my comment earlier about not being familiar with testing DNA years later and how I came back with the fact the academy didn’t teach me everything.

“I’m almost through them all, and nothing useful jumps out so far. Most of the followers are not even from places The Redeemer lived.” Papers were shuffled in the background; there was clicking of keys on her keyboard. “But you have a new follower Brandon.”

Jack pulled down the street toward Royster’s house.

I had gone to The Redeemer’s page, but he hadn’t posted anything since yesterday. I never made it to my own page. “Let me guess Bingham is now one of them?”

“You’d be correct. Be careful out there.”

“The kid’s gonna be fine.”

“You don’t know that. With all due respect.”

“He’s with me—” The phone system notified us of another incoming call. “Gotta go. Call if you get anything else.”

“Of cour—”

“Talk to me.”

The caller ID read Paige Dawson.

“We have a lead.”

CHAPTER 19

Jack cranked the SUV into a U-turn, and we were headed back to the country roads. All it took was the relaying of Paige’s findings and we were after a man named Quinton Davis of Sycamore Street.

Paige said they were fine and still waiting on the CSIs to process everything. Deputy White had headed out to get them food and coffee. They were doing better than we were. And they were definitely doing better than I was. It was time to put my training to use.

Paige said that we couldn’t have someone from the county provide death notification, not even the Sheriff. Despite the fact the community was tightly connected, they seemed to have missed that Earl Royster was a homosexual, and apparently down here that was a big deal. And because I missed out on notifying Nancy Windermere about her daughter, Jack figured it was my turn this time.

Quinton Davis could have played linebacker, with his thick torso and weight of at least two hundred and sixty to three hundred pounds. He studied us after we announced ourselves as FBI.

“We’re here about Earl Royster.”

Arms crossed, uncrossed, and then he slipped his hands into the pockets of his shorts. “Why come here?”

I answered honestly. “We know you were romantically involved.”

Quinton looked down the street before stepping back and allowing us into his house. “Come this way.” He directed us to the living room and a burnt orange sofa.

Quinton took a seat across from us in a reclining chair that dated back before the sofa. “What’s Earl up to now?” He smiled. His teeth were tainted yellow against his dark skin. My guess was due to age and lack of hygiene, not a nicotine addiction as the place didn’t smell of cigarettes.

I swallowed deeply. The plan was to simply notify him of his boyfriend’s death, gauge his reaction, and check out his residence—what we could see of it anyway—and get out. We were to keep a low profile so as not to scare him away if he was the unsub we were still looking for.

“It’s not good is it?” The man leaned forward, rubbed his hands on his thighs. He knew what was coming. His earlier reaction had been a mask to hide it.

“I’m afraid not.”

Jack watched me, and I knew what he was trying to communicate,
get to the point
.

“Earl Royster was shot late this afternoon.”

“Oh—” A hand covered his mouth. It dropped as quickly as it made contact, leaving his gaping mouth exposed. His eyes searched for details.

“We went there to question him—”

“You shot him?” His bottom lip quaked, tears pooled in his eyes.

“No, I—”

“You did.” Quinton’s eyes darted to Jack.

I came to his defense. “Earl held a gun on a federal agent.”

“No, no, I don’t believe it.” He shook his head.

“Has he been strange lately?”

Quinton’s eyes hardened. “You should go.”

I looked at Jack, who instead of moving to leave settled into the couch.

“We just need to understand why he would do something like that.”

“Why? So you can make yourself feel better?” Quinton rose to his feet, came toward Jack. “You took him away from me.”

I stood between them. Jack didn’t move. I put a flat hand out toward Quinton hoping he would stop there. He didn’t until pressure was applied, my hand flattened and pressed into the meat of his chest. He kept going until my wrist bent back. His frame towered over me, dwarfing my six foot two by easily another three inches. “I’m going to have to ask you to step back.”

“This is my house.”

The message contained in his eyes was one of conflict. He was a large man, but I pounced on the weakness evidenced beneath the surface. “You are also suspected of involvement with what Earl was so I suggest you back off.”

“What do you mean?”

I wanted to look back at Jack. We had discussed this on the ride over—what to disclose, what to withhold. But as was normally the case when it came to communicating with Jack, there were holes in the conclusions. Heck, there were even voids in the middle of the context. “Sit down back over there and we’ll talk.”

Quinton held eye contact for a few more seconds before complying.

I flexed my wrist in relief when he retreated. Now the pressure on it was gone, the joint ached from having been held back. I dropped onto the orange sofa.

“What do you think he did?” Quinton dropped a hand on the arm of the chair.

“This is still part of an open investigation—”

“Don’t feed me that bullshit. I won’t eat it.” Quinton didn’t get up, but moved to the edge of the chair. It groaned under his weight.

“He fired on us—,” I gestured between Jack and me, “—when we showed up to talk to him. Once the situation calmed down, he pulled a gun on another agent.”

“You said you got the
situation
calmed down? That
situation
was my husband.”

“Husband?”

“The great state of Kentucky might not allow it, but we were where it mattered.” He balled up a hand, thumped it over his heart.

“You obviously knew him better than anyone.” I glanced at Jack, asking in silence where I should go from here.

Jack said, “Evidence in our investigation thus far convicts Earl Royster as a murderer. He—”

“No way.” Quinton got up from his chair. “I can’t believe that. Don’t you talk to me after you killed him!” A thick finger wagged at Jack.

I readied to come to his defense again if need be. Although based on what Jack had done back at the house to the CSIs Quinton should be more afraid of him.

Surprisingly Quinton just left the room. Jack and I shared a look which ended with him exhaling a deep breath, and a shrug of a shoulder. I didn’t miss the message in his eyes,
study the house, Kid
. Even his pet names for me were coming through in telepathy now. I might need therapy when this was over.

The living room was outdated, yet decorated modestly. There was an oak mantle over the fireplace. A mirror hung over it and flowers in a vase showcased in front of it. No framed photographs anywhere.
Had Royster been this man’s entire life?

An abstract painting with slashes of bright colors hung crooked on a wall beside a bookshelf. It pointed out the obvious missing element to most living rooms. There was no TV. My attention went back to the bookshelf which was filled over-capacity with books of different thicknesses and sizes. The ones that couldn’t fit in vertically with their spine displaying were layered horizontally on top.

I walked over to the shelf. If Quinton returned, I would tell him I loved books and was curious what ones he had. My eyes worked as fast as they could, taking in the titles, the colors, the images. I spoke quietly to Jack, “No Bible, and no book on the coinherence symbol.”

When I turned to look at him, I noticed the front window coverings. The drapes were a jacquard pattern, and the only reason I knew that was because my wife insisted on buying similar curtains. She went on about how classy the pattern was and kept repeating its name as if she were an educated interior designer. It was probably the only one she could name.

Quinton came back into the room with a beer in his hand. It was already half gone. He stopped beside me.

I forced a smile. “You love to read.”

“Yep.” He dropped into the sofa chair.

I headed back to the couch. “Lovely curtains.”

“Drapes. Thank you.” Quinton swigged back on the beer bottle.

Despite the fact we concluded Earl Royster a submissive person in his relationship with Quinton Davis he was the man. “Why did you leave the room?”

Quinton held up the beer bottle, cocked it at an angle and put it back to his lips.

“I think there’s more to it. Did Earl ever hurt you?”

He held the beer bottle to his lips, and cradled it there as if he considered taking another sip.

“He can’t hurt you now. He’s gone.”

Quinton put the bottle down on an end table. The room was quiet enough to hear our breathing.

I was afraid to break the silence for fear Quinton would withdraw for good, but I also feared not prying into what he had to say. “What is it?” I leaned forward, my elbows coming to rest on my knees. I clasped my hands.

He took a deep, jagged inhale and stood up. He moved slowly, yet methodically and lifted up the t-shirt he wore.  Seeing what he revealed caused my stomach to toss.

Quinton kept pulling up his shirt. As he looked down to his torso, I glanced at Jack. The incisions weren’t as deep as the ones on the victims, and the lengths were shorter, but they were laid out in the same pattern—the method of counting to five with lines. Quinton had eight lines—one set of five and three running vertically a few inches to the right. Most of them were scarred over. One was more recent.

“He said that it would liven things up.” Quinton dropped his shirt. His eyes read of pain and shame.

“How long had he been doing this?”

“Years now. Five, six?”

“And that one?” I pointed to the fresh wound.

“Last night when he came home. He had too much to drink at the bar.”

“Why did you put up with this?” I mentally compared the stature of Earl to Quinton. Quinton could have easily overpowered him.

“Where else was I s’posed to go? I loved him. He did love me.”

“He had a strange way of showing it,” Jack intercepted. The abruptness of his tone combined with the words spoken caused both Quinton and me to look at him. “I’m not saying anything you don’t know. You don’t abuse the ones you love.”

“I disagree. Those are the ones that get the most abuse,” Quinton said.

Interesting debate and currently I sided with Quinton.

“Let me guess, he apologized afterward.” Jack’s tone still dry, he patted his shirt pocket.

Quinton’s eyes went to Jack’s pocket, and then flitted to Jack’s eyes. He must have noticed the bulge of the cigarette pack. The message in his eyes was,
no smokin’ in here.
Quinton didn’t comment on that audibly but what he did say was horrifying. “He would cut me with a knife from the kitchen drawer. As he did, he’d complain about it being too dull, not being the right kind.” Quinton dropped into the chair again. “Afterward, when I had stopped screaming, I would cry from the residual pain. Earl’d look me in the eye. Touch the back of his hand to my forehead, caress it, and say
Ssh baby, don’t cry.
”