Rite of Wrongs (16 page)

T
HIRTY
-T
WO

Monday, 6:30 a.m.

Smiting.
The word rang of finality and end days, and sounded like a good way to die.

One big whoosh of a bat or a lead pipe, and lights out. Though in biblical days, the weapon of choice would most likely have been a sword.

He liked the sound of that, too.

The second retribution had gone well, but then, how could a stoning not? He just wished he hadn’t been so focused on the dogs and the lettering and had better researched biblical executions before he’d started. If he had, he would’ve used a piece of flint instead of a knife the first time. He’d learned about flint from Armenian folklore and the story of Cain and Abel.

Adam and Eve loved Abel dearly. Cain was jealous of their partiality. He wished to kill his brother, but knew not how. Satan took the form of a raven, picked a quarrel with another raven, and in Cain’s presence cut his opponent’s throat with a pointed black pebble. Cain picked up the stone, hid it in his girdle, proposed to his brother a walk on the mountain, and there cut his throat with the pebble. The peasants of Armenia to this day call flints “Satan’s nails,” and conscientiously break every pointed black one they may find.

He wasn’t dealing with jealousy, or a parent’s love.

He was righting a heinous wrong.

He couldn’t remember ever hearing anyone with as foul a mouth as Autumn Carver. Those words . . . from a girl . . . spoken over and over to the woman who’d so generously taken her in and given her a home . . .

Then again, for much of that time, it had been a single-parent household. Every one of the kids living there had gotten away with more than a man would’ve stood for. Hard to stand for anything when not around.

And he that curseth his father, or his mother, shall surely be put to death. Exodus 21:17.

Seemed pretty straightforward. Autumn needed to be put to death. And getting his hands on a sword had been a lot easier than he’d imagined. Oh, it wasn’t a real sword. Not one a pirate might swing. Or Sinbad the Sailor. He thought that one was called a cutlass.

The one he’d decided on was more like a machete. It wasn’t so lengthy that he couldn’t hide it in his sleeve, as long as he kept his arm straight and didn’t cut himself. Especially as sharp as he knew the blade was, having spent so much time making sure.

Painting on a glazed concrete floor was a lot easier than on Sheetrock or cedar fencing. Having positioned the tarp beneath her car door meant a huge pool of paint to use.

He would’ve liked to have taken his time. He was getting really good at his art. But Autumn got to work early, leaving him a very small window before her coworkers arrived.

Funny how the last words out of her mouth, when she’d seen him and recognition dawned, had been, “You motherfucker.”

True to herself to the end.

T
HIRTY
-T
HREE

Monday, 8:00 a.m.

Miriam skipped yoga completely and picked up her coffee and blueberry muffin at the drive-through window long before Vikram’s shift. Flirting with her favorite barista would’ve taken her mind off this being Monday number three. Yoga would’ve done the same.

Clearing her mind was the last thing she wanted.

She had to be sharp and on point.

Her focus had to be laser.

Then there was the part where Augie would be in the office today. He’d be going through more of her and Melvin’s case notes, Judah had told her Friday. And he’d be judging her.

Judah hadn’t added that last part. Miriam just assumed.

It was why, besides the case needing her attention, she was working on her day off for the third week in a row. To answer any questions he had. And because she didn’t like being judged.

Coffee in hand and already sweating, she brushed the muffin crumbs from her jacket and blouse and headed up the station’s front walk. The morning sun gave off a brutal glare where it hit the door’s glass. She reached for the handle just as Ballard and his partner, Seth Branch, walked up.

She lifted a hand to shade her eyes. “Hey, Seth. How’s the knee?”

Seth Branch was Miriam’s age but married with four kids: one sixteen, nine-year-old twins, and one who was nearly two. Miriam couldn’t even imagine. Well, she could. See Erik and Esther.

Like Melvin, Seth loved being a dad. His wife, Annie, was an artist. They lived outside of town in an old farmhouse where the kids had acres to roam. And where Seth had torn his ACL playing driveway basketball with his son, Robin.

He grimaced in answer. Obviously, his knee was still giving him hell. Then again . . . “Knee’s good. Coming back to a serial murder, not so much.”

“Ballard get you up to speed?” she asked as the three headed into the squad room.

“We grabbed an early breakfast at Abilene’s and went over things,” Seth said.

Abilene’s. Yum. When was the last time she’d been there for cinnamon-pecan pancakes? “Let me get settled in and find Melvin—”

“Melvin’s right here,” Melvin said, stepping out of the break room and into her path.

“Good. We’ll huddle up at my desk—” It was all she got out before Melvin started shaking his head, and her nerve endings began to scream. “Don’t even tell me.”

“It’s Monday.”

Not again. Not today. Her stomach plummeted. “Please don’t say it.
Please.
”

He set his free hand on her shoulder, his other holding his coffee cup, and turned her toward the door she’d just come through. “Serial is not just something you eat for breakfast. But after the second Scripture, I figured you knew what you had on your hands.”

“Goddamn it.” She wanted to punch something. She motioned to Ballard and Branch instead. “Let’s go.”

“Where to?” Ballard asked, keys in hand.

“Call came in ten minutes ago. Parking garage downtown.” Melvin rattled off the address, drained his cup, then tossed it into the trash bin at the door.

“Who was it?” The question came from Branch.

Melvin looked over. “Attorney Autumn Carver. Coworkers found her.”

Leaving them Darius and Corky to find. Miriam hated to ask. “Another stoning?”

“More of a . . . sawing. Or chopping. She bled out—”

“Onto a blue tarp?” she asked. That was the only detail she needed.

“Yep. Hell of a mess,” he said, shoving at the door.

Miriam blanched at the burst of light more than the thought of the blood. “And the Scripture?”

He stopped on the top step to put on his sunglasses. “Something about cursing.”

“Fuck me.”

“Thought you’d like that.”

T
HIRTY
-F
OUR

Monday, 8:30 a.m.

The killer had left his message—and Autumn Carver’s body—for her coworkers and anyone using the structure to find. The garage was dark on this lower level, with no access to outside air. It made for a claustrophobic crime scene, the smells of dank concrete and pungent exhaust hanging just below the metallic scent of warm blood.

Hell of a way to start the workweek, Miriam mused, doing her best to ignore the cluster of sobbing women behind the crime-scene tape. Of course, they weren’t far enough behind that they couldn’t see what was going on. One of them had made the 911 call. Cheryl Grant. She worked in the same law office where Autumn was a junior partner.

Where Autumn had
been
a junior partner.

Autumn was known for coming in before the crack of dawn so she didn’t have to stay until midnight. Cheryl came in when the office opened at eight. The forensic investigator put the time of death between six and eight based on the body’s temperature and early signs of lividity.

The suspect was doing some kind of job tempting fate with his timing. He was either really stupid, or really
really
stupid, or he didn’t care if he got caught. No one was that smart.

She refused to believe that because she didn’t want the bad guy to win.

“I’m going to guess this wasn’t a knife,” Melvin said, squatting near the blue tarp.

The wound that had struck down the victim ran from her shoulder to her hip. A sideways slash that had pretty much destroyed every vital organ in her body. Some of them lay glistening on the tarp. Parts of them, anyway. Miriam thought if the body were folded in half along the weapon’s path, it would break. Like a piece of toast. Or a hot dog held together by its skin.

For the first time in ages, Miriam thought she might be sick.

“I want to know about these fucking tarps,” she said, standing over her partner with her nose buried in the crease of her notebook.

“Hard to do this sort of damage with any kind of knife. This was a big blade.”

Miriam looked from the body to the man who’d spoken. Wade Ackerman was her favorite death investigator, just like Karen Sosa was her favorite crime-scene tech.

He wore boots, jeans, a Western-cut shirt, and his ever-present Stetson. He was a big guy, tall and husky, and he knew his shit, which was kinda scary if she pondered too closely.

Then again, a whole lot of her life was death, too.

She digested what he’d said, then pressed. “Big as in . . .”

“Like a lawn-mower blade. It was thick. And sharp. Fiona will have to verify it, but it appears it may have had a nick. If you’ll look here at the skin . . .”

Melvin leaned in. Miriam turned and stepped away. She’d take Wade’s word for it. And check with Fiona at the autopsy. Where she’d stand as far from the body as she was doing now.

God, she needed a drink.

“You need a drink? I can probably find a bottle of water.”

She shook her head at Seth Branch’s question. She could use some fresh air, and for him to let her catch her breath on her own. And, okay, tequila. “I’m fine. It’s just—”

“The blood,” he said, following her toward the garage’s elevator. “I know.”

“Thanks for not making it a big deal.” She needed to be alone. Two minutes. That would be enough. She turned to a new page in her notebook and clicked the end of her pen twice.

Then she wrote:
Autumn Carver
.

Seth motioned toward the building’s entrance. “I’ll help Ballard with the garage people, then we’ll head inside and talk to any early birds who might’ve seen something.”

She nodded. “Get a couple of uniforms to walk this floor. The others, too.”

“Will do,” he said, heading toward the attendant’s kiosk.

Breathing better now, she joined Karen Sosa in front of the victim’s car. “I know you just got here, Karen, and I don’t want to ask if you’ve found something and jinx anything—”

“Good morning, Detective Rome. And, yes, I found something.” Karen looked up, her expression a mix of promising and
don’t get your hopes up
. “Not sure it’ll pan out as related to your crime, but look here.”

She pointed to what appeared to be a partial footprint. “Looks like a boot tread. A work boot of some sort. Since the killer isn’t buying new tarps, this may just belong to the last person to have used it. Not sure I can get a size or make. It’s only a partial.”

“It’s a place to start. Thanks, Karen,” Miriam said, feeling her balance return.

Making a note of Karen’s finding, she approached Autumn’s coworkers. They stood in a huddle, though they’d quieted down. She stopped first to talk to the uniform who had their information.

He flipped open his notepad, pointing with the butt end of his pen from one to the next. “One is the receptionist. Two are paralegals. One is the victim’s assistant. Cheryl Grant. She made the call. The one in the turquoise.”

“Thanks,” Miriam said, approaching the woman who thankfully appeared to have calmed more than the others. “Ms. Grant? I’m Detective Miriam Rome. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Cheryl Grant nodded, her brown eyes wide and fearful, her dark cheeks stained with tears. Gold hoop earrings swung with the movement of her head. “I can’t believe this. It’s unreal. It doesn’t make sense. Why would anyone do this?”

“How long had you worked with Autumn?” Miriam asked, pushing before the other woman choked up again.

Cheryl sniffed, and Miriam reached into her pocket for a tissue. “Thank you. I started here three years ago. I work for her and two of the other junior partners.”

Miriam jotted down the information. “Did she always come to work early? Or just when she had something big going on?”

“She always had something big going on. She could’ve been in the office twenty-four hours a day and still have work left to do. She liked the quiet. She said she got her best work done when she was here alone and could think without her phone constantly ringing.”

Adding to her notes, Miriam asked, “I guess that’s part of the job? The partner track?”

But Cheryl shook her head. “She was preparing to cut back—oh, God. Her little girl!”

God, not again.
“She has children?”

“She was in the middle of a private adoption,” Cheryl said, twisting the tissue to shreds. “She was so excited. The baby’s due in September.”

Miriam flipped back a page in her notebook. Autumn Carver was fifty years old. This was going to need some explaining. “She’s not currently married, correct? Is she seeing someone? Does she have other children?”

“I don’t think she’s ever been married. Has she, Deb?” Deb, whom Miriam identified as the receptionist, shook her head, and Cheryl went on. “She broke up about two years ago with a man she’d been seeing for quite a while. The adoption happened after that. It was pretty sudden. And surprising.”

I bet.
“Did she know the family she’s adopting from?” Because with so many young married couples wanting babies, it was curious that a family would choose a single career woman.

An
older
single career woman.

Had the killer known about the adoption? Was he making a statement about Autumn’s fitness as a parent? Miriam glanced back at the Bible verse painted on the floor.

“I don’t know,” Cheryl said. “She didn’t talk about the details. We all knew about the adoption, of course.”

“We were throwing her a surprise baby shower next week,” Deb put in, which started the foursome crying again.

“Thank you,” Miriam said, then turned to the officer. “Don’t let them leave. I’ll be back in a minute.” Then she crossed to where Melvin and Ballard stood watching Wade finish up.

“Autumn Carver was in the middle of an adoption.”

Melvin frowned, scratching out a note in his spiral. “Brokering one? As an attorney?”

“No,” Miriam said, waiting for that to register. “She was adopting a baby.”

“How old was she?” Ballard asked.

Miriam’s first thought exactly. Her second was about the money. “Private adoptions are pretty expensive, aren’t they?”

The two men exchanged a glance that said neither had more than secondhand knowledge. Melvin finally spoke. “Attorneys do make a pretty good living.”

True, though Miriam wasn’t comfortable with any of it. “She was a junior partner, but those hours still aren’t conducive to being a single parent.”

“Maybe she’d arranged for a live-in nanny,” Ballard offered.

“I want to see her closet,” Miriam said, pulling out her phone to photograph the Scripture. She ducked inside that section of the scene the responding officers had partitioned off.

And he that curseth his father, or his mother, shall surely be put to death. Exodus 21:17.

“Her closet?” Ballard asked, as he followed.

“Well, her whole place,” Miriam said, thinking about the cost of her recent makeup splurge. “But her clothes will say a lot about her financial situation.”

And perhaps hint at whether they’d be finding that she’d recently deposited a check from Sameen Shahidi.