State of Decay (18 page)

“Green light,” Shanks said from the passenger’s seat. It was snowing again, but the streets were filled with people, and even this far from the restaurant district, the unease was palpable. News of the bombing had saturated every form of media before authorities could even lock down the site. Every time a new report came in, the death toll went up. The carnage had been horrible.

A horn honked behind us, snapping me out of it.

“Faye, it’s green.”

I gunned the engine and pulled out and veered down the next ramp on my right. At the bottom, I edged out onto the main street, nosing past the stream of foot traffic. When the GPS stopped blinking, I pulled off. Hitting the blues, I flashed them a few times and tapped the siren as I crunched over a snowdrift and partially up onto the sidewalk as pedestrians grudgingly moved out of the way to allow access to the parking ramp.

“Look, Faye—”

“I told you I’m fine.”

I left the blues on steady, then sat there for a minute, watching the light flicker off the snow and concrete while the garage cameras scanned the car and people trudged past, rubbernecking as they went. They all wanted to know what was going on. Who had set off the bomb and why? Were more attacks coming?

I didn’t know the answers to those questions.

“You don’t look fine.”

I felt Shanks move his hand over my own around the steering wheel. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. His hand was warm and dry.

“No one would think worse of you if you took five,” he said.

Shanks was a good guy. A good partner, and a good guy. He knew me as well as anyone did, I guessed, and he knew me just well enough to know I was fraying at the edges. He understood it. I felt like I knew where I stood with him, and it was tempting to give in to the stress and the fatigue and rest, but I couldn’t. If I did, I might never get back up.

He’s right. You’re not fine, but you can’t stop
, the voice in my head whispered.

It doesn’t matter
.
The
killer
won’t stop.

I shook my head. My heart skipped a beat.

“Faye?” Shanks prompted. He was starting to look at me like there might be something really wrong. I wondered if he wasn’t far off.

“Let’s just do this.”

Shanks had called in the middle of lunch to let me know the killer had struck again, this time taking not one but three victims right inside their own apartment in Alto Do Mundo: first tier and very rich, with lots of security. He had walked in and walked out again, and somehow no one had seen him.

All those people
, I thought. I’d never seen anything like what I saw outside the restaurant. There were bodies everywhere. I saw a man’s head on the sidewalk.

My phone rang, and Shanks removed his hand as I reached to answer it. I thought it might be Nico. At least, I hoped it was.

“Hello?”

“Detective Dasalia, I thought I told you to stop following me.”

Snapping my fingers, I signaled to Shanks to start scanning for the signal while I tried the trace again.

“You did.”

“That man sitting next to you is not your friend,” the killer said.

I scanned up and down the street, but didn’t expect to see him. He was close, though. He had to be; he could see us.

“Why did you kill them? What did these people do?”

“If I tell you, you’ll tell him,” the voice said. “You’ll tell him everything. You’re going to have to figure it out yourself, but to do that, you’ll have to wake up.”

You have to wake up. . . .
The revivor had also said that to me.

“What does that mean?”

“Have you imagined being with him?”

An uneasy feeling grew in my stomach. I looked over at Shanks and remembered my dreams. The dream I had been having just before the first call woke me up that morning.

“Have you imagined him touching you?”

“He’s close,” Shanks said.

“It’s happening. Don’t get in the way,” the voice said, and the connection dropped. I looked to Shanks, but he shook his head.

“Close,” he said. “That’s the best I can do.”

The arm barring the ramp rose and I squeezed the car through the gate, curving down the lit tunnel into the underground parking area. The complex was in a pretty good neighborhood, and there were a lot of nice cars down there. Shanks normally would have ogled them, but this time he didn’t.

“What did he say?” he asked.

“He warned me off the case again.”

“Anything else?”

His expression was one of concern.

“He’s taunting me,” I said. “I’ll have them run it again and see if they can get anything else from it. In the meantime, our best lead is inside.”

None of the doors were forced, so he either had duplicate keys or some kind of electronic lock pick. Security cameras were spaced regularly, and there were plenty more inside, but not one of them had recorded a thing as the killer walked right into the place and took three more victims not even six hours after taking the last.

I parked in the visitor’s area and we headed inside, following the path the killer had taken. The door to the apartment hung open and was crossed with yellow tape. A police officer stood outside.

From the looks of it, the door had been forced in from the outside, leaving a clear shoe print next to the knob. On the floor outside the door were boot tracks, and maybe another set of footprints in sneakers. I ducked under the tape, and Shanks moved in behind me. There were three investigators left inside: one taking pictures down the hall, and the other two sweeping for forensics. Near the officers sat a man in a sweater who looked like a civilian. One of the investigators broke off and approached as we entered.

“Detective Dasalia?” he asked, looking from me to Shanks. I shook his hand.

“I’m Reece. Bodies are down here, off the living room. . . .”

He led the way down the hall, which opened up into a spacious living area with a massive sectional sofa on carved wooden claw feet, arranged so that it was facing a flat-screen television with what must have been a fifty-inch screen mounted on the wall. A home theater sound system was arranged around the room, and there was a fireplace with a brick hearth and bronze fixtures on the wall to the left of the sofa.

“Nice digs,” Shanks said.

“They have any personal security?” I asked. Reece nodded.

“Yeah, but it was bypassed.”

“How?”

“Not sure yet, but whoever did it has some know-how, because nothing got tripped. These people never saw it coming.”

He led us to what looked like a playroom, where another television was mounted in front of a smaller sofa. Wires trailed to gaming devices and audio equipment. It was easy to imagine a group of younger kids in there, sitting on that sofa and playing, but instead something terrible had come to an end in that room.

“Who were they?” I asked.

“The Valles,” the officer said. “The father, Miguel, the mother, Rebecca, and daughter, Kate.”

Lying on the carpet in between the sofa and the television were the three bodies, a forensic examiner kneeling over them. Each was lying facedown, as if they had been on their knees and arranged in a circle like they had been facing one another. Their wrists and ankles were bound with plastic ties, and each of their faces lay in individual pools of blood that had joined in the middle. What looked like castoff and various arcs of arterial spurt had painted the carpet, the sofa, and even the walls. Whatever happened there had gone on for a while.

My eyes went to the young girl and stayed there. Anger and frustration welled up from out of the fog, and as I looked at her face, my throat burned.

“This is different,” I said to the examiner. “He takes single victims.”

“I understand,” she said, “but we found traces of the chemical signature you keep finding, the one for the explosives. It matches the one you found in the vehicle earlier. The wounds are a match, too. They were made by your mystery weapon.”

“Can they be moved?”

“Here,” she said, grabbing the mother by the sleeve of her shirt and pulling her over onto her side. “This is different.”

Rebecca Valle had been mutilated in a way that none of the previous bodies had been. There were cuts on her face, neck, and chest. Her sleeves had been rolled up and there were similar marks on her forearms, cut down to the bone in some places. Her belly had been slit open neatly, but not deeply. Just enough.

“He knew what he was doing,” Shanks said in my ear, and I nodded. The mother hadn’t just been killed; she was tortured extensively first.

“No one heard this?”

“Noise screen,” the officer said. “Might be why he picked this room. You could throw a party in here and not hear it in the bedroom. They could scream all they wanted; no one would have heard them.”

“I get it. Was the place searched?”

“Tossed,” he said. “Yeah, especially the bedrooms.”

“He was looking for something this time,” I said to Shanks. That was different too; in fact, it was the closest thing to a motive I’d ever been able to attribute to him.

“The father and daughter didn’t show the same signs of abuse,” the forensics investigator said.

“What was the cause of death?” I asked. “For the other two, I mean.”

“Actually,” she said, “the mother’s cause of death was a puncture wound to the heart via the sternum, made by your guy’s weapon. The other two were killed with the same weapon, but they were struck at the base of the skull.”

Why the mother?
I thought.
Why not concentrate on the father, the one most likely to be a problem?

“So she was tortured; then all three were killed.”

“Other way around,” the investigator said. “Blood patterns indicate the father and daughter were killed first, and then he went to work on the mother.”

She was the key
, the voice nagged.

“I saw footprints at the door,” I said. The investigator nodded.

“Yes, but I’m not sure they belong to the killer.”

“You matched them to the family?”

“No, but we were able to get an approximate shoe size from impressions in the carpet,” she said. “The placement makes them the killer’s. They don’t match either of the sets of prints at the door, and neither do any of the victims.”

“So someone else was in here?”

“Yes.”

“Before or after the murders?”

“I can’t say for sure, but I think after.”

“Why?”

“The boot tracks left traces leading to and from the bathroom, and that’s it. Whoever they belong to didn’t go any farther into the apartment. The sneaker prints do, but only as far as this room. They were faint, but it looks like whoever they belong to came down the hall, through the living room to this room, stood in the doorway, then turned around and walked back the way he came.”

“Then they should be on the building’s security cameras.”

“That’s the other weird part,” she said. “The logs on the cameras had been tampered with.”

“Tampered with how?”

“The system was breached remotely. A section had been wiped out, but the strange thing is, I don’t think it was the killer trying to cover his tracks. The time of death puts his arrival hours before the section that was missing.”

“So what was he trying to cover up?”

“I’m not sure it was the killer at all.”

“The two who came in after?” I asked, and she shrugged.

“It fits, time-wise.”

Maybe for some reason the visitors who came after the murders—the pair of sneakers that found the bodies and the friend with the boots who used the john—didn’t want anyone to know they had been there. Whoever they were, they didn’t call the murders in.

“You said the killer didn’t force his way in,” I said. “Who kicked the door?”

“The tenant next door,” Reece said, nodding toward the man in the sweater. “He said he got a call for help from the father, but it was over by the time he got in. He didn’t see a thing.”

“A phone call would have been a neat trick, tied up like that. Do you believe his account?”

“I think he believes it, but again, it doesn’t fit. We pulled the call records, and the call he got came after the section of missing security tape was erased. We traced it to a public phone, paid for with a drugstore phone card.”

“It was a tip,” I said. Someone wanted the bodies found, without having to come forward.

A witness
, the voice inside said.
That’s promising.

I sighed, my face suddenly flushed, and straightened my jacket. Maybe it did pay to listen to your gut, to trust your intuition. Things could hardly go much worse.