Touching Evil (15 page)

"He ... You need to. There are. Oh, God, Artie. There are things in the house. Upstairs. Parts."

He could hear her gagging, and damned if he didn't have a graphic
mental picture of what it looked like. "Where's Greg, honey? How is he?"

"He's locked himself up on the roof. He turned the elevator off. I
heard him tearing things apart upstairs and screaming. Now he's quiet.
I've closed the store. That's okay, right?"

"Yeah, that's..." Okay? Fuck no, it wasn't okay. Greg could have
hurt himself. He could have. God knew what. Artie hopped in the Camaro,
barely looking before he squealed out of the lot.

He used the siren, speeding through lights and daring anyone—
anyone
—to get in his way. "What ... what do you want me to do, Artie? I'm ... I'm not feeling a lot of love and light here."

"Just stay there until I get there, can you do that? And listen."
And make sure Greg wasn't throwing himself off the roof. "And if you
see anything out of place in the store, kind of note it down, but don't
touch. Okay?"

"Okay. Okay. I can do that. Can I call Mitch? Have him come?"

"Yeah. I would feel better if he took you home." No one should be alone. Come on, come on. Artie took a corner on two wheels.

"'Kay. You ... Greg can't stay in the apartment. You'll help him?"

"I will, I promise. I'm almost there, honey. Just hang in there." There. He could see the building.

"I will. I'm going to call Mitch." The line went dead as he pulled
up in the alley, cussing violently as a news van pulled up in front
about the same time. He took a second to call Leah. "Honey. You.
Uniforms. Forensics. Greg's. Now. The press is already here."

"Motherfucker."

"Exactly."

Artie slammed the phone shut and got out of his car and flashed his
badge. "Y'all need to leave. There's nothing for you here but a trip to
the station for obstructing justice."

"This is a public place, detective." God, he hated that bitch from
KXJS. "We have the right to be here. Is it true that Dr. Pearsall is
assisting with an investigation?"

"No. You turn that camera on, son, and I'll bust it into a million
pieces. Accidentally, of course." He bared his teeth. "You get in my
way, you'll have a criminal record so fast your head spins."

He left them, the bitch opening and closing her mouth, the cameraman
backing off a little, and that gave him just enough time to slip inside
when Alice opened the door.

A huge potted plant landed on top of the news van, the crash the
loudest fucking thing Artie'd ever heard. Apparently Greg agreed with
him.

Poor Alice jumped a mile.

"Just the news people getting a taste of Greg's mood, honey. You'd
best have Mitch meet you out front. And don't talk to anyone. Got it?"

"O ... okay. Okay. You ... you don't need me?" Another pot hit the ground, the reporters scrambling. Lord, lord.

"No, not now." He couldn't deal with both Alice and Greg at the same
time. "I need you to write everything down when you get home, though.
Everything. Okay?"

"Sure, Artie. Sure." A horn honked and she screamed a little, jumped. "That's Mitch. I'm going. I'm sorry. I have to."

"Okay, honey. Go on. Make a run for it and don't stop for anything."
He handed her a card. "Call me if anything, and I mean anything,
happens."

"'Kay." She kissed his cheek and ran as something else dropped—part of the rose trellis, it looked like.

Greg was going to kill someone. Artie couldn't go up the stairs,
he'd have to go outside, and God knew he didn't want to do that, so he
went to the elevator and checked to see if Greg really had it blocked
or if he could call it down.

He sighed as the damned thing started whirring, thankful again that Greg made him master keys to everything.

He made it up to Greg's place, stepping out carefully, not wanting
to disturb anything more than he had to. And worried the man might
start chucking things at him.

The apartment didn't look strange at all, not at the first glance.
It was the second glance that he got sight of a thin, graceful arm,
sitting as if posed, on a bookshelf.

Artie swallowed. Oh, fuck. Oh, Jesus, fuck. Artie couldn't look. Not
now. He had to get Greg, had to get Greg out. Then he'd bring in a
team, they'd sweep.

Other things caught his eye as he made it to the door, things he
wasn't going to look at right then. First you protect the innocent.
Then you clear the scene. Then you work it.

One step after another.

Greg first. Artie cautiously moved to the stairs, checking his
danger areas, creeping up so as not to startle. He nudged the door
open. "Greg?"

"Go away!" A chunk of roots and leaves and dirt hit the wall beside
the door. Oh, lord. He hadn't gotten to see Greg in full-blown hysteria
since the time he shoved the man into a packed elevator, way back when.

"Greg. Come on. It's Artie." He kept his voice calm, even, his movements slow. "Come on."

"He came into my
house
! Into my rooms! My place!" Greg's eyes were huge, wild, rolling.

"I ... I saw." God. He swallowed again, the bile rising. He'd seen
some pretty intense stuff in his career, but he'd slept here, eaten
here. "Greg, we need to get you out of here, secure the scene. Uniforms
are on their way. They'll clear out the reporters."

"I'm not going anywhere." Greg stepped away from him, shaking his head. "He touched things in my house."

"Greg, we have to process. There'll be people crawling all over." Greg would go nuts. More nuts. Whatever.

Greg groaned, the sound raw and agonized, head banging on the shed,
over and over again. "No. No, this is my house. It was mine. I'll burn
it down first."

"Greg." Fuck. Artie rubbed his chest, the sudden heartburn really
getting to him. Damned acid. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should've ...
we should've. Done more. Left a uniform. I just wanted to take you
home, and I..."

Got too fucking wrapped up to do his goddamned fucking job.

Greg stopped, looked over at him. "You're sorry? You didn't bring this here. I did."

"But—" Spreading his hands, Artie looked around, shrugged. "I'm supposed to protect and serve, babe."

"I don't..." Greg sort of collapsed in on himself, still standing,
but smaller somehow, gray as laundry water. "I'm sorry. I'll go. You
have keys to everything."

"Greg." Something was broken. Something he didn't know if he could
get back. He was gonna try anyway. Artie reached out, just holding out
his hand. "Please."

"Please what? I don't ... There are things in my bed. Parts. In the kitchen. Everywhere." Greg stepped forward, came toward him.

Thank God. Artie met him halfway. "I just. I dunno. Need to touch
you. Is that okay?" He wasn't sure what would be okay. Ever. Was he
being too fucking dramatic?

"I'll hear you. All of you. I ... My fucking head hurts, Artie." Greg reached out, hand torn up and shaking violently.

Well, his head had to be quieter than Greg's. He was still stunned.
Artie took Greg's hand, just pulling the man to him, kissing the
scraped fingers. Putting all of his need to touch Greg into it and
nothing else, if that could even happen.

"Artie..." Greg's knees buckled, falling against Artie and letting him hold them both up.

"I got you. I got you, babe." He wasn't a cop then. Just Greg's. Just there because the man needed him there.

"I was going to ask you to let me bring Duke here today for company. I'm glad I didn't."

"Yeah. I guess it was best. Okay." Fuck, he just didn't seem to know
what to do next. It wasn't a feeling Artie liked or knew well. "What
happened, babe? Can you tell me some while we wait for the uniforms?"

"I used the elevator and went upstairs, went in and got changed and
then I went to make coffee. There was ... there was a coffee cup. A
strange coffee cup in the cupboard. I reached for it and there was a
finger."

Oh, fuck. Okay, so they had a finger. And an arm. "What else?"

"There ... there's a heart in my freezer. An eye in the iris vase, optical nerve attached. An arm. Chunks of flesh in the bed."

"All right. Stop." He could tell from the way the words were running
together that Greg was close to losing it again. Artie heard sirens and
then heard raised voices as the uniforms started clearing out the
reporters.

"You need to work." Greg stepped back away from him, eyes rolling a little. "Can I stay up here?"

"Yes. Yeah. I mean, if you'd rather wait to leave until we clear.
Leah will be here. She could take you..." That would go over like a
lead balloon, with both Leah and Greg.

"No." Greg shook his head. "Do I have to give a statement to anyone?"

"I'll take it. Later. Do you ... You need anything?" Artie rubbed at Greg's arms, soothing them both.

"No." Greg shook his head, skin gray as ash. "I don't need anything right now."

"Okay. Sit tight. Meditate or something." And, yeah, he knew how
trite that was, but it was all he could offer. That and a kiss, as he
had to go down and help out with the scene.

The crime scene folks were there, the uniforms keeping the press back. Leah was in the store, almost growling, eyes snapping.

"Is he okay, Art?"

"No. No, he's not. He found a finger in a coffee cup. How would you
be?" He was taking it out on the wrong person and he knew it, but damn.

"Fuck off. How are we working this? He's going to have to go down to the station for a statement."

"I'll take his statement. Later. He's staying up there now, and not
throwing anything else off." Artie hoped. "What have we got?"

"I haven't been up yet. Crime lab says Greg's place smells like bleach ... Did he clean it?"

"Not this time. Last time. The bleach is left over from last time." Goddamn it. How many times did they have to go through this?

"Okay, how about Alice? Did she see anything? Is she still here?"

"She was having a breakdown, babe. I sent her home. I'll let you
take her statement later, while it's still fresh, but she needs the
hubby." He looked around now that he was braced, placing his feet
carefully.

"Okay. Cool. So, what? He's watching, right? He's got to be watching. How do we play it?"

"If I knew..." Clear your fucking head, man, Artie thought. "Okay.
We'll get what we can from this scene. We'll show Greg the tape, see if
he can get anything from what little you can see of the guy. We talk to
Alice, and we figure out where to stash Greg. He can't stay here."

"We're taking Greg to the station, then? I'll do it, if you want. Pop him in an interrogation room."

Artie rubbed the back of his neck. "What is it with you and this
hard-on for putting Greg down at the station? You haven't seen him,
Leah. He's teetering. He won't do us any good in a straightjacket."

"What am I supposed to do, Artie? He's a vic, a target. I'm supposed
to plop him in front of his TV with bits of dead chick on it? If he
needs to be hospitalized or sedated or whatever, he does. That's how
this shit works."

"I know. He's different." Damn it. "Can we just work the scene?"

"Sure." Leah's lips went tight, and she started snapping orders to
the random techs. "I want photos of the crowd. I want to know how much
of a body we have. I want to know exactly where Dr. Pearsall was and
what he touched, and I want that goddamn music turned
off
!"

He'd make it up to her. He would. Artie just squeezed her shoulder
as she went by in a silent apology and went to turn the music off, the
thought occurring to him that he should see if it was even Greg's CD.

He turned off the stereo with the end of his pen, then popped the CD case open. Bingo. Bloody fingerprint. Fuck, yes.

"Leah. Got a present for you."

Maybe. Just maybe they had something. Finally.

"Yeah?" Her eyes lit up, just dancing. "Oh, fucking A, Art. You get a gold star."

She scribbled frantically in a notebook. Thank God for her and her ability to focus on the details.

He let her have it, moving on, methodically checking shelves, up and
down from center. There were books missing—he knew because Greg
wouldn't stand for a surgical text to be beside a murder mystery.
Pulling out his notebook and pen, Artie got to work, making notes. He
could understand Leah. He really could.

"Leah? It's a bloodbath on the third floor." One of the crime scene
boys was shaking his head. "That's where the messy work was done."

"You find the body?"

"Parts of it."

"Goddamn." Leah was gonna hurl again. "Whoever did this was here for hours, Artie. When did Greg leave last night?"

"It was at supper time. When I came and got him. Maybe six?" He thought. He had the pizza receipt somewhere.

"Okay, and the store closes at what? Seven? Opens at nine?" Leah
chewed on her bottom lip. "He wouldn't have used the store ... Amy?
Honey? Go check the garbage cans outside at the base of the stairs."

"Yes, ma'am." Amy headed out.

"Books missing," Artie said. "Something here, too. Some kind of knick-knack."

"What kind? Looks like a box, maybe? Would Greg know if I asked?"

"Yeah. He doesn't keep much anymore. He'd know. I'll make a note." Greg knew everything, knew the history of it.

"'Kay." They kept moving. The bed was the hardest, white sheets
stained and bloody, the crime unit cutting a square from the mattress.

Greg might not ever be able to come back here. It was going to break
his heart. Artie sighed, checking the closet, his eye better than
someone who didn't know Greg at all. It looked normal, line after line
of not-dyed, not-synthetic, soft things. Greg's things. Still with his
pen, noting that he needed to get gloves from someone's kit, Artie
sorted through, just looking, frowning, making sure nothing was weird.

"Art? You find anything in there? Those reporters are getting into the building across the way, shooting film."