Rite of Wrongs (8 page)

S
IXTEEN

Tuesday, 8:00 a.m.

The next morning, Miriam couldn’t get ready for work fast enough, though a whole lot of that was wanting to get out of the house and away from her dreams. Broken skulls. Bashed-in faces. Bobbing in a sea of blood. Caught beneath a great big tarp and unable to breathe.

Yeah, that had been a great way to spend the night.

As if chronic insomnia wasn’t already kicking her ass.

Nightmares weren’t a problem for her as a rule. Even after a grueling interview like yesterday afternoon’s exchange at the station with a very broken Alex Maldonado. She knew a lot of police officers had bad dreams, hardly unexpected with the things they saw every day.

But having grown up reading Stephen King and watching Freddy Krueger, she prided herself on being immune to most horror, even while being completely aware of what was real and what was the product of a creatively twisted mind.

It hadn’t been hard to hide out in the living room when Erik’s friends were over for a
Nightmare on Elm Street
marathon. Or creep into her father’s study after he’d gone to bed and find
Pet Sematary
bookmarked on his side table.

She’d been a sneaky little brat in her time.

That early indoctrination had desensitized her to a lot of evil, as had her grad-school studies, where she’d learned to break down the makeup of psychopaths. Most days, she easily compartmentalized what she saw on the job. Stabbings in this pile. Shootings in that one. Rapes over here. Torture in its own special drawer.

Her mental filing system kept her emotional toll in check.

Usually.

She was less successful when kids were involved. And she’d had to accept that she’d never do well with blood. But all the rationalization in the world didn’t help with her dreams. They reached down into the storehouse of her subconscious, picking at the rawest wounds, scratching and scraping, digging for what she’d deliberately shitcanned.

Things like Gina Gardner’s pink-and-red color scheme.

Franklin Weeks’s missing face.

The Bible written in blood.

According to her alarm clock this morning, she’d slept at least six hours last night. According to her body and brain, she hadn’t slept at all.

She’d struggled against the waves, blood being thicker than water. She’d pushed and stroked and gotten nowhere but tangled up in her bedclothes until her comforter came close to smothering her, and her sheet ended up shackling her feet. She’d almost fallen out of bed.

Her skin had been like ice when she’d finally opened her eyes, her body uncovered while her scalp sweated in its cocoon. She hated bad dreams.
Hated them.
The weirder they were, the worse of a mood she woke up in, and the longer it took her to get her head on straight.

With all the unsolveds on her plate, she couldn’t afford to spend a single hour any other way. Her current workload held two dozen ongoing cases. Her schedule was already sliced razor thin. And these Bible-verse murders . . . damn if she didn’t have a serial killer on her hands.

What she needed, she mused, stepping into the shower, was an early yoga class. Her studio offered hot hatha at five thirty.
Move your body! Free your mind!
That had always seemed an insane hour, but dreaming about crushed skulls proved she could use having her mind freed. And since moving her body brought to mind Thierry and that brand of guilt . . .

Pushing away the thought, she scrubbed and shampooed and shaved and dried, slapping on SPF 30 moisturizer before flicking her mascara wand at her lashes. From her closet, she chose a pair of navy pants and a button-down white oxford, and once she’d shoved her socked feet into her boots, she found the blazer that matched the pants.

After reaching into the fridge for a bottle of strawberry kefir instead of into the pantry for a strawberry Pop-Tart, she grabbed her keys, her crossbody, and the expanding folder with Gina Gardner’s diary and went to work. At least it wasn’t Monday all over again, with more fire and brimstone on tap. In fact, it was Tuesday.

And not just any Tuesday, but the Tuesday her partner was due back. Suddenly, her day was looking up. She could face down the worst that humanity threw at her if she could duck behind Melvin and let him take the hit. He made such a good shield.

Once inside the squad room, she found him standing near their desks, talking to Judah and two of the CID’s other detectives, Danny Garcia and Brian Hainey. She didn’t care what she was interrupting. She stepped up behind him and wrapped her arms around his comfortable bulk, burying her face in his broad back. He smelled like pancakes.

“Don’t ever leave me again. Promise me. I can’t work with anyone but you.”

Detective Melvin Stonebridge, the
M
that had been absent for the past two weeks from the M and M partnership, chuckled deep in his big chest. Miriam felt the rumble to her toes.

“That’s not true, and we both know it,” he said, turning toward her as the others continued their conversation. “From what I hear, you and Augustine made quite the team back in the day.”

Augustine, named for the Christian philosopher, though during the time they’d spent together Augie had hardly been a saint. She huffed as she took a step back. “Before I ran him off, you mean?”

“Those words may have come from the lips of others,” he reminded her, his dark eyes shining. “But they have never come from mine. You know that.”

That’s because Augie had been gone six months before Melvin had left his state trooper’s job and taken the position with the UPPD. He’d never worked with Augie. He’d never known him except by reputation. For some strange reason—one she didn’t want to look at too closely—she was glad they hadn’t met.

“I do,” she said, nodding. “You keep me sane. You keep me focused. I love you, man.”

“Don’t say that too loud.” He gave her a big Melvin smile, the one that came out any time he talked about his family. “Violet can hear things my pit bull is deaf to.”

“Violet is one woman whose bad side I do not want to see, so my lips are sealed.”

“Keep ’em that way.” He raised a hand as Brian and Danny did the same. They headed to their desks, Judah to his office. “Because we’re about to make a trip out to the Bend for a domestic, and she hates it when I have to go out there.”

The Bend. Ugh.
Miriam
hated it when they had to go out there. The area really needed to be
un
annexed from Union Park and turned over to the county. The land barely sustained the residences scattered around it like ashes. The domestics out there were the worst.

But going with Melvin was a whole lot better than going with Ballard. Or going alone. “Now you’re making me sad. I didn’t think you and Violet kept anything secret.”

“It’s not secret. I’ll tell her if she asks,” he said, pulling his sunglasses from his suit coat’s inside breast pocket. “But no need to rock the boat if I don’t have to.”

She thought that might be called a lie of omission, but kept quiet and followed him through the station without ever making it to her desk. “She doesn’t ask, does she? Not about work.”

He pushed open the front door, wincing at the blast of wet heat that slapped them both in the face. Miriam dug for her sunglasses, too, settling them in place as Melvin said, “She does her best not to. I tell her anything she needs to know. She trusts me to do that.”

Which left Miriam to wonder how much Melvin actually kept from his wife. How much Seth Branch, Ballard’s partner, kept from his. Ballard wasn’t married; neither was Judah. She’d never shared much of anything with Thierry. He hadn’t wanted to hear about her dead bodies any more than she’d wanted to hear about his. Augie, on the other hand—

“You driving, or am I?” Melvin asked, holding up his key ring and jangling it.

“It’s all you,” she said. Man, she was happy to have him back. She could talk to him and never worry he’d take what she said the wrong way. And he had no problem letting her know what was what. “Are you going to tell me what exactly we’re walking into?”

They rounded the building for the side lot where he’d parked. “I’ll fill you in on the drive. And by the way? Your mouth smells like a pint of strawberries took a shit in it.”

She blew into her hand and sniffed, then grimaced. “It’s the kefir, sorry.”

“Keifer? Like Sutherland?” he asked, clicking the door locks.

“Kefir. Like yogurt on steroids. I thought it would be better than Pop-Tarts.”

“Uh-huh. Ain’t nuthin’ better than Pop-Tarts.”

S
EVENTEEN

Tuesday, 9:00 a.m.

“That must be it,” Melvin said, nodding toward the patrol car parked up ahead as he turned onto Deep Water Way. The address belonged to a single-wide trailer that sat on an undeveloped half acre, but it was still within Union Park’s city limits, so the call fell to the UPPD rather than the county sheriff.

Bummer that.

The Bend was a mess of a neighborhood, if it could even be called a neighborhood. Mobile homes on wheels sat next door to prefab modular houses, which shared property lines with shotgun shacks. There were even several travel trailers tucked deep into the woods. School buses picked up at the end of the streets. Kids had to run the gauntlet and pray.

There were no convenience stores. No gas stations. It was the land time had forgotten after the salt domes beneath were emptied of oil decades before. Or close to emptied. A few pump jacks still bobbed up and down in hypnotic slow motion, as if determined to bring up an occasional barrel and prove their ongoing worth. Mostly, though, it resembled a ghost town.

The structure sat as far off the road as possible, almost as if making a stand:
Come and get me.
The driveway was a set of long dirt tracks packed hard. Tall grass and weeds grew along either side, the closest growth spattered in mud, and that covered in road dust.

Once Melvin parked, Miriam pushed open her door to the smells of dirty oil and greasy shop rags and dog shit coming from the corrugated-metal garage off to the side. She shivered and tried not to think about
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre
.

She grabbed her notebook and followed her partner to the concrete steps that led to the door. One of the two uniforms waiting inside opened it before Melvin knocked.

He stepped out, closing it behind him. The men said nothing, their faces solemn, then simultaneously guffawed, shook hands, and did that backslapping thing that served as a hug.

Miriam wasn’t sure if things weren’t as bad as she’d judged from the officer’s initial demeanor, or if Melvin was just a lot better at letting things roll off his back than she was.

Betting on the latter, she hugged her notebook to her chest as he introduced the other man. He was Melvin’s five feet eleven, with skin just as dark and a smile just as bright, though she thought her partner probably had six or seven years on him. Also, a few more pounds.

“Detective Miriam Rome, Sergeant Abe Talmadge.”

“Detective,” Abe said, extending his hand.

Miriam took it and said, “Rome, please.”

“Only a few of us get to call her Miriam.” Melvin turned to her. “Abe and I play basketball in the same church league.”

And that was all the chitchat she had time for. “You want to tell us what’s going on?”

Abe reached for his notebook in his front breast pocket, all business now. “Diana and John Dickey. Married with a seven-year-old daughter and a nine-year-old son.”

“Are the kids here?” Miriam asked, because priority one in a domestic-violence situation was clearing a scene of innocents. Her priority, anyway.

Abe shook his head. “Just the two adults. Son and daughter are at school. Wife made the call, but the husband’s the one with the worst of the injuries.”

“Equal-opportunity abusers,” Melvin said, leaning back to spit. “What’s the beef?”

Abe cleared his throat as if the truth were too ridiculous to speak. “She says he got rid of her dog.”

“Lord love a duck.” Melvin was usually much better at cussing. “And he says?”

“He says he has no idea where the dog is.”

“You mentioned injuries. Have you called for an ambulance?” Miriam asked, thinking again about the dog blood Karen Sosa found on the tarp from the Gardner crime scene.

“They both refused,” he said, returning his notebook to his pocket. “And now that we’re here, neither one wants to press charges.”

Typical. Miriam clicked the end of her pen: on, off, on. “Call for the EMTs. Pressing charges isn’t up to either of them.”

“Yes, Detective. Will do,” he said, reaching for his shoulder mic.

The trailer’s interior reeked of fried food. Or maybe just grease that had spent years accumulating. And that on top of sweat, cat urine, and smoke that wasn’t all from tobacco. If there’d been an award for best trailer-trash cliché, the Dickeys would’ve won hands down.

The second uniform stood near the hallway that led to the rear of the trailer.

“You clear the back?” It was the first thing Miriam asked, and she did so with her heart pounding in her rib cage. He nodded, and she said, “Check again. Closets, under the beds, behind tables and chests. Places you may not think someone can hide. Look anyway.”

That was when Melvin lifted one eyebrow as if to tell her to let it go. Easy for him to say. He hadn’t been there that day five years ago when she’d failed to clear a scene. He hadn’t nearly gotten himself killed by not being sure. She gave a shrug and got to work.

“Detectives Rome and Stonebridge. You’re the one who made the call, Mrs. Dickey?”

Diana Dickey was taller than her husband, which wasn’t saying a lot since John couldn’t be more than five feet six. Both were thin in that unhealthy way of people who spent their money on drink and smoke instead of food. In the case of the Dickeys, Miriam was pretty sure drugs were to blame for some of the toll: the stringy hair, the dirty feet. Teeth never lied.

The trailer-trash cliché raised its ugly head and had her wondering about the kids.

From the recliner in the corner where Abe was making sure she stayed, Diana waved an arm toward her husband. “He’s done something with my dog. I haven’t seen her in two days. He’s always hated little Peaches. He says she’s too loud and squeaky.”

“Is this true, Mr. Dickey?” Melvin asked, stepping farther into the room that was nothing but brown—the carpet, the furniture, the paneling. Only the ceiling was white, though even the tiles there were stained tan with nicotine. “Do you know where your wife’s dog is?”

“I damn sure do not.” John stood with one hand cupped over the opposite forearm. Scratches covered one side of his face; blood trickled down his cheek to his chin. A four-person dining table sat between him and everyone else. “Just like I told her. And proper dogs bark.
Woof-woof.
Toys squeak. Not dogs.”

“She
is
a toy, you moron,” Diana shouted. “A toy poodle.”

John snorted before yelling back, “A poodle’s a worthless excuse for a canine.”

“A poodle is a working dog.” More arm waving. “They hunt birds. They herd.”

“Toys don’t. Toys don’t do anything but get underfoot and yap.
Yap, yap, yap.
”

Miriam rubbed at her forehead, then moved closer to Melvin, facing John and just barely stopping herself from rolling her eyes. “Where’s her dog?”

“Don’t ask me. I hate the little shit, but I’m not stupid enough to mess with it.” He nodded at his wife. “She’ll bite me. She
did
bite me.” He held out his left arm where bloody teeth marks oozed. It was just then the approaching sirens could be heard. “Aw, man. You didn’t call an ambulance, did you?”

Miriam feared for the future of the human race. “You need to get that sewn up.”

John grabbed a fast-food napkin from the table and pressed it to the wound. The white turned red in seconds. He grabbed another with the same result. “All it needs is a couple of bandages. It’s not like she’s got rabies or nothing.”

“I’m sure it’s not,” Miriam said, pausing at the sound of scuffling coming from down the hall. The skin at her nape prickled, as did that at her temples where sweat had beaded. Her heart slammed. Her hand went to her gun, her gaze to the uniform at the hallway. “I thought you cleared the trailer.”

“I did—”

“Then what the hell is that noise?” she asked, advancing just as a huge tuxedo cat came tearing into the room. He leaped onto the table in front of John, then jumped out the open window there and vanished.

“That’s just Damien,” Diana said, as Miriam tried to remember how to breathe. She was done with domestics. Done, done, done. Judah could take her badge. She’d had it.

Melvin snorted. “Maybe Damien knows where the dog is.”

Miriam wouldn’t doubt if the cat had eaten Peaches. “Do you have anyone you can call to pick up your kids?”

Diana shook her head. “They don’t need picking up. They ride the bus.”

Double-checking her notes, Miriam said, “They’re seven and nine. They’ll need someone to stay with them until the hospital releases you.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Diana said.

Jose Cuervo on a cracker.
“You’re going with your husband. You need to have that gash on your shoulder attended to.”

John nodded toward his wife. “Call my sister. She’ll come stay.”

“Fine.” Diana jerked the cordless phone from its cradle on the side table by her chair, nearly toppling the lamp there. “But I’m not giving her any babysitting money. Especially now that we’re going to get stuck with paying doctors for doing nothing.”

At that, Miriam walked outside to meet the ambulance, leaving Melvin to finish up with the Dickeys. She was this close to running the couple in for child endangerment as a prophylactic measure. Not to mention the fucking feline still had her heart racing.

The young officer followed her to the door. “Sorry about the cat, Detective. I didn’t see him anywhere.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She waved him off as she headed for the EMTs, jotting herself a note to check with animal control for reports of missing or mutilated dogs.

“Well, that was more fun than I thought I’d have my first day back,” Melvin said once the EMTs had left with the Dickeys and he and Miriam were once again in the SUV. “Two weeks away, and I’d almost forgotten how much humanity sucks.”

“And what part of that was human again?” she asked as she yanked her sunglasses from where they hung on the visor.

“Now, now,” Melvin said, doing the same. “It takes all kinds. You know that.”

“What I know is that Karen Sosa found blood from a dog on the tarp at the Gardner scene.” She winced as Melvin hit a pothole on her side. “I’m going to check with animal control and see if there have been any clusters of missing-dog calls.”

“Gardner. That’s the first Bible-verse murder, right?” He waited for Miriam to nod, then added, “Did she find any on the tarp used for Weeks?”

Back one day, and he’d already been getting up to speed. “That was only yesterday. I doubt she’s processed the evidence yet.”

“It’s a stretch, Miriam. One murder in Copper Acres. The second in Regent Park. A missing dog out here in the Bend.”

It was like he didn’t know her at all. “When have you seen me not stretch? It’s what I’ve done as long as I’ve been police.”

“Yeah. All well and good for you and your never needing any sleep and having no personal life to go off on tangents that eat up all of your time.”

She was wrong. He knew her well. “Man, I missed you. No more vacations, you hear?”