Blood of Saints Page 8
“He was your son.” The words sounded flat. Heavy.
“Yes, he was … and then he became a liability.” His father blew out an exasperated breath. “Mason would have understood and accepted that. He would not have wanted me to do what they were asking me to do, merely to save him. Unlike you, he saw the bigger picture.”
“Maybe, but he would’ve wanted you to save Em.” Ben shook his head. Emily had been his brother’s wife for exactly twenty-two days. She’d been Ben’s friend considerably longer. “You could’ve let me go.”
Now his father laughed. The sounds he made were no longer ones of annoyance. Now he sounded amused. “Benjamin …” He looked at him like he was a kid who’d insisted wearing a red cape instantly made him Superman. “What could you have done?”
He gripped the edge of the desk in front of him to keep himself from launching across it. “I could have tried.”
“And you would have failed.” His father waved a hand at him, his tone as dismissive as Celine’s had been only minutes ago.
He thought of the pair of Desert Eagle .40s he used to carry. He hadn’t worn them in months. Hadn’t had a reason to. If he’d had them right now, his father would be dead. “I really, really need you to stop talking now.”
Incredibly, his father fell silent for a few moments before changing tactics. “Is that why you’ve developed such an affection for Michael O’Shea? Why you insist on hiding him from me? Because he reminds you of your brother?”
“I’m not hiding anything,” he lied smoothly. “O’Shea was just a guy. Now he’s a dead guy at the bottom of the ocean.”
“And Sabrina Vaughn? Is she just some woman?”
Not was. Is.
He stood. Being the son of Livingston Shaw, he’d learned very early to recognize when he was being played with. Usually it amused him to play back, but not tonight. There was too much at stake to keep engaging in his father’s games.
“Sabrina who?” he said, feigning puzzlement for a moment before shooting the cuffs on his hand-tailored shirt. “Now, if you’ll excuse me …” He glanced at his watch. It was ten minutes after seven. Celine should be settled in and naked by now. “I have other, better things, to do.”
“You’re forcing my hand, Benjamin,” his father said, tipping his head slightly so he could look him in the eye. “Michael and Sabrina may not be within my grasp, but there are others. Expendable others that—”
Panic slammed around inside his chest, knocking against the rage that always nested there, shaking it loose, and he nearly choked on its bulk. Valerie. Her husband, Devon Nickels. Their baby. Jason and Riley, Sabrina’s brother and sister. Her partner, Strickland … Mandy Black, the medical examiner who’d been her friend. Incredibly, Ben had assumed responsibility for them over the past year. He—the guy who didn’t give a fuck about anything or anyone—suddenly found himself at the helm of a lifeboat filled to capacity.
“We have an agreement,” he ground out. “I’ve kept my end of it.”
“Barely.” His father tented his manicured fingers under his chin, giving him a sympathetic smile. “Which is why I’m renegotiating the terms of our agreement.”
“No, you’re not.” He shook his head. “You won’t touch them—any of them.” Ben leaned over his father’s desk, slamming clenched fists into hardwood, glaring down at him. “Not. One. Hair. Not if you want me to keep playing show pony.” He straightened himself, still looking down at his father because he knew how much he hated to be looked down at. “You even think about them and I’ll blow it all. It’ll be over before it even gets started.”
“Think about what you’re saying, Benjamin,” his father said quietly. “And who you’re saying it to.”
“I know exactly what I’m saying, Dad—dead or alive, Michael and Sabrina are gone. You lost. Get used to it. Stop trying to punish other people in their place.”
“It should have been you instead of Mason.” It was the closest his father had ever come to admitting he regretted his decision to let his brother die. It didn’t even hurt, knowing he felt that way. Hearing his father tell him he wished he was dead.
He didn’t feel anything at all.
Ben smiled, the frost of it turning his lake blue eyes to ice. “Finally, something we agree on.”
Sixteen
Yuma, Arizona
The police station hadn’t changed much. Two-story brown stucco with long, narrow windows. The sections of glass were wide enough to offer a slight view of the barren landscape that surrounded the building without being wide enough to allow the oppressive heat outside to seep its way in. She’d come here once with Valerie and her mother to pick up her younger sister, Ellie. Ellie had been fourteen at the time, caught with a bunch of other kids who’d been out in the fields busting watermelons. Senseless, petty vandalism, but to Val’s mother, who’d spent nearly forty years in those fields alongside her husband, it’d been much more than that.
Sabrina could still see her standing over a surprisingly sullen Ellie, hands planted on her hips, mouth a hard, bloodless slash cut across her dark brown face. “What were you thinking, Elena? How could you be so cruel?”
“They’re just watermelons,” Ellie said, shrugging to cover the wavering in her tone. “You act like we were caught strangling puppies or something.”
Before her mother could react, Val stepped in, pulling Ellie out of the chair she’d been sitting in. “You ungrateful little snot,” she said, giving her little sister a brief shake. “How many of those watermelons do you think Mamá had to pick to feed you? Buy those ridiculous designer jeans you begged her for, huh?” Val was tiny. In that moment, glaring at her sister, she’d looked like a giant.
Ellie scoffed, jerking her arm out of Val’s grip. “I don’t know—how many do you think it took Papi to pick before it killed him? A thousand? Ten thousand?”
It was the first and last time any of them mentioned Val’s father or what had happened to him. Until then, Sabrina had suspected he’d left them, gone back to Mexico to start a new life. One that didn’t involve the responsibility of a wife and children. It probably would’ve been easier if he had.
It’d turned out to be an isolated incident. Ellie hadn’t been in trouble, before or since. She’d left Yuma directly after high school, earning a partial academic scholarship to ASU to study forensic science.
“You ready for this?”
Sabrina looked at Church, still seated behind the wheel. She hadn’t killed the engine yet, unwilling to give up the cold blast of air from the AC unless it was absolutely necessary. Was she ready for this? No. She wasn’t. A week ago, the only thing she had to worry about hunting was a solitary wolf stalking a few head of cattle. What she was hunting now was far more cunning and infinitely more dangerous. She didn’t want this. She didn’t want any of it.
She wanted to go home.
“Let’s just get it over with,” she said, kicking her door open and stepping out into the blazing heat.
–––––
Their reception wasn’t a warm one. The uniform behind the information desk took one look at their credentials and barely managed to stifle the sneer that teased at his mouth. “Major Crimes is on the second floor. I’ll phone it up and let Santos know you’re here.”
“Santos? Will Santos?” she said, struggling to keep her tone light and curious. Santos had been the lead detective on her case nearly twenty years ago. In his early thirties then, he’d be in his fifties now.
“Yeah,” the uniform said, cradling the desk phone against his shoulder, his gaze focused on her face. “You from around here?”
She shook her head, silently thanking Michael for insisting she memorize her cover story so thoroughly. “I was plugged into the Phoenix field office straight out of Quantico,” she said, the lie so effortless for a moment, it felt like the truth. “A couple of cases led me down here. Must be why I recognize the name.”
“Is there something I should know?” Church said under her breath, shooting the uniform a brief look.
“Probably,” she said in a matching tone. She remembered sharp eyes and a ruthless calculation barely hidden behind a smile that was a little too harsh to be genuine.
The last time Will Santos had seen her, her face had been obliterated. It’d taken nearly a dozen surgeries to put her back together after Wade had finished with her. Still, thanks to the countless articles written about her the last few years, there was a chance he’d recognize her.
Before she could say anything else, the elevator across the lobby dinged, its door sliding open to release its passenger. He hadn’t changed much. Same dark, assessing gaze. Same crooked nose. Same cauliflower ear. Short stature but powerfully built, with wide shoulders and muscular arms. The only thing that gave away Santos’s advance in years was the silver threaded through his hair and a slight softening around his belly.
He headed straight for her and for a moment, Sabrina was sure she’d been made. “I’m Detective Santos,” he said, extending his hand while giving her one of those smiles that said he was carefully weighing her. “Thanks for coming so quickly.”
His words made it sound like he’d been the one to request the FBI’s involvement, and she wondered how true that was. While not all locals hated federal intervention, most of them resented the perceived loss of power when the FBI showed up. “Not at all,” she said, forcing herself to look him in the eye. “I’m Agent Vance and this is my partner, Agent Aimes.”
Santos shook Church’s hand before turning his attention toward her. “Your timing is impeccable, agents. We’ve got another victim—care to join me?”
Seventeen
“You know him.”
It wasn’t a question and Church didn’t phrase it like one. Instead of denying it, Sabrina just nodded. “Yeah. I know him.”
She and Church had decided to follow Santos to the crime scene rather than ride along. They’d been driving for about twenty minutes, heading away from the city into the flat, dusty desert that surrounded it.
“From before—when you lived here?” Church said, choosing her words carefully. It made her wonder just how much Ben had told her about what had happened to Melissa Walker. If she had to, Sabrina would guess he’d told her everything.
“He was the lead investigator on my case,” she said. “But that’s not where I met him.” She stared out the window, waiting for Church to pepper her with questions. She didn’t, which only confirmed that Ben was the king of the overshare. Finally she continued. “A few weeks before he took me, Wade killed a kid in a gas station bathroom.” The corner of her mouth lifted in a humorless smile. “He and a bunch of his friends had come into the restaurant where I worked and he tried to hit on me.” Outside her window, brown gave way to green as they made their way through farmland. Beyond the grass she could see workers in the fields, men and women, walking alongside a slow-moving truck, relaying melons into its bed. “Wade stabbed him to death and cut off his hand.”
“He killed a guy for hitting on you?” Church gave a low whistle. “Let me guess, Santos caught that case too?”
Sabrina nodded. “Yeah. I was sure it’d been because of me, but then Santos came back into the restaurant a week later to tell me the clerk at the gas station had confessed.” She’d thought she was safe. She wasn’t. Wade took her a few days later and she was pretty sure it was something Santos never really got over. “He’s a good cop. Sharp. Careful.”
“That’s not really going to work in our favor here, is it, Kitten?” Church said.
“You think he’ll recognize me?” It worried her. The last time she saw Santos she’d just gone through another surgery to repair the damage done to her face. She’d worn a compression mask for nearly three months while it healed. When she finally took it off, her own grandmother hadn’t recognized her. But that was before Jaxon Croft had come along and dragged her story—and her real identity—into the public eye.
Despite the very real possibility, Church shook her head. “I’m not worried about him recognizing you. You don’t look like you. The real you or the fake you.”
“Yeah,” she said, running a quick hand over her short hair. “The stylist did a good job.”
“It has nothing to do with your hair, Kitten,” Church said. “Everything about you is different. You seem lighter somehow. Less … occupied.”
The assessment reminded her of Wade. Made her wonder how long she had before he pushed his way in. Instead of voicing her fears, Sabrina slipped a pair of mirrored Aviators from her breast pocket and put them on. “Stop calling me kitten.”
–––––
Up ahead Sabrina could see what looked like a roadside circus. Tents and protective screens had been erected, forming a barrier between the crime scene and the cluster of news vans across the street. Squad cars and unmarked SUVs formed a haphazard circle around the tents, bright yellow caution tape looped around side mirrors and door handles. Uniformed officers were stationed at intervals to ward off bystanders.
The car ahead of them swayed onto the soft shoulder, kicking up a plume of dust, and Church followed. Pulling up alongside Santos, she killed the engine. Before she could ask Sabrina if she was ready or if she needed a minute or any of a thousand inane questions Church would see as normal or thoughtful, Sabrina opened her door and stepped out of the car. The heat of the day pushed back at her, the sun instantly scorching the back of her neck, gluing the ridiculous silk of her blouse to her damp skin.
Without waiting for Church to join her, she circled the hood to stand in the space between their car and Santos’s. It wasn’t long before he joined her. “Hear you worked down in Phoenix for a few years, out of the academy,” he said to her. Whether it was small talk while they waited for Church to join them or if he was vetting her story, she didn’t know—but the Santos she remembered hadn’t been one for small talk.
“Seven years.” She cut him a look behind the reflective lenses of her sunglasses, grateful for the coverage they offered.
“Yeah …” He wagged a finger at her like he’d just remembered something. “It was your profile that busted the Russel case,” he said, letting her know he read her jacket. “Pretty impressive.”
“Not really.” She shook her head, refusing to take the bait. That Ben had managed to plant her alias into the FBI database so quickly and back it up wasn’t even surprising anymore.
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Santos said. “Russel was a sick son of a bitch who hurt a lot of women.” Roger Lee Russel had been dubbed The South Mountain Killer by the media. He’d stalked and strangled seven female joggers in the state park on the south side of Phoenix, taking their engagement rings as trophies before he was caught.
“Phoenix PD did the heavy lifting. All I did was provide some insight.”
“I read the profile,” he said. “You did a hell of a lot more than that. You were the one who figured out he was targeting women who were engaged to be married and led the police to focus on wedding venue cancellations around the same time the murders started up.” Santos nodded his head. “You’re a helluva profiler.”
Because she’d done none of those things and pretending to made her uncomfortable, she changed the subject. “I read about you too,” she said, flashing him a cool smile. She remembered this game. It was a cop’s equivalent to measuring dicks in the locker room. She hadn’t enjoyed it when she was on the job and she didn’t enjoy it now. “You were the lead investigator on the Melissa Walker case, weren’t you?”
His jaw flexed, clamping down
tight, letting her know they weren’t just playing anymore. That jab had drawn blood.
Before he could say anything more, Church joined them. She’d been smart enough to shed her jacket. “Whoever said it’s a dry heat is a complete liar,” she said, softening her complaint with a good-natured grin.
“It’ll cool off as soon as the rain starts,” Santos said, pointing a thick, blunt finger upward. Dark, heavy clouds were starting to accumulate in the distance. “We’re in the middle of our monsoon season, which means we’re racing the clock.” He angled his body toward the tents and started walking, forcing them to follow. “Once it starts coming down, CSU will be finished.”
Stooping below the tape, the three of them walked in silence, heads down and necks stiff against the shouts and calls of the reporters across the street. So far they’d all minded their manners and stayed on the far side of the narrow strip of blacktop that served as a road, but that wouldn’t last long. Sooner or later, one of them would get tired of waiting. “Suppose you’ll want to hold a press conference,” Santos said, reading her mind.
“That’s your call, detective,” Church said, leaving the media behind as they neared another cordoned-off area, this one surrounded by CSU techs in shirtsleeves. “My partner and I are here to help catch a killer. The operative word is help. Any and all decisions pertaining to the case and how it’s handled are entirely up to local law enforcement.”
From inside the dark interior of the stucco sanctuary, someone coughed, “Bullshit.” The word was followed by another cough.
A look of pure exasperation passed over Santos’s face. “Agents Aimes and Vance, I’d like you to meet Detective Mark Alvarez, my partner.”
In the open doorway stood a man in a limp-looking polo shirt and a pair of lightweight khakis, his short dark hair plastered to his scalp by sweat and humidity. Instead of offering to shake their hands, he looked at his partner. “You were right,” he said, his tone holding an odd mixture of awe and anger. “It’s her. She’s dead.”