Drop Dead Perfect Page 8

  But it’s so hard . . .

  One more deep breath, at least her best shot at it, and she began to analyze her situation the way she would an ER patient who couldn’t communicate.

  Turning her neck again, she studied every inch of the run-down room within her peripheral vision, noticing things she hadn’t seen the first time around.

  There were little deformities in the faded wooden walls and a few strips of cloth on the dirty floor, along with a three-foot coil of rope, accompanied by several rolls of duct tape. She closed her eyes, warding off the questions about why her captor would need so much of them.

  She concentrated on the smell of the room. There was the same musty odor she’d noticed before, yet it seemed more subdued now. There was also a faint remnant of grease and oil, maybe. There were no other distinguishable odors, other than the less subtle scent of urine. Human? Animal?

  Panic gripped her heart again. Animal piss meant there could be critters roaming the building. She had grown up on a farm, but didn’t care much for rats or raccoons or skunks. They were each capable of inflicting serious damage. Especially on someone in her current circumstance.

  Human? The implications of human urine soaking these wooden floorboards, maybe even her own if she chose to think of it, threatened to paralyze her. She shook the idea—and the accompanying terror—away.

  What else? Come on, girl, think.

  Okay. The fact that she wasn’t cold and couldn’t detect any sources of heat could mean the place was centrally heated.

  That might mean . . . Her anger rose. Mean what? That the power company would come read the meter and find her and rescue her, and then she’d get to rip the balls off the man who put her here? She would have laughed if she’d been able to. She refocused. Fairy-tale indulgences weren’t going to help. Still, Joannie couldn’t help but linger on the thought of ripping Kyle’s scrotum from his crotch. She could almost hear him scream.

  Back to reality.

  She listened more closely. The room allowed no natural light, so she had no sense of time. It could be rush hour or three a.m. The lack of sound could mean the latter, or maybe she was just too well insulated from any sounds on the outside. If that were true, however, why was she still gagged? Maybe Kyle was the cautious type.

  Her mind traveled back to the voice that had spoken to her, however long ago. It was Kyle-like, but the more she thought about it, the less positive she was it was his. Again, she wondered if the man she’d met at the coffeehouse was in trouble, too, or had he masterminded this whole thing? Just her luck, particularly with men. She meets Mr. Perfect, who proves to be the kind of nutcase you only see in a true-crime movie.

  One more time, she wondered why. Why kidnap her and then just stick her in this room? And—if it was Kyle—why tell her he loved her and that he’d never hurt her? She’d seen that line in more than one of the books she’d read on her Kindle. Sometimes it worked out that way, sometimes it didn’t. But he’d seemed so sincere, so genuine. Could her instincts have been that far off? Knowing the question would eat at her if she continued to pursue that line of thinking, she turned her attention back to the room.

  Another close study of the room confirmed what she feared: there was no hope of making an escape. He’d planned it too well, covered all his bases.

  Her precarious optimism was disappearing at an alarming rate. Disquieting tears started to form. Despite her best efforts, she was losing her tenuous grip on hope.

  Dropping her head to her chest, she blinked away the damnable tears. Then she saw it: the thin line of light coming from where the floor met the wall, about five feet away. The light winked on, then out, her heart pounding in time to it. It was astounding how much hope that light returned to her.

  She strained to see more. She grunted and yelled through the tape, hoping that someone could hear her. She worked harder to move the chair. She knew it wouldn’t budge, but she couldn’t bring herself to give up faith. Focusing all her attention on that sliver of light, she saw it widen.

  Then she saw eyes. Wide, curious eyes, staring back at her.

  CHAPTER 16

  For the third time in less than twenty hours, Ellen watched the red flashing lights of an ambulance disappear into the distance, escorting a once-vibrant life to the ME’s morgue. This time, it took part of her soul with it. Oscar was gone. Just like that. Her partner, her friend, and her part-time confidant had been murdered. What was she going to say to his wife? His children? She’d been to their house for dinner, for cookouts. She’d even bought Christmas and birthday gifts for his kids. And what about the way he would always try to calm her down and then lose it himself? God in Heaven, she loved that about him. He’d helped tame her demons probably without even being aware he was doing so. Then again, he probably had been. Good people weren’t an accident of nature—they were gifts. Oscar had been one to her just when she’d needed him. They’d been partners for only eighteen months, but it would take a lifetime to get over the loss of him.

  She wiped away another wave of tears.

  Then there was the relentless guilt that was consuming her. Partners don’t let partners die, ever. He was her responsibility, just like she’d been his. It’s not exactly a blood oath between cops to protect each other; it’s more of a spirit promise, a soul agreement more binding than any formal one. She hadn’t been there for him and now he was dead. A homicide victim, no less.

  Ellen chewed the inside of her lip as she stood near three black-and-whites and watched the flurry of activity that went hand in hand with fifteen cops, six cruisers, and three forensic vehicles.

  Oscar hadn’t just been murdered, either. He’d been mutilated during or after being shot twice. She knew that because she’d hauled him out of the vehicle, with Brice’s help, and held him until she heard the ambulance scream around the corner of Lake Shore.

  Unable to stop her training from kicking in, even in the midst of holding Oscar close while she’d gently rocked him, she’d noticed that the hole in the side of his head was from a smaller caliber bullet than the one in his neck, probably some kind of kill shot, meaning he was probably still alive when his killer fired the bullet into his head, the shot that had finished him. She couldn’t be sure until she finished processing the evidence and received the ME’s autopsy report, but it seemed logical to her.

  And why the huge, gaping hole in his chest? The perp had dug through Oscar’s flesh, muscle, and bones with something sharp and rough-edged, yet left all of his organs, including his heart, as far as she could tell. It was almost as though the killer had been searching for something. One thing was true: she’d get to the bottom of it. She was going to learn everything the science could teach her because no one else was heading this case. The lab was her world, and Oscar deserved the best—and she was the best. She didn’t give a shit about protocol or even what Big Harv had to say.

  As the tears dried, her fury came to the surface. But for the third time in twenty hours, the anger felt different from the last fourteen months. This wasn’t about her asshole husband and what he’d done to her. It was about the killing of a good man and, as always, the question that haunted every cop in the universe at some point: Why? What the hell did shooting a forensic tech have to do with anything? The freak who had done this had to be out of his mind or stoned, or—worst-case scenario—he had a hard-on for the Chicago Police Department or someone on the force.

  Wringing her hands, Ellen stifled the desire to scream; instead, she walked over to the closest Chicago PD cruiser, unable to stop the clenching and unclenching of her fists.

  How could someone do this to my sweet partner?

  Ellen stared at the cruiser door, the department emblem staring back. Suddenly she hated everything to do with that symbol. She kicked the door. Then she kicked it again. And again and again. The dents were piling up and so were the scars on her expensive Burberry boots. But she continued until she fe
lt a hand grip her arm. She spun around, her fist raised.

  “You’d hit your old man?”

  She studied Big Harv. Then slowly, in the language that was reserved for daughters and fathers, she nestled into his arms and held tight. No more tears, at least for the moment. No more self-persecution, no more science . . . Hell, no more Brice. Just her and her father. He trying to take the pain away, and she trying to give it to him. Neither was able to fully accomplish what they set out to do. And that was okay. At least they were both trying, which sometimes meant more than getting it done.

  She listened to his heartbeat and felt better.

  “I’m sorry, Ellie. Oscar was a good man, and those are damn hard to come by these days.”

  “I . . . I should have—”

  “No. You shouldn’t have. You couldn’t have stopped this,” he said. “How in the hell were you going to do that? It’s fruitless to think that way. I know that as well as anyone. I lost two partners and . . . and your mother.”

  Big Harv caught his breath and then continued. “I thought I should have been there to stop what happened to all of them. Partners have each other’s back. But after a few weeks, I realized I couldn’t have been in two places at once. Ellie, no one cheats destiny. I’d have taken each of their places if for no other reason than to make the pain go the hell away. But in the end, that’s just not the way it works. Sorry, kiddo.”

  She stayed in his arms, whispering against his warm chest. “I know you’re right, but that’s not helping a lot right now. What do I do?”

  “Focus on something else. There’ll be time for dealing with the hurt, and kicking a few more black-and-whites, but meanwhile, find something constructive for your escape.”

  He pulled her closer, then held her at arm’s length.

  “For me, it was you and this damn job. That’s what I focused on, that was my distraction, and it kept the guys in the white coats away. I’ll be here for you, if that’s what you need. Except I suspect you’ll need more than me.”

  Gazing at her father in the dim light of the streetlamps, she reached up and gave him a kiss.

  “So when did you get so smart?”

  “Life’s a great teacher. And I’ve paid for a couple of dented doors myself. Amazing therapy.”

  He cocked his leg and kicked the door just below Ellen’s boot marks.

  Mission accomplished. Big Harv had gotten her to smile. She didn’t know if she’d ever loved him more than at that moment.

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Now let’s get this show on the road. We’ll get the other CSI teams involved, along with homicide, and get to the bottom of what happened here.”

  “Like hell you will. This case—Oscar—is mine. Plain and simple,” she said, remaining surprisingly calm.

  “You can’t do—”

  “Don’t give me that protocol crap, Dad. I’m working it with or without your approval. You know I will.”

  Big Harv stared at his daughter and sighed. “I need you on the other case. Some sick bastard is killing the women of Chicago, and it has to stop. No dice. You’re working that one.”

  “I can work both. I’ve worked as many as three at a time. I can do it. And like I said, I’ll be working Oscar’s murder anyway, in my heart and in my mind.”

  Big Harv kicked the car again and walked away from her, steamy breath rolling from his mouth. The early morning temperature had dropped below freezing.

  Walking back to her, he moved to within two inches of her face. “Okay. But we do it my way. You report to me every six hours and no bullshit. If one thing happens or turns up that I don’t know about and you do, you’re done. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir. Not a problem.”

  Daughter and father stared at each other, neither one blinking. One more look told her that he understood everything she’d felt over the last two hours and that this case, her job, was the thing that would get her through Oscar’s death.

  “I love you—don’t screw up,” he said. He waved his hand and turned back toward his car.

  He’d gotten about ten feet when Brice intercepted him. The two spoke, and based on body language, Ellen could see neither was happy. Despite her exhaustion, she hurried over just in time to hear Brice speak.

  “It’s gone. I don’t know where. Just gone.”

  “What’s gone?” asked Ellen.

  Brice looked at her, then back at Big Harv.

  The detective rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, and then looked her square in the face.

  “The evidence from the second murder scene, Holly Seabrook’s, is not in the SUV. Neither is Oscar’s camera. We’ve searched the entire area, and nothing. They’ve disappeared.”

  CHAPTER 17

  The early morning sun sparkled on the calm waters of Lake Michigan like precious jewels. He’d witnessed this breathtaking scene a thousand times from this very apartment. Each instance stimulated the identical polar reactions: awe and disappointment.

  He’d always been awed by instances of pure beauty. It sparked a fire in him that would be difficult to explain to the common person. It was like listening to Bach or Tchaikovsky. Every note was simply genius, every rise and fall an intricate story, every rhythmic emphasis a new chapter in mystery and intrigue, opening a world of possibilities.

  He reacted the same way when gazing upon a Van Gogh or a Monet. Each stroke of the brush was an expression of passion, a fascinating love story. He knew the artist would surely die without the eternal devotion of the canvas and brush. It was a beautiful, symbiotic relationship made in Heaven.

  Exquisite.

  The very word caused him to tremble with emotion. His life, growing up on the ugly side of Chicago, had been completely devoid of anything that remotely resembled beauty, physical or otherwise. His mother, a reformed drug addict, who wasn’t really. A supposed father whom he’d met just twice, killed trying to rob an off-duty police officer in a deserted parking lot. His brother, a mess in so many ways, who demanded his constant attention, despite his proclivity for the current tech world.

  He still felt a visceral spike of humiliation whenever he thought of the apartment of his youth. It had been a one-bedroom joke with boarded windows. Walls painted the same worn colors as the brown rats that played on the warped dining table and infested the ragged sofa where he and his brother had slept. He closed his eyes. There wasn’t a single tattered remnant of beauty or hope in any of those memories.

  He had suffered through school wearing hand-me-downs and experienced the mortification only kids in high school can conjure up and inflict upon others. The vicious, biting comments still haunted him, if he allowed it. Never mind the beatings. He’d contemplated ending it all every single day. But he simply couldn’t bring himself to do it. His younger brother needed him. At least someone had.

  Then, during his junior year, an incident occurred that changed his life forever. The unexpected, but perhaps long overdue, episode had brought him from the brink of destruction to the sweet realm of redemption.

  Susan Jacobs had been the hottest senior in his shithole school, and she’d known it. She had been a condescending bitch who’d made it her mission in life to embarrass lesser mortals in endlessly creative and wildly effective ways.

  On a late February night, he was leaving wrestling practice—wrestling being the one thing he was good at. She was leaving cheerleading rehearsal at the same time. As fate would have it, they were unexpected neighbors at the bus stop, standing only a few feet from one another. She glanced at him once, then twice.

  “I know you. We’re in history class together,” she’d said.

  He hadn’t thought he could speak but had found the words. “I . . . I . . . Yes, Mrs. Carson’s class.”

  He recalled that the awkwardness of answering her had been born of emotion that reminded him to consider his place in her u
niverse. But she’d talked to him first. So maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t dirt beneath her feet.

  Susan had moved closer to him. “You’re in great shape, and you’re not bad-looking. Funny how I haven’t really noticed that before.”

  He’d stared at her, his mouth half-open, unable to answer.

  She’d leaned closer. “The thing is this. No matter how good-looking you become or what kind of shape that body gets into, no matter what kind of clothes you wear, you’ll always be one thing.”

  By then he could feel the warmth of her breath, smell her scent, and see the curve of her pouted lips. His heart raced, and he wanted to ask her what the one thing was, but he had been too nervous to utter a word.

  “Do you want to know what that is?” Then she spoke his name.

  His blood pulsed through his veins at a million miles per hour.

  “Y-yes,” he whispered.

  Reaching up to his face with a gloved hand, she ran a leather finger back and forth across his lips.

  “A loser. You’ll always be a loser. You’ll never touch beauty like mine in your life because it’s not yours to have. People that come from where you come from will die there. You’ll only be able to fantasize about touching someone like me. We’re so far out of your league—”

  Before he had been able to stop himself, he had her throat in his hands, and they were twisting. He felt something give, felt the air escape from her lungs in a slow, deliberate sigh. Her face held an expression of pained disbelief, and then he’d let her slowly slip to the snow-covered sidewalk.

  Fear had been etched on her pretty face as she sank lower. She’d clutched his coat, then his hand, and then she’d touched nothing at all. The thought of that look on her face, that disbelief, still gave him a measure of joy.

  At first, he’d been terrified by the fact that he’d killed her, not understanding how it could have happened so quickly, so effortlessly. His mind, his vision, had simply gone a vivid red, and then she was in his hands.