At the hospital, Abby and I showed her photographs of known attendees from previous sex parties. She noted meeting King, then lapsed into a full-blown panic attack upon seeing Reverend Davis’s picture. The hospital staff asked us to leave, and when we returned the next morning, we were told she’d suffered a fatal cardiac episode sometime during the night.
I suspect a coverup. Lieutenant Harris concedes the timing was convenient, but claims a reaction to a photo isn’t enough to arrest anyone on.
“I don’t have to remind you that Reverend Clyde Davis isn’t some average Joe off the street,” Harris says. “He’s a respected member of the Christian community. A goddamn philanthropist in this state.”
“That doesn’t mean he can’t also be a murderer.” If I’ve learned anything from being on the force these past twenty-odd years, it’s that a good cop knows when to trust his instincts. When his gut tells him a man's smile is concealing an evil his eyes can’t hide, he looks deeper. He doesn’t turn away.
“No,” Harris says. “But it does mean you have to be damn certain before you start throwing around accusations.” He taps his desk repeatedly. “Now, I’ve got the captain up my ass, the deputy chief leaving angry voicemails on my personal cell. Even the goddamn governor’s calling me up, telling me one of my detectives has been harassing his brother.”
“Governor Davis called you directly?” I sit up straighter. This is the first I’ve heard of the governor getting involved since we began looking at his brother.
“Very early this morning,” he says. “These people know who you are, Larkin. This investigation is no longer under wraps.”
It makes sense that Governor Davis would want to protect his kin, though I suspect the reason for his involvement to be far more self-serving. A murder investigation would drum up a lot of bad press and possibly jeopardize his re-election this fall.
“If the governor himself called you then I am on to something here,” I say.
“You’re on my last nerve,” Lieutenant Harris says. “You’ve got four bodies found within city limits. The rest you’ve cobbled together from all over the state. Now, I’ve read through those case files. I see the lines you’re drawing, how they might connect. But that’s not enough. You’re obsessed, and it’s clouding your judgment.”
“Lieutenant, I am doing my job.”
“Not for a while, you’re not. Badge and gun. You’re on administrative leave, effective immediately.”
He can’t be fucking serious. “Sir, we are onto something—”
“Your partner will continue the investigation in your absence. You’ll be back on the job in a week, but right now, I am ordering you to take a break. Go rent a cabin, go fishing, see your mother.”
A flicker of panic prickles the back of my neck. My mother’s house and the woods behind it are the last place I need to be right now.
Seething, I lay my badge and sidearm on his desk.
“Next dead girl’s blood is on your hands, lieutenant.”
I march out of his office and find my partner, Abby, already waiting at my desk. I meet her gaze, hard with anger and disappointment. I begin rifling through my drawers and stacking my notes.
“You done?” she asks.
“Administrative leave,” I say.
Abby drops into my chair, arms folded. “For how long?”
“Harris says a week, but who the hell knows.”
Her dark ponytail swishes like a horse’s tail as she shakes her head. “I told you, Cal. I told you to stop this—”
“Well, you got what you wished for.”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it,” she says. “What are you doing?”
I glance down at the papers in my hands. Notes and photos from the case I’m no longer leading. Honestly, I’m not sure what I’m doing. I think my hands just don’t know how to do anything else.
“Cleaning up,” I say.
A long, taut moment of silence stretches between us as I gather up the last of my scribblings. I know she’s got every right to be angry. But acknowledging her anger makes my situation real, and I can’t let myself go there. Not yet.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “It’s not you.”
“I know,” she says, because she does. She knows the real reason why this case is so important to me. Why these girls with their sad stories and even sadder lives weigh so heavily on my conscience.
“Listen.” I reach into my pocket and pull out a flash drive containing copied files of the hidden-cam footage from last night. “Don’t show this to anyone until we’re ready to do something with it.”
“What is it?” she asks, looking the drive over.
“Undercover video footage of sex trafficking and abuse taking place at Russell King’s residence.”
“You do realize the term ‘undercover’ only works when you’re on the clock, right? Too bad nothing on here’s admissible.”
“Just keep it somewhere safe, will you?”
I add a few cold-case files to the stack that no one’s bound to miss and head out to the parking lot. Harris is right. I am obsessive. It’s how I stay focused on the right things. Without the puzzle of a case or other noise to drown out the voices of my personal demons, all that’s left is the drink.