“Yes, sir.”
Hanson was glad to say no more about it. He didn’t relish telling Daubs that Roger and Marla had been playing sex games at the local porn shop. Personally, he thought it was sweet, an old married couple getting kinky together.
“Anything
else
?” Daubs asked.
“Just a handful of unexplained phone calls.” Hanson was eager to give Daubs proof of their due diligence, but he knew Daubs wouldn’t like the implication. “He had voice mails from a woman who identifies herself as Cherry—”
“Cherry?” Daubs blinked. “What kind of name is
that
?”
“Sounds like a stripper to me,” Griggs said.
Daubs glared and the throb in his temple flared again. Hanson threw himself into the breach before the other man could speak.
“The number comes back as a prepaid phone.”
“So you traced it?” Daubs demanded.
Another glance at Griggs, who was equally dumbfounded. Jesus, Hanson thought. You’d think the man at least watched
Law & Order
. An episode was playing every time you turned on the damned TV.
“Prepaid phones are almost impossible to trace,” Hanson explained, hoping like hell he didn’t sound as annoyed as he felt. “People just walk into a store, pay cash; they don’t have to sign anything or even give them a credit card.”
“Yeah, they’re popular with drug dealers and terrorists,” Griggs said. “And people with lousy credit.”
“So who
is
this
Cherry
person?” Daubs asked. “I
assume
you asked Marla?”
“Sure, we asked,” Griggs said, shrugging. “She says she never heard of anybody named Cherry. So maybe she is a stripper—”
“You—” Daubs pointed a finger at Griggs. “Not another
word
out of
you.
”
Griggs mimed zipping his lips and looked at the ceiling.
Marla’s reaction to the question about Cherry did bother Hanson, though he saw no need to tell Daubs. Most wives, even the ones who trusted their husbands, would be at least a little annoyed to find a strange woman had been leaving messages on their husband’s cell phone.
Not Marla. She had simply shrugged and said the woman must be someone he knew through work. A paralegal or secretary, perhaps.
The chief turned his scowl back to Hanson.
“What about this
new
girl two days ago? Is it the same guy?”
“We think so. Same weapon. Some kind of blunt object with a rounded end, probably wooden. Same kind of small blade, very sharp.”
“Same mutilation?”
“Afraid so.”
“Any connection at
all
between—what was her name? Robyn
Macy
? And Roger?”
“None that we can find. Not personally, not professionally. Nothing. They didn’t even use the same bank. We’re still waiting on the LUDs from Robyn Macy’s phone to compare them against Banks’s.”
“That’s
it
?” Daubs asked.
“Well, there was one thing,” Griggs said, hands still in his pockets, rocking slightly. “That symbol. The one on his key chain and her ass.”
“What
kind
of symbol?” Daubs asked, suddenly suspicious.
“Roger Banks had a key chain with a round tag on it.” Hanson circled his finger and thumb to show the size of it, about an inch and a half in diameter. “It has a symbol, some kind of emblem on it. Robyn Macy had the same design as a tattoo.”
He pulled the photo of the key chain from his coat pocket where he’d been carrying it around for two days, showing it to everybody with no luck.
“Any idea what this is? I don’t suppose it’s any kind of fraternity symbol?”
Daubs squinted, pulled the paper closer, and shook his head.
“I have
no
idea.
Marla
didn’t know?”
“Mrs. Banks says she has no idea where it came from.”
Hanson thought he’d seen something odd flicker across Marla’s face when they’d asked about the key chain. She’d been just a little too eager in suggesting that it was probably just some promotional giveaway. Roger was always picking up stuff like that, she had said.
Griggs hadn’t liked it, either. When they’d left Marla, he had snorted. “Who gives away something without their name on it?”
But this was something else he saw no point in confusing Daubs with. The man was beginning to breathe hard again.
“And the girl had a
tattoo
?” Daubs demanded.
“We found the artist who did the tat. But she claims Robyn Macy brought in the design and that she has no idea what it is.”
Hanson had spent a couple of hours on the Web, but it was damned hard to know what to search for when all you had was a symbol that couldn’t be typed into Google. Astrological, Celtic, Egyptian, mathematical, chemical, Hindu, Christian. Entire websites devoted to that Da Vinci Code crap. Don’t even ask about witchcraft and Satanic symbols. A guy could go blind.
“Nearest thing we can find is a symbol for Okinawan Karate.” Griggs laughed sourly. “And the U.S. Department of Transportation.”
“That doesn’t make
any
sense,” Daubs frowned. “I never knew Roger to be involved in any martial art or
anything
with the DOT.”
“Neither does anybody else,” Hanson said, wiping a hand over his mouth, just in case he lost the fight not to smile. “Robyn Macy’s mother didn’t even know she had a tattoo. One of her friends at the bank where she worked said, yeah, Robyn had been talking about getting some ink, but not whether she actually went through with it. The tattoo was only a couple of days old.”
His gut told him the tattoo artist knew more than she was telling, but he didn’t tell Daubs that. Neither did he tell Daubs that he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d seen that symbol before.
“And the
boyfriend
?” Daubs asked.
“We don’t know who he is. Friends and family didn’t know she was dating anybody, so I figure he’s married. We got fingerprints and DNA, but nothing hit.”
“That just means he doesn’t have a
criminal
record.”
Daubs was stating the obvious, apparently to remind them that he was a real cop, and not just a bureaucratic suit.
“I don’t think he’s the killer,” Hanson said. “Right now he’s just a person of interest.”
“Keep on it. And keep
me
informed.
Daily
. You understand? You get a
lead,
I want to
know
about it.”
The press had already given the killer a stupid name: the West Side Basher. Never mind that Robyn Macy had died on the south side of the city. Roger Banks had first dibs.
God help them, Hanson thought, if they got another body before they got a lead.
Chapter 12
Why I tie about thy wrist,
Julia, this silken twist,
For what other reason is’t
But to show thee how, in part,
Thou my pretty captive art?
But thy bond slave is my heart.
’Tis but silk that bindeth thee,
Knap the thread and thou art free,
But ’tis otherwise with me:
I am bound and fast bound so
That from thee I cannot go;
If I could I would not so.
—R
OBERT
H
ERRICK
,
“The Bracelet (to Julia)”
T
he package sat on the welcome mat at her front door.
Cherry stared at it, then looked around. She didn’t see anybody or anything else, just the package, wrapped in shiny paper decorated in pink and red hearts, tied with a bow.
She lifted it gingerly and wondered if she should hold it to her ear to see if it ticked.
Don’t be so paranoid
.
It was probably a mistake, something meant for the previous tenant. She had only moved in here almost three weeks ago. Maybe a housewarming gift from a friend?
Except none of her friends knew where she had moved. None except Roger and Marla.
She took it inside and laid it on the kitchen counter. Gunther jumped up and rubbed against her shoulder.
“Hello, stupid cat,” she said, running a hand down his back as she looked at the package.
The wrapping was pretty, but not extravagant, and the bow was taped on a little crooked. It looked ordinary enough, but its very presence was odd, and these days, odd made her uneasy. It hadn’t come through the mail or FedEx; someone had delivered it to the door.
She could carry it down to the complex office; they might be able to forward it to the proper person. Then again, knowing the manager, he would probably keep it for himself or throw it in the trash. She hated the idea that someone had gone to all the trouble to deliver a gift that wouldn’t reach its intended recipient. The recipient might never know someone had remembered his or her birthday.
She thought there might be a card inside.
“Should I just stand here looking at it?” she asked the cat. “Or go ahead and open it?”
The cat blinked at her and then mewed.
She pulled the wide red ribbon off, then slid a finger carefully under the paper so she could tape it back up if necessary.
The box was ordinary white, cheap and flimsy, about six inches square, not very deep.
Whatever it was, it was wrapped in newspaper. She pushed it aside.
Inside the box lay a collar. Not an ordinary collar like you would put on a dog, but a sleek metal band with a locking clasp.
It was the kind of collar a slave would wear. An expensive one that she recognized from the Stock Room’s website, back when a collar from her master was the thing she most desired.
Now the sight of it made her feel sick.
A card lay inside the circle made by the metal collar. Just a white card without an envelope, printed in neat block letters.
“MINE” was all it said.
Then a headline from the newspaper caught her eye.
Local attorney found dead,
beside a grainy photo of Roger Banks.
“I know, honey, I know,” Marla said on the phone. “But you’ve got to get a hold of yourself—”
“He left the damn thing on my doorstep!” Cherry was getting all leaky again. She was sick from crying.
“I know it’s upsetting. But if he’d wanted to hurt you, he wouldn’t have just left the box. It was a gift, not a dead animal or something. He probably thinks he’s wooing you, for heaven’s sake.”
“But the newspaper . . .” Cherry took a deep breath. “You don’t think he was the one who . . . who hurt Roger, do you?”
“No,” Marla said curtly. “If I thought that, I’d have told the police. It’s just a stupid coincidence. He’s got no reason to hurt Roger!”
“No,” Cherry said uncertainly. “But—”
“Whoever killed Roger was an animal. This Kerberos guy may be crazy, but cowards like him just beat up on women. They don’t have the balls to pick on someone their own size.”
“I guess you’re right,” Cherry said softly.
“Besides, you stopped talking to him before you ever came to me and Roger, right? If he was going to hurt someone just to get at you, it’d be more likely he’d go after Paul, wouldn’t it?”
That was true. She wondered if she should warn Paul. Kerberos knew that Cherry had been seeing Paul on and off, even though he wasn’t really her dom.
She had been afraid to go to Roger’s funeral, though it was unlikely that any of their kink friends would show up. Roger and Marla were too deeply in the closet, and their Lifestyle friends wouldn’t want to cause them any potential embarrassment. If you saw someone from the club at the grocery store, you didn’t even say hello; they might be with vanilla friends or family. You just never knew.
“You haven’t told anybody else, have you?”
“No! I mean . . .” Cherry felt her stomach churn. “I told Robyn. About you and Roger. But I didn’t tell her where I’d moved. I haven’t even given her my new phone number.”
Her phone had been the first thing she’d gotten rid of, even before she moved. She couldn’t afford another iPhone, so she’d just gotten one of those pre-paid disposable cells. She didn’t want any more calls from Kerberos or ranting messages on her voice mail.
“You deleted all your old e-mail accounts, right? Alt and CollarMe and FetLife? What about the club’s discussion group?”
“You think I should? None of that has any personal information that could be traced back to me—”
“Honey, I don’t know enough about that computer stuff, but I’d rather you be careful. After all, you met this nut online.”
It was bad enough that she couldn’t go to the club or the munches; without e-mail and chat rooms, she’d be completely cut off from the community. She couldn’t bear that. She didn’t even have any vanilla friends anymore.
She had blocked her FetLife account from Kerberos; surely that would be enough. She was safe online, as long as she didn’t post her real name, address, or phone number. Right?
“You didn’t tell the police anything about me, did you?” Cherry asked.
“No, honey. I promised you I wouldn’t, and there’s no reason for me to. Roger would want me to take care of you. We both cared about you very much. I still do.”
“You’ve been so good to me. I’m so sorry.”
“Where are you now? You’ll feel safer if you get out of that apartment.”
“I can’t afford to move again,” Cherry said, more tears threatening.
“Come by my office in the morning. I’ll give you the keys to the lake house—”
“Oh, no, Marla, I couldn’t—”
“You can and you will. I’d ask you to come stay with me, but my daughter’s still here and I don’t know how I’d explain it to her.”
“Are you sure it’s no trouble?”
“No, honey. No trouble at all. It’s just sitting there empty.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“You just take care of yourself. But try to keep Gunther out of my potted plants, okay?”