Sacrificial Muse (A Sabrina Vaughn Novel) (11 page)

TWENTY-SEVEN

Sabrina followed Croft into
the room and shut the door. Strickland was crouched next to the bed, looking at something that clung to the side of the pale pink duvet. Whatever it was, it wasn’t blood. From what she could see, there was no visible blood evidence. Lack of blood told her that whatever had happened to Bethany Edwards, it hadn’t been done here.

“Find something?” she said to her partner, and he looked at her before shooting Croft a withering glare.

“Maybe.” He tipped his chin at her. “Might be semen. Might be something else,” he said, scraping a few flakes into an evidence envelope, carefully not to disturb the rose petals scattered across the bed. “I’ll let CSU tell me, ’cause I ain’t smelling it.” He cracked a smile. “You do that?” he said, tipping his chin toward Croft’s face.

She glanced at Croft. Most of the damage was hidden by the hat, but she could still see some bumps and bruises. “Yes.”

“Coulda called—I’d have liked to see it happen.”

“Check YouTube.”

Strickland laughed, the sound causing Croft’s shoulders to go stiff. He wasn’t happy about being laughed at, but he kept quiet about it. Sabrina watched her partner poke around in the nightstand drawer and remove a couple of items. An expensive tube of lotion. A television remote. A box of tissue. She looked around. No personal items belonging to Bethany Edwards were visible. No clothes on the floor. No magazines or textbooks. Nothing to tell her that this was a room belonging to a nineteen-year-old college student. Nothing. Just the roses. He’d set the stage—made everything
just so
in order to feed his fantasy …

“Bag it. It’s a long shot for prints, but he might’ve touched them,” Sabrina said to Strickland, and he nodded, having learned to not question her instincts.

She turned to Croft, studying him for a few seconds before speaking. “So … what do you think? Who is she?” she said to him, watching his face for signs.

Excitement. Arousal. Disgust. Remorse. She saw none of them. All she saw was a kind of detached curiosity that made her slightly uncomfortable.

“Clio.”

Strickland stood, his head tilted to the side a fraction of an inch, asking her if she’d told Croft about the phone call she’d gotten that led her here. She shook her head, telling him that she hadn’t. Strickland dropped his free hand to the grip of his service weapon. Croft’s shoulders tensed as if he sensed Strickland’s intentions, but he remained focused on her.

“At least that’s what it says,” Croft said, looking at her a second longer before dropping his gaze to the young woman on the bed, his eyes locked on her face.

Sabrina followed his gaze, took in the scene. She was nude, posed with her hands resting demurely on her stomach. Every inch of her pale skin was covered in writing, the ink a muddy rust against the milky white of it. The same word over and over:

Κλέος

“You can read that?” Strickland said. His hand was still on his gun. “Is it Latin?”

Croft looked up at him. “No, it’s Greek. And yes, I can read it. And to answer your next questions, I can also speak it and write it.”

“You’re fluent in both Latin
and
Greek—you know what that makes you, right?” Strickland said, his hand still on his gun.

“Aside from a multilingual douchebag with an overpriced education? I suppose it makes me a suspect,” Croft said, delivering the last of his revelation directly at Sabrina.

Strickland took a step forward. “No … coupled with the fact that you just happen to keep turning up when shit gets weird, it makes you
the
suspect.”

Croft turned to face Strickland, head on. “I’m here because she brought me here,” he said, tipping his head at Mandy.

“Don’t get it twisted—you’re here because you have a thing for following my partner,” Strickland said. She wasn’t sure when he’d done it, but the safety snap that secured his gun inside its holster had been thumbed open.

“The only thing I’m
following
is a story—”

“Who is Clio?” Mandy said, bringing what was shaping up to be an epic throwdown in the middle of a crime scene to a screeching halt.

Croft spared her a glance, shoving his hands back into the pockets of his jacket. “She’s the muse of history and art. One of the nine daughters of Zeus.”

Strickland looked at her for a second and suddenly remembered what he’d told her in the elevator. Bethany Edwards had been a history major at Berkeley. From the look he gave her, he’d caught that too. “What’s with the book and the horn?” Strickland said, tilting his head at the items cradled in the victim’s arms.

“The
horn
is a clarion, a Greek instrument. The book is … just a book. Both are used to symbolize Clio.” Now Croft looked back at Sabrina. “Even without the writing, I’d know who she was supposed to be.”

“I bet,” Strickland said under his breath.

“And the coins?” Sabrina said, cutting her partner a
shut-up
look.

Croft leaned in and studied them, one placed over each of the victim’s eyes. “They’re drachmas. Ancient Greeks placed one on each eye to pay Charon, the ferryman, to usher their loved ones across the River Styx and into Hades,” he said, sounding like he was teaching a class on Greek Mythology.

“You seem to know a lot about Greek death rituals,” Strickland said.

“Enough to know
that
isn’t a part of them.” Croft pointed a finger at the victim’s chest. “Organ removal was never practiced by the Greeks.”

“What’s that?” Sabrina pointed toward the victim’s left shoulder. There was a letter burned into her skin, as big as her fist. A bright angry red, the edges of her white skin charred black from the iron used to brand her. It looked like a lowercase A, but she had a feeling it was something else.

Croft looked at her, his expression unreadable. “It’s the symbol for Alpha. It means the beginning.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

Again. It was happening
again.

Sabrina felt the walls slam inward, crashing down on her so fast and hard she felt her knees buckle a bit under their weight. She glanced at the windows. The curtains were drawn, blocking her view of the outside world. Reaching out, she laid what she hoped was a casual hand on the doorframe.

Keep breathing. Keep upright.

“Why don’t you get him the fuck outta here before I lose my cool, huh?” Strickland said to her, finally dropping his hand off the grip of his gun. She looked up at him. His tone was hard, angry even, but his eyes told a different story. He saw what was happening to her and was trying to save her from a complete meltdown. “I’m serious, Vaughn. Get him out of here. Go back to the station and start the paperwork. Black and I’ll finish up here.”

Start paperwork. Right. Strickland still didn’t know that she wasn’t even supposed to be here. She’d meant to tell him—instead she snagged Croft by the sleeve and pulled him toward the door. Suddenly getting out was all she cared about.

She was in the hall before she even realized she was moving. Outside the apartment. Moving down the building’s corridor. Bypassing the bank of elevators in favor of the stairwell. Her thigh spasmed in protest, but she took them fast. Out. She had to get out.

See the sky. Feel the sun. Breathe free air.

“Wait up.” Croft’s hand gripped her elbow and pulled, trying to slow her down.

She rounded on him, grabbing a fistful of shirt, using it to shove him hard into the wall. “You don’t learn, do you?” She practically snarled the words, inches from his face. “The next time you touch me, I swear to Christ I’ll break your neck. Got it?”

Croft’s hands went up. “Sorry. I think that knee to the head you gave me must’ve caused brain damage. Hands off from now on,” he said, letting out a relieved breath when she took a step back. She slumped against the railing. Beads of cold sweat pricked the back of her neck, sliding a chilly trail between her shoulder blades. Her stomach churned around the remnants of the cinnamon roll she’d forced herself to eat that morning. She looked at him, aiming every ounce of anger and hatred she felt his way. If he’d just left her alone, let her story die along with Wade—

“You blame me,” he said to her, reading her perfectly.

“Yes.”

Croft shifted uncomfortably. “It was never my intention—”

“Fuck your
intentions.
” She glared at him for a few more seconds before straightening her frame off the railing. “That is what the
truth
costs, Croft. People die.” She jabbed a finger up the stairs. “Don’t for one minute think you’re not responsible for what happened in there,” she said, unsure if she was talking to him or to herself.

His expression wavered for a moment before it hardened. Whatever glimmer of emotion he’d let himself feel about what she’d just said was gone, hidden behind a thick wall of resolve.

“Is that why you lied to me about knowing Michael O’Shea?” he said. “To protect your family? Did he threaten you?”

“Wow, you don’t even care, do you?” She swiped a hand over her face, trying to scrub away the anger that crowded her features. “I agreed to talk to you about what happened with Wade and in return, you keep your mouth shut about the ass-kicking I gave you today. That’s the arrangement,” she said.

“No. You agreed to answer my questions honestly. All of them. I think we both know you didn’t do that,” he said quietly.

She took a step closer and looked him in the eye. “I’ll talk to you about what happened between Wade and
me
. I’ll give you every gory detail. I’ll even tell you about what happened the first time he took me … but that’s it,” she said in a low tone. “That’s all you’re going to get from me. Ever.”

“So, you’re admitting that you know Michael O’Shea. That he was there that day in the woods?” he said, pushing back.

Rocking back on her heels, she shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “I’ll say this one time, and one time only, so listen up,” she said. “I grew up with a Michael O’Shea. His family lived on a farm between Jessup and Marshall. He was a year or two older than me … we briefly went to the same high school, attended the same church. But we barely knew each other. The year I moved back to Jessup, I was fifteen and he was seventeen—a few months later his parents died in a car accident. Less than a week after he graduated, he left his baby sister with his aunt and uncle and joined the army—
and that is the last time I ever heard from or saw him.
”

“You’re lying,” he said forcefully, closing the gap between them until they were practically nose to nose.

She smiled at him and took a step back in an effort to curb the urge to make him bleed again. “Prove it,” she said.

“Maybe I’ll go ahead and file that police brutality complaint after all,” Croft said.

Hearing him say it tied her stomach in knots, but she was suddenly sure he’d never do it. Not because he was decent but because what he wanted from her was far bigger than an exclusive about how she’d survived her sadistic half-brother. She called his bluff. “Be my guest, just make sure you spell my name right,” she said and turned, starting down the stairs again.

This time Croft didn’t follow.

TWENTY-NINE

Sabrina shoved the door
at the bottom of the stairwell open onto the light-filled lobby. Air rushed into her lungs, brushed against her damp skin, turning the cool sweat to ice. She’d go back to the station, throw the rest of her shit in a box, and go home. Have dinner with Jason and Riley and do her level best to not fight with Val. Go back to Miss Ettie’s and try to get some sleep. She had to requalify for SWAT—

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she fished it out. She recognized the prefix; it was coming from the station.

“This is Vaughn.”

“Hi, Inspector, it’s Anderson,” he said in a low voice. “I ran the trace like you said.”

She stopped walking. “And?”

“Number traced back to a burner phone. Best I can tell you, it was sold out of a bodega on the corner of Eddy and Taylor sometime early this morning.”

She knew the place. It was the store where Kenny Denton had graduated from armed robbery to murder. He’d killed the clerk over fifty-three dollars and a Mars bar, and due to Tenderloin’s backlog, she and Strickland caught the case. So far the owner, David Song, had been helpful in the investigation.

Song’s bodega had top-notch security cameras. His brother ran an electronics store four doors down. It was a long shot that she’d find anything useful on them, but it was worth a look. “Okay. Thanks, Anderson,” she said before hanging up.

“Inspector Vaughn!”

Her head snapped up at the sound of her name. Trujillo jogged toward her. “Here’s your camera. It’s got a nice zoom, so I was able to get some pretty tight shots,” he said, dropping the camera into her hand.

“Thanks, Trujillo. I appreciate it. If anything shakes out, I’ll give you a call.” She smiled a bit, remembering what it was like to be a rookie, looking for a leg up.

“Thanks, that’d be awesome,” he said, smiling at her before he aimed a fast glance over his shoulder. “Look, there’s this guy over there, looking for you—says he knows you.”

She rolled her eyes. “They all say they know me.”

Trujillo laughed. “Right, well this one says you missed an appointment or something. I don’t know—he’s been here for a while now. Red polo, tan Dockers.” He jerked his head toward the yellow barrier at the small cluster of diehards still hanging on. She took a step to the left so she could see around the uniform’s shoulder.

Kyle Weber was staring right at her.

“I know him. Thanks.” She forced her smile to stay put and stepped around him, heading straight for Weber. “What are you doing here?” she said once she got close enough to speak without yelling.

“You missed our appointment and you didn’t call,” he said, arms folded across his chest. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were avoiding me.”

Once she reached Weber, she walked the length of the yellow tape, drawing him away from the remaining crowd. “Sorry about that. People don’t seem to have the good sense to stop getting murdered,” she said, a sarcastic edge to her voice.

Weber held the tape up for her, and she stepped under it. “It’s been well over two months, Ms. Vaughn. I can’t, in good conscience, keep accepting Mr. Shaw’s money for treatment if you’re not going to participate in therapy,” he said. He’d been her physical therapist since she’d come home. Had helped her relearn to walk, and not once had he ever called her by her first name.

“I’ve been traded back to SWAT, which means I’m going to have to requalify. Believe me when I tell you, missing our appointment was not on purpose,” she said, starting the hike back to her car.

“This time,” Weber said, easily keeping pace with her. He was watching the way she moved and didn’t look too impressed with what he saw. “You’ve regressed in mobility.”

Like she hadn’t noticed … “I just jogged five flights of stairs—doesn’t that count for something?”

Weber caught his lower lip between his teeth, seemingly doing his best to hang onto his frustration. “Mr. Shaw made it perfectly clear that I was to alert him if you missed our appointment today,” he said, but she could tell calling Ben was the last thing he wanted to do.

“I know. Look, Kyle—I’m sorry. I really am. Name the time and place and I’ll be there. Just … don’t call Mr. Shaw.” They’d finally reached her car, and she pulled out her keys. Looking through the car window, she half expected to see another red envelope waiting for her on the front seat. It was empty.

Weber dug his hands into the pocket of his Dockers, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet. “Okay. Tomorrow morning. Nine a.m. at my office—if you’re not there by nine-oh-five, I’m making a call.”

Tomorrow is Saturday.
The words formed on her tongue and she looked at him, ready to push them out, but she found him watching her, an expectant look on his face, daring her to protest. Sabrina jammed her car key into the lock. “I’ll be there.” She watched him back away a few steps before he turned and started back up the hill. The surrounding street was deserted, the news vans gone and reporters off in their prospective offices, writing copy and editing footage for their articles and broadcasts.

“Kyle,” she said, and he turned around, the late afternoon sun glinting off his dark brown hair, the overhanging trees throwing shadows across his face. “How did you know I was here?”

He smiled at her again and shrugged. “I saw you on TV,” he said before turning and heading back the way they’d come.