Sacrificial Muse (A Sabrina Vaughn Novel) (9 page)

TWENTY-TWO

In death, she is
your sister.

The words had Sabrina reaching for her phone and dialing Riley’s number before she even had time to process them. Croft watched her every move, but she didn’t care.

“Hello?” Riley said.

Relief coursed through her. A sudden flash of standing in the hospital, Michael’s hand gripped tight in hers—a girl she’d thought was Riley lying bloodied and broken on the gurney in front of her. Of course, it hadn’t been Riley—just another twisted joke Wade had played on her.

You think little Riley is ready for some fun and games?

She squeezed her eyes shut for a second. Pushed Wade out of her mind. No way was she gonna lose it. Not while Croft was around.

“Mom?”

“Hi. I just wanted to tell you that I love you.” She forced a smile, aware that Croft was listening to every word.

“Okay … what’s wrong?” Riley said, a hint of unease creeping into her voice.

“Something has to be wrong for me to call you?”

“Usually.” Riley was quiet for a second. “Seriously, Mom—is everything okay?”

She’d never thought about how much she worried them. How much being raised by her had affected them. How much danger just being around her actually put them in.

She ain’t never gonna be safe. Not with you around … sooner or later, someone like me is gonna come along and finish what I started.

“Everything is fine. I’ll be home for dinner, we’ll talk then.” She made it up as she went along. Until that moment, she’d had no intention of going home. Now, seeing Jason and Riley was all she wanted to do.

“I have piano until seven,” Riley said. “But I’ll hurry home.”

“Okay.” She ended the call and turned, looking Croft in the eye. “They’re off limits. Val. The twins. If you even
think
about writing so much as their names, I’ll—”

“I know.”

“And if you breathe a word about anything you’ve seen, read, or heard in this car, I’ll have you arrested for obstruction.” It was an empty threat, but saying it made her feel better. More in control than she actually was. This wasn’t a case—it was a few note cards and a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. And even if it
was
a case, it wouldn’t be hers. Mathews had made sure of that.

“I can help,” Croft said, tipping his head at the card she still clutched in her hand. “I double majored in journalism and classical studies—”

“Thanks, but I’d rather slam my hand in a car door than spend one unnecessary second with you.” She re-bagged the note card and applied the brake, shifting into reverse before she gave him another look. “Out.”

“You might as well use me, what with all the
unnecessary
time you and I will be spending together,” he said, a not-so-subtle reminder of the deal they’d struck. Croft opened the car door and planted his feet on the blacktop. “Think about it.” He stood and shut the door behind him, walking away without a backward glance.

Even though Mathews told her to take the rest of the day, Sabrina drove back to the station. As sad as it was, she had nowhere else to go and she had an hour to kill before her physical therapy appointment. Might as well spend it cleaning out her desk.

She found an empty box in one of the supply closets and carried it back to her desk, keeping an eye out for Strickland. He was nowhere to be seen and neither was Evans, which meant they were either wrapping up the Denton case or they’d already caught a new one. She dropped the box on her desk and started loading stuff into it. People watched her, but no one asked her what she was doing or where she was going. A few of them probably knew, and the rest of them didn’t care. She ignored them. Instead she worried about what was coming and how she was going to salvage her job.

Ben was right—she’d been missing her physical therapy sessions on purpose. Once she’d regained the use of her leg, going to her weekly sessions stopped making sense. Her days of running a seven-minute mile were long gone, but she could walk. Most days she was able to convince herself that was enough, but with the SWAT re-qualify hanging over her head, she’d have to push herself. PT seemed as good a place to start as any.

“Where do you want them, Inspector?”

Sabrina looked up to see Anderson, his face partially hidden by the bouquet of red roses he carried. She looked at her watch. It was just after twelve o’clock—right on time.

“Anywhere is fine.” She scooted the box over a few inches to give him room to set it down. “Thanks, Anderson,” she said to his retreating back as he headed for the elevator.

She looked at the flowers on her desk. At a passing glance, they were no different than the dozens of other arrangements she received. Red, long-stem roses in a vase with a red satin bow tucked into the foliage. But the longer she looked at it, the more certain she became that there was something different about it.

She re-counted to make sure. Once. Twice. Her eyes clicked off each bloom. She came up with the same number every time.

Until today, there had always been nine. Nine red roses. Every day, the same number—but not today. Today, there were only eight. One was missing.

TWENTY-THREE

Nine muses. Nine roses
… until today.

In mortem, et est soror tua.

In death, she is your sister.

Her desk phone rang—the sound of it all but swallowed by the cacophony of noise that filled the Homicide bullpen.

“Vaughn,” she said, amazed by the level sound of her own voice.

“Hillside Villas. Apartment five twenty-three. Hurry, Calliope … Clio is waiting.”

It was him. The voice who called her yesterday.

“Clio? Who’s Clio?” She reached for a pen and wrote the name of the apartment building and number he’d given her on the first piece of paper she found.

“She is your sister.”

Before she could say anything else, the phone went dead.

She returned the phone to its cradle, letting her hand hover for just a moment, thinking things through. If she ordered a trace on her last incoming call, Mathews would know about it roughly thirty seconds after she put in the request. It would probably prove a waste of time anyway—she’d bet money the call had been made from a pre-paid cell.

But she couldn’t take the chance that it hadn’t been. She hit the disconnect button and re-dialed, getting Anderson at the front desk.

“I need you to trace the last incoming call on my desk phone,” she said. “And I need you to do it without telling anyone.”

“Uh … okay,” Anderson said. He sounded confused but game.

“As soon as you get something, call my cell.” She hung up and stood, shoving the piece of paper into her back pocket before shrugging into her jacket. Her PT appointment with Weber would have to wait.

She stepped into the elevator and punched the down button a few times, trying to force it to move faster than its usual snail’s pace. Her cell rang, and she answered it after taking a quick look at the screen.

“Hey, Strick. I can’t talk right now, I’m—”

“Whatever you’re doing, drop it. We caught a case—dead co-ed found in her apartment. Hillside Villas on the corner of Beale and Seventh. Apartment five twenty-three.”

Sabrina parked a block away, pulling a digital camera out of her center console before making sure her windows were rolled up and her doors were locked. She took the rest on foot, making the painful hike up the hill to the apartment building. The streets were lined with news vans and cars with stickers in their windows that identified their owners as members of the press.

Approaching the scene, Sabrina scanned the large crowd that’d gathered behind the crime scene tape that cordoned off the entire apartment complex. Dozens of faces stared back at her, whispered chatter buzzing like bees, so thick she had the urge to swat it away from her face with her hand. She’d gotten a good look at the crowd in front of
The Sentinel,
but none of the bystanders here were familiar. That didn’t mean the man who called her wasn’t here; it just meant he was good at blending in.

She flashed her badge as she ducked under the tape and kept walking, ignoring the shouts from the small cluster of reporters and cameramen being kept at bay by a frustrated-looking uniform. Murder scenes always drew media, but things always got interesting when she showed up.

“Sabrina—given the horrors you survived, does it affect you differently when it’s a young woman who’s been brutally murdered?”

She hated it when they called her by her first name. Some of the more aggressive ones actually called her Melissa, hoping to shock a reaction from her. She kept moving, eyes trained on the pair of uniforms standing sentry at the building’s entrance.

“Sabrina—how’s the leg?”

Still walking.

“Hey, Sabrina—can you confirm that you’ve been transferred out of Homicide, effective immediately?”

That one stopped her in her tracks and had her turning to look at the tight knot of reporters, all jockeying for position. Her eyes zeroed in on its source, and she felt the back of her neck go hot.

Jaxon Croft stood no more than ten feet away, his hands in his pockets, that asshole smirk of his aimed right at her. The work she’d done on his face had had a little time to ripen—his left eye was almost completely swollen shut, his lower lip hanging over his chin, split open and bruised. He was challenging her. Throwing out a test question to see if she’d stick to their deal or if she’d give him the brush off.

“There was no transfer. I’ve been loaned back to my old SWAT unit until they can find and train suitable recruits within the department. As soon as that happens, I’ll return to my current position,” she said as pleasantly as she could. “Now, if you’ll excuse me … ” She started to turn, but Croft stopped her.

“One more question—it was reported by the medevac chopper pilot that the man who assisted in your rescue was a man named Michael O’Shea and not Jessup’s Chief of Police, Jed Carson, as previously reported. Can you confirm that?” Croft said, his raised voice silencing the other reporters that surrounded him.

Sweet Jesus
. She could practically hear the lid to Croft’s coffin being slammed shut. She looked at him again. “I can’t say for sure—I was unconscious. You’d have to ask the pilot.”

“I wish I could, but he’s disappeared.”

Everyone was watching them. The reporters, the bystanders close enough to hear their exchange. Even the uniforms on duty were waiting to hear what she said next. Croft’s expression was neutral, but Sabrina knew better. She had a feeling that he knew more about Michael than he was letting on. Whether it was enough to get him killed was the real question.

She opened her mouth, not really sure what would find its way out, but she was saved by her ringing cell. Sabrina held it up and smiled. “Sorry.” She gave Croft an apologetic shrug. “Duty calls,” she said before walking away. The crowd behind her was quiet for a second before it burst, the loudly shouted questions and comments pushing her to move faster than she wanted to. She raised the phone and answered it.

“Thanks,” she said, finally making it to the building’s entrance. She could see Strickland through the thick glass door, holding his phone to his ear, looking at her. He must’ve seen her approach from the victim’s apartment and come out to walk her up.

“Reporters are like stray cats—they’ll stop showing up as soon as you stop feeding them,” he said into the phone.

“I know—Croft caught me off guard. I’ll be right there,” she said before hanging up and dropping her phone into her pocket. Holding up the camera, she smiled at the pair of uniforms guarding the entrance to the building foyer. “Which one of you wants to do some real police work?”

She dropped the camera into the first hand that reached out and read his badge. “Okay, Trujillo—I want crowd shots. Lots of them. When you’re done, bring the camera to me. Don’t give it to anyone else, got it?” She’d bet money that the man who called her was in the crowd. He lured her here for a reason. If this was some sort of sick game, he’d be watching to make sure she played.

TWENTY-FOUR

Strickland met her in
the foyer and led her toward the elevator. “Victim’s name is Bethany Edwards.” They stepped into the waiting car and Strickland pushed the button for the fifth floor. “She’s a sophomore at Berkeley.”

Sabrina didn’t know what she expected, but that the victim was a college student wasn’t it. The doors slid open and they stepped out into a wide, well-lit hallway. Plush carpet and fresh paint stretched down the corridor, making Sabrina shoot her partner a doubtful
look. “She’s a college student? This building offers car service,
housekeeping, and personal shoppers. I’d bet a studio the size of a broom closet runs a couple grand a month.”

“Her parents are Trent and Lauren Edwards.”

She stared at him, waiting for him to finish. He shook his head and widened his eyes at her. “Really? Trent and Lauren Edwards. He’s a city councilman. She’s a high-dollar criminal defense attorney. They pretty much own San Francisco.”

She shrugged. “Lawyers and politicians. Two things I make it my life’s mission to remain ignorant of.”

Strickland laughed. “Well, they have more money than God. Tuition, rent, car payment … they paid it all. Thought the gates and security would keep her safe,” he said as he led her down the hall.

Sabrina didn’t say anything. She understood how important maintaining the illusion of safety was. She also understood that if a monster wanted to take you, he was going to take you, and there was nothing that would stop him.

“Find anything in the prelim?”

“Not much. No visible blood evidence. Place looks wiped clean—too clean, considering,” he said, handing her a pair of booties.

“Considering what?” she said, slipping them over her boots so as not to contaminate the crime scene.

“Considering it looks like someone cut her heart out,” Strickland said, dropping his voice as she pushed open the front door.

The small foyer immediately opened up onto a spacious living room with large windows, offering a gorgeous view of the Golden Gate Bridge. A well-dressed couple sat on the couch, the woman weeping into a handkerchief while the man held her, staring blankly into middle space. Evans sat with them, notebook and pen in hand, asking them questions they probably didn’t know the answers to. When Sabrina and Strickland walked in, he stopped talking, giving them his full attention.

Strickland nodded at Evans as he led her down the hall. “Housekeeping found her around noon. She was scheduled to attend a nine a.m. lecture on the civil rights movement—instead, the maid walked in on this … ” He pushed the bedroom door open and she stepped through, the sweet flowery sent of roses hitting her like a truck.

They were everywhere. Vases and bowls crowded onto every available surface. Not red this time—a bright, vibrant pink. Sabrina knew without having to ask what Bethany Edward’s favorite color was.

Paper crunched beneath her feet. She looked down to see a
runner had been placed around the perimeter of the bed. Under it,
dark spots showed through—rose petals mashed between the
paper that protected them and the carpet they’d been scattered on.

Movement caught her eye, and she turned to find Mandy Black standing over the bed, camera in hand. Sabrina approached, the smell of roses getting stronger and stronger with each step. Mandy clicked off a few more photos before letting the camera hang loose from the strap around her neck. “Hey.”

Sabrina gave the ME a brief smile. Taking pictures was usually CSU’s job, but Mandy took her own. She said it was to save time, but Sabrina knew it was because she wanted to make sure that nothing about the scene was overlooked. It was something she admired about the woman.

Sabrina looked past her to the body on the bed, immediately feeling that familiar pull trying to drag her under. Guilt.

“The parents confirmed that the victim is their daughter, Bethany Edwards, age nineteen. No signs of forced entry. No roommate. No boyfriend that her parents know of,” Strickland said from beside her. She barely heard him.

She is your sister.

For just a moment, it wasn’t Bethany Edwards she saw—it was Riley. Riley’s bright red hair. Her delicate, heart-shaped face. She blinked hard, trying to clear her vision.

Sabrina—given the horrors you survived, does it affect you differently when it’s a young woman who’s been brutally murdered?

“Yes,” she said quietly. She wanted to look away but refused to give in. Strickland was right. There was no blood. Not on the bed or the walls, or even on her skin. Her chest was cracked open, ribs spread wide. There were no other visible wounds that might explain cause of death.

“Did you say something?” Mandy asked, but Sabrina didn’t answer her. Inside the gaping black hole in the center of Bethany’s chest were pink rose petals. Hundreds of them, spilling out of the wound—scattered across the body and the blush-colored duvet like confetti.

“Sabrina.” It was Strickland this time. She could feel the two of them pass a look at each other over her head.

“Mandy, I need you to do me a favor,” Sabrina said, without looking up.

“Sure.”

“I need you to go downstairs, find Jaxon Croft, and bring him up here. Now.”