Head Start (Cedar Tree #7) (24 page)

“You guys about done in there? I’m about to piss in your potted plants.”

Reluctantly pulling away from Kendra with a last kiss on her nose, I open the door finding Joe on the other side. “Don’t have any potted plants, asshole,” I tell him, only making him smile bigger.

I pull Kendra out behind me to the door. “So latte and cinnamon bun.”

“Yes please.”

-

F
irst stop is the Cortez PD, where Damian has been set up in an office. I want to drop off some files with him and find out how the search for Franka Mellis is coming along. Just as I’m sure everyone else is, I’m afraid she’s already dead. Still, he seems to have kept that other woman Tracy Poole alive for a while. From what had been done to her, I’m not sure
alive
would be the better option.

I pull into the parking lot while stifling a yawn. Haven’t had a lot of sleep. Some of that is as a result of a year’s worth of sexual frustration being worked out by Kendra and me. But mostly, when she finally fell asleep in my arms, I slipped out of bed and ended on the couch, which is way too fucking short for my six-foot-three frame, and lumpy to boot. Not sure if she’d noticed. She didn’t say anything and I tried to make sure that I was up and about by the time she came out of the bedroom. I saw her look, though, and the fucking thing of it is, I’d like nothing more than to wake up to her in my bed—in my damn arms. One battle at a time. Got to get this sick fuck off the streets first.

Damian is bent over a pile of files on his desk, and Luna is sitting on the far side of the office, pounding out a two-fingered staccato beat on a computer. Neither of them look up when I walk in.

“Morning.”

Both heads turn towards me.

“Neil,” Damian simply says, while Luna just waves her hand before turning back to whatever it is she’s doing. “Have a seat.”

I toss the thick file containing the detailed timeline for Franka Mellis, which I’ve been working on, on his desk and sit down. It’s taken me a while to sort the information collected from her telephone records, the task force’s interviews with colleagues, friends and family and the results of my online digging through her accounts. “It’s all I have to date, starting as recent as the day she disappeared and going back three months. I can go back further if you like, but given that this
Lucifer
first contacted her only two weeks ago, I thought it was enough to start,” I tell Damian as he starts flipping through my file.

“I see you’ve managed to dig up the name on his account. Clay Rasman? Looks like another anagram.”

“Yup. And I looked, only record close enough I could find was for a Clay Rasmin, who is an African American trial lawyer in Denver.”

“Not our guy,” Damian says, stating the obvious.

“Nope. Not our guy. No properties, no bank accounts, not a license, nothing. I did do a bit of digging on the last name Maryn, hoping to come up with a family connection somewhere. Needle in a haystack. More hits on that name in Canada than the US and none at all in this neck of the woods.” I’d hoped to have more to bring to the table, but on Casal Maryn, I’ve hit a dead end.

“Somebody has to have seen something,
goddammit
.” Damian hits a frustrated fist on the surface of his desk. “No witnesses whatsoever have come forward and the brass doesn’t want to put out a public call for fear of panic. At least that’s the official word. The
real
reason for holding back, I suspect, is the fact that this guy has obviously been operating for a while, and we’ve only now caught on. They’re scared they’ll end up with massive public and political pressure to get this case resolved, and that’s why they’re trying to keep it under wraps as long as possible. Getting fucking sick and tired having to tow these politically correct bureau lines.”

It’s ironic to hear those words coming from the man who, on previous collaborations with GFI, showed himself to be a stickler for those same bureau rules.

“This woman is out there—possibly still alive—and we don’t even know where to start looking. We don’t even fucking know for sure how Cayman is wrapped up in this. Could be they are one and the same, could be some ridiculous coincidence, but I don’t really believe in those. Sure, we’ve put agents on the main entrances to as many parks and conservation areas in the region as possible, but you and I both know there’s no way in hell we can cover all of them, and besides, that is a crap shoot anyway.” His vexation is evident from his body language; the haunted look in his eyes and the way his hand keeps running through his overly long hair. Even the way he dresses is an affirmation of his mental state. Instead of his normal immaculate appearance, his old T-shirt and ratty jeans are an unusual sight.

“What about the stuff you hauled from the farmhouse? The map that was left on Kendra’s porch? We get anything from forensics?”

“Luna?” Damian turns to his agent.

She straightens up, setting down her coffee mug and flipping through the papers on her desk. “We’re waiting for the lab to get back to us on the skin we found glued to the drawings. There were twenty-two shadow boxes in total. Twenty-two pieces of skin, some of which were fairly fresh, but most of them were almost mummified. He sealed those boxes with epoxy glue, making it impossible for air or moisture to get in. Hope is that he left a print somewhere on the inside or on the actual drawings itself, but we won’t know until the lab opens the boxes. Exterior didn’t show any prints.” Luna takes a breath and even on her face, the strain is visible. I can understand why. Twenty-two frames would imply the same number of victims. Far more than we’d originally come up with as a possible number. “Other than that, the house was kept immaculate. Looks like he didn’t spend a whole lot of time there, and if he did, he cleaned up after himself. Even the paintbrushes were devoid of any prints or smudges,” she concludes.

I know they had found a very spartan interior when they went in, Gus in tow. He’s the one who told me about the boxes along the wall, like some sort of trophy gallery. They found one room turned into a studio with two more paintings of wings. One sitting on the floor against the wall, and the other sitting on an easel, unfinished. There was another room, a bedroom, that had been turned into a virtual prison cell. The one single window was boarded up and screwed down on the outside, and the door fitted with two deadlocks. The simple steel bar with brackets mounted on both sides of the door seemed like overkill. The door apparently had been left open, showing a simple double bed, a chemical toilet in one corner. If the reinforced door and window weren’t clear enough, the chain and shackles bolted into the floor would have made it clear this was not your run-of-the-mill bedroom. But no Franka.

-

W
ith little new information and nothing more to add, I head out to my next, and decidedly more pleasurable errand. Kara is already waiting for me in the parking lot, a big smile on her face and hopping from foot to foot with excitement. She’s leaving for Boston tomorrow, back to the job and life waiting there. I guess talking about things in the open with Emma and Gus these past few days has given her the kick in the ass she needed to tackle real life again.

“I can’t believe you are doing this!” she squeals as I get out of the truck. I just shake my head at her antics. When I called her earlier when Kendra was blow drying her hair, she almost blew my eardrum with her excited scream.

“It’s not a big deal, Kara,” I point out, but she doesn’t agree.

“Like hell it’s not,” she says, hooking her arm in mine while we cross the parking lot. “This is a
huge
fucking deal, lover boy,” she teases.

“Your momma heard you use that language, she’d take a rolling pin to you.”

“Pffft, my momma uses worse than that, and you know it. Besides, she’s so busy plotting ways to fix my relationship with Marisa, she wouldn’t even notice.”

Despite the rough patch Kara is going through, she keeps her chin up and her good nature shining. I squeeze her arm with mine. “You okay?” I ask, casting a sideways glance, catching her eye.

“Better, much better,” she smiles. “I don’t know if it’s too little, too late when it comes to Marisa, but I’m going to fight for her. It sure feels good not hiding.”

The last makes me chuckle, because really, it turns out she hadn’t been hiding a damn thing. I push the door open and let Kara walk in before me. She lets out another excited squeal.

“Oh my God! Look at all of them, so pretty!”

K
endra

Not sure what’s worse, knowing someone out there may be trying to harm you or knowing that confined to this apartment for much longer, you’ll certainly go nuts.

I know it’s only been a few days, but I like my freedom. I like my hikes. I like my life. Granted, some things are a definite benefit, namely Neil and
all
he brings to the table, but I’ve been marching to my own drum for so long, it sucks having to give up control. Even if it is for the best reasons, and with a virtual smorgasbord of fringe benefits.

My mind drifts to last night when, for the second night in a row, what started as a pleasant night on the couch watching Game of Thrones, ended up a hot sweaty tangled mess in bed. I’m discovering a whole new appreciation for the merits of youth. Stamina, regeneration, endurance, and an agility of lips and fingers that should be patented. The boy’s got serious skills.

The guy also has serious issues, because last night, for the second night in a row, he disappeared halfway through the night and I could hear him moving about the living room. I know he doesn’t want me to ask questions, which is why he pretends he’s been at my side all night. And I don’t want to pry into something that is clearly distressing and deep-rooted, so I pretend along with him. But it bothers me. A lot. Because I don’t believe he would hurt me. Not even in the clutches of a nightmare.

It’s not really the point, though, is it? Neil looks to be such an open and outgoing guy, when all that is only skin deep. Funny thing is, all those deeper cracks and crevices are what make him even more attractive to me.

The ringing of my phone breaks through my thoughts. Karly, the display says, and I take my phone into the bedroom so I don’t disturb Joe, who is working on a laptop at the dining table.

“So, how was it?” is the first thing out of my mouth when I answer. I hadn’t heard from her since she got back, although Mom mentioned she’d been in touch with her. I probably could’ve called myself, but I’d been a little preoccupied.

“Oh my God! It was awesome. I had so much fun, Kenny. You should’ve come.”

I probably should’ve, in hindsight. I don’t say that, though. “So glad you had a good time, honey. Meet any nice guys?”

“Well...” Karly hesitates, which tells me enough.

“You did, didn’t you?”

A happy chuckle sounds over the phone before she gives me details. Way too many details, but that’s my sister’s way. The lucky guy turns out to be a thirty-five-year-old investment broker from San Antonio. Divorced, no children and has a
fabulous
condo with a view of the Alamo. When I ask how she knows it’s
fabulous
, Karly admits to having gone home with him for a few days before returning to Durango, which is why she hasn’t contacted me before.

“You don’t think that’s moving a little fast?” I ask her, painfully aware of how hypocritical that is, given that my own love life went from zero to a hundred in about the same length of time.

“Maybe,” she surprisingly admits. “But when something feels right, you just know.”

I find myself agreeing, albeit in silence. Despite all my misgivings about Neil, I have to admit this...connection we have feels more right than anything else. I just hope that when the intense situation we find ourselves in now is behind us, that feeling is still true.

I listen to my sister wax poetic over David, her new guy, and even smile when hearing how gaga she is over him. I’m happy for her and I hope this one can stand the test of time.

“Oh, and I wanted to come see your new place soon,” she announces just as we’re saying our goodbyes.

“I’d love for you too, but...” There is no way I want my sister anywhere near Cedar Tree right now, so I’m scrambling for excuses without letting her in on what is going on. “Give me a week or two to get the spare bedroom sorted and I’d love for you to come spend the weekend. Life’s been a little hectic,” I add by way of explanation.

“You know you don’t have worry on my account, I’m fine sleeping on the couch,” she responds. “Oops. Gotta go. I have another call coming in. It’s David,” she gushes, and before I have a chance to say anything, she’s already hung up.

-

I
’m bored out of my mind.

Joe hasn’t moved since he got here this morning. His head is bent over a stack of files and his laptop. There’s nothing on TV that can hold my attention and I’m flipping until I hit on the Food Network. Nigella Lawson is making brownies from scratch. Chocolate—exactly what I’m craving right now. Boredom is a dangerous thing. Thank goodness for Neil’s state of the art PVR that allows me to pause and rewind the programming. I set it up at the beginning of the segment and then go on a hunt for the requisite ingredients. I’m surprised at how well stocked Neil’s apartment is. Flour, butter, eggs, even a bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips in the back of a cupboard. The only thing missing is pure cocoa powder, but I have an idea who might have some.