Violence of the Father (A Trinity of Death Romantic Suspense Series Book 2) (3 page)

I
n the conference
room of Wilson County Jail, I sit beside Mary while Tobias sits across from her. Jail hasn’t treated her too well. Her blond hair appears to have become dry and brittle, her skin has become an ashy color, and she has a black eye. Her usually blue left eye is clouded with blood. The guard had told us that she had an “altercation” with a woman who was in the jail for prostitution. Tobias and I could connect the rest of the dots from there.

“So, Mary,” I say, leaning toward her. Her wrists are still handcuffed and she refuses to look at Tobias or me. She stares right past Tobias at the cement wall. “Before your lawyer skipped into our interrogation, you were mentioning somebody you referred to as The Son. Do you want to talk some more about him?”

“My lawyer said to not saying anything to you,” she says, her gaze still on the wall. “So why don’t you
skip
right out of here?”

“Because I’m doing my job right now, which requires me to find out more about this man you were talking about,” I say. “I was actually reading up on some Bible verses when I came here and I’ll remind you that in the Gospel According to Mark, in chapter ten, it says that if you’re ashamed of Jesus or of what He says, then the Son of God will be ashamed of you. As it says, if you deny The Son on Earth, He will deny you in front of God.”

“Valiant attempt, Detective Williams, but I don’t deny Jesus and I’m not ashamed of Him at all.” Her chin is raised, showing how prideful she is, even in her disastrous state. “But I’m not going to give up who The Son is. He is doing God’s work and I am proud of him for doing it.”

“Proud enough that you don’t want a deal to make your stay in prison more comfortable?” I ask. “Because you’re going to end up in a high security prison and I am absolutely certain that you’ll end up getting more than a black eye from the people who are locked up there.”

“It’s better for me to have a million black eyes than to have God angry at me and condemn me to Hell,” she says. “The Son is working with the guidance of God. You can’t stop him, so don’t even try.”

“How do you even know that The Son is being guided by God?” Tobias asks, crossing his arms over his chest. “Does God send him emails? Maybe…postcards?”

There isn’t any sign of recognition when Tobias mentions postcards. She doesn’t know anything about it.

“God has given The Son new sight of the world and a pure heart to do what has to be done in order to save as many humans as possible. The amount of Christians is dwindling. God could begin the apocalypse at any time to save as many Christians as He can, so we must save the ones most likely to be damned. I’m sorry that you are unwilling to see that we are acting in the best interest of those who are now in Heaven.”

“Lauren here is an expert at profiling criminals,” Tobias says. “And she’s figured out that this Son of yours would turn against you in a heartbeat. He doesn’t care about you. There’s absolutely no sign that he cares that you’re in jail. He’s managed to contact me. Has he contacted you?”

Her head tilts. “What did he say to you?”

She doesn’t care at all about anything else Tobias said. It either doesn’t bother her that The Son doesn’t love her or she doesn’t believe Tobias’s logic.

“I’m not telling you anything unless you tell me something,” Tobias says.

She leans back into her chair, closing her eyes. “Then I guess I’m going to take a nap. I’ll think up a prayer for your soul as well, Detective Rodriguez. I have no animosity toward you, so I hope God finds a way into your life.”

“You don’t have any animosity toward me?” he spits out. “You shot me twice with a nail gun!”

“I was simply trying to complete my mission,” she says. “Apparently, God didn’t want me to complete that one. We cannot always understand His plans, but we must go along with them.”

Tobias slams his palms against the table, and stands up. Mary eyes snap open, but she doesn’t flinch.

“Come on, Lauren,” he says. “Let’s get out of here. I can see why The Son doesn’t care about her. She’s useless.”

He jerks open the door, muttering something to the guard before he stomps past him. I stand up, passing the guard as I reach the door. I turn back around to look at Mary.

“When The Son is brought in,” I say, “all that will be remembered about the two of you is that you were crazy fanatics who gave Christianity a bad name. I hope on some level you can realize that, and you change your mind about helping us capture this monster.”

She smirks, laughter lighting up her eyes. “What makes you think there’s only two of us?”

I
t’s been
two days since Glenn Erwin’s murder and while I’d prefer to be finding new leads on the case, I know that Lauren needs me to be here, driving to go celebrate her grandmother’s birthday. It’s one of the way she’s improved me: my thoughts aren’t concentrated on work all of the time and I can actually take other’s feelings into consideration.

“I still think Mary’s bluffing,” I say, driving Marksman Street. A single house here would cost about the same as a whole street of houses downtown. There’s a flickering question in my mind if Lauren and I could afford one of these, but I can’t think about it now when she doesn’t seem interested in moving in together. It’s not the right time to dwell on the improbable. “She’s just trying to throw us off her lover’s trail by getting us to divide our resources to find two killers.”

“It actually makes sense for there to be three of them,” Lauren says. “She said The Son called her The Holy Spirit. In the Holy Trinity, there’s the Son, the Holy Spirit…and the Father.”

“Yeah, I never liked that Holy Trinity thing—three entities is one entity and one entity is three,” I say, shaking my head. “Do they think after killing ten people that fit the Ten Commandments, they can join together and form one person? At least that wouldn’t be the craziest thing they’ve believed.”

She shakes her head. “Let’s not mention this to my grandmother. If she asks us what case we’re working on, just say it’s a husband that murdered his wife case. She’s really religious and she won’t like the idea of someone using Christianity in a bad way and she’ll probably be able to pick up the fact that you don’t like religion.”

“How old is she going to be?” I ask.

“Seventy-six,” she says. “But don’t mention that, either.”

“It’s her birthday party. Why wouldn’t we ever mention her age?” I ask. “What can I talk about? Tax laws? Taxis? Taxidermy?”

“She hates all of those things,” she says. “Just, tell her…stories from when your father was a policeman. She’ll love talking about the past.”

I park in front of her grandmother’s house. “Why would I want to talk about my father? That will lead to questions to what he’s doing now and I don’t think telling her that he’s in rehab is a great conversation to have with a woman who hates talking about everything.”

She opens the passenger door. “Talk about me then.”

“I can do that.”

I step out of the car. As I close the door, I check out her grandmother’s house. It’s not as extravagant as the other houses we’ve passed by, but it’s still more lavish than most of the houses in Detroit. The walls appear to be made out of granite with a dark red door in the center. A large window reveals the kitchen and dining room, there’s a garden circling around the outside, and a flagstone walkway.

Lauren opens the back passenger side door. I walk over to her side, taking the small cake that she passes to me. She takes out a pan covered with foil that’s filled with spinach and cheese stuffed chicken.

“What did your grandmother do in order to retire here?” I ask.

“My grandfather was a science professor and she worked for some cable television company. I think they invested their money well,” she says.

I take her hand and we walk to the door. I knock and turn back toward Lauren. She’s looking over her shoulder at the yard.

“Did you really want to move in together?” she asks.

“I’ve thought of it,” I admit.

She nods, but before I can press further, the door opens. Peter stands in the doorway, his hand gripped on his cane, and a navy blue tie hanging loosely from his neck.

“Hey, Peter,” Lauren says, gesturing between herself and me, though Peter can’t see the movement. Old habits die hard. “I’m here with Tobias.”

“Of course, of course.” He steps aside, gesturing into the house. “Come in.”

“Do you want me to help you back to where Grandma is?” she asks Peter as we both step inside.

“No. I know this house well enough by now,” he says. “Don’t worry about me. I was lucky in the fact that I was born blind—I know how to function just fine without sight.”

“That’s pretty good because I have sight and I can’t function at all,” I say, clapping him on the back.

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but he doesn’t reply. Lauren leads both of us to the kitchen, where I set down the cake. Then, we go to the dining room, where her grandmother is sitting at a table that appears to be made of mahogany. Lauren sets down the chicken on a metal trivet.

“Happy birthday, Grandma,” Lauren says, wrapping her arms around her. Her grandmother is a willowy woman with long gray hair. I’m certain she was as beautiful as Lauren a long time ago, and she has a certain elegance that can’t be faked. There’s a bit of weariness to her features, but time does that to everyone.

“Lauren,” her grandmother croons. “How are you? I heard about Mary Fitzgerald. It’s such a shame. She seemed like such a good Christian. The Devil must have gotten into her.”

“It’s not the Devil, Grandma,” Lauren says. “Some people are just mentally ill.”

“And they’re mentally ill because the Devil gets into their genetics,” her grandmother says. She looks over Lauren’s shoulder. “Hello, Tobias.”

It’s a warm enough greeting, but there’s something in her gaze that tells me that I’m not as welcome in her house as I would have been before Lauren told her that I wasn’t Christian.

“Hello, Mrs. Moore.” I offer my hand. She shakes it, her skin feeling like thin paper against mine. “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you,” she says. She looks back over at Lauren. “Well, now that both my grandchildren are here, let’s begin our party. I hope it wasn’t too much of a hassle for you to cook, Lauren. I imagine you must be very busy from what I’ve heard on the news. Another crucified man. I swear, people are just getting worse and worse.”

“Yes,” Lauren says, shooting me a glance that could be panic, or it could be a warning for me to not continue the morbid conversation. “But, let’s not talk about death on your birthday.”

“Why not?” her grandmother asks, shrugging. “It’s coming sooner than you’d like to think. On average, women live to eighty-one and that’s including those people who live past one hundred. I’m running out of time here. Neither of my parents lived past seventy-one.”

“Grandma, you’re going to be fine. You parents lived shorter lives because they didn’t have the medical advances we have now,” Lauren says. “Let’s not think about it. I’m going to get some plates, we’re going to eat, and we’re going to talk about happy things.”

“Do you need help?” I ask.

“Nope,” she says, walking to the kitchen. “Just mingle with my family for a few minutes. This will take two seconds.”

I’m inclined to follow her, but I don’t want to seem like a child clinging to his mother’s side. I’ve interrogated serial killers—I should be able to handle being in a room with my girlfriend’s grandmother and her half-brother.

Peter’s walking stick knocks against one of the chair’s legs until he figures out exactly where the chair is. He pulls it out and sits down. I sit between him and his grandmother.

“So,” I say. “How’s your job, Peter?”

He shrugs. “It’s all right. I’ve been here a lot lately. After Grandma’s health scare, I want to help her around the house as much as possible.”

“I’m sorry about that!” Lauren calls from the kitchen. “I wish I could help out more, but with this serial killer on the loose—”

“It’s fine,” Peter calls back. He has a small smile on his face as he turns back to me. “It’s good for me to repay my debts back to society. You guys get to do your good work through your jobs, but I don’t get much chance to help others. It’s always others helping me.”

“I’m sure you contribute a lot to society,” I say.

“I try.” He sets his cane on the floor. “How are you and Lauren doing?”

I glance over at Lauren’s grandmother. She raises an eyebrow, clearly interested in hearing my answer.

“We’re great,” I say. “The issue we had before with religion…we realized it wasn’t as big of a deal as we were making it out to be.”

“Tobias,” Lauren says, stepping back into the room with the plates and silverware. She’s definitely giving me a look now that’s telling me to shut up. She hands two plates to me. “Can you give one of these to Peter?”

After everyone has their plate and silverware, I help Lauren serve the chicken and then she sits across from me. Her grandmother seems to have become angrier since I mentioned religion, so it’s probably best if I don’t talk for the rest of the party.

Unfortunately, that’s not how parties work.

“So, Tobias, since I can’t get to know people by how they look or their body language, why don’t you tell me something about yourself? Maybe something nobody else knows?” Peter asks.

I chew my chicken slowly, trying to think up an appropriate answer. I reflect on the stark difference between Lauren and Peter—Lauren reads everybody’s body language while Peter can read none of it.

Peter clears his throat. “I’m sorry. Does the question make you uncomfortable?”

“Oh, no,” I say. “Sorry. I was just trying to think up something Lauren doesn’t know.”

She smiles at me, tucking her hair behind her ears. At least I’m back in one person’s good graces.

“I ask this to everyone I meet,” Peter says. “Or at least everyone I meet more than once. People usually tell me a story from their childhood. I suppose Lauren and I both got an interest in psychology from our mother’s genetics because I like to think the childhood memory they tell me also says something about their personality now.”

“Well, um, I don’t know,” I confess. “I don’t have many memories from when I was a child. My favorite memory is probably when my father took me hiking in the woods. He told me about all of the different kinds of trees and how you could tell which animals had been near the trail. I think it was the one time he was calm during my childhood.”

“That’s interesting. I would think someone who chose that as their favorite memory would be searching for calmness in their life, but you’re a murder detective,” Peter says. “Maybe our favorite memories don’t determine anything about ourselves.”

“Maybe it says that he enjoys spending time with his loved ones,” Lauren suggests.

“Maybe it says more that his father usually wasn’t calm,” their grandmother adds. She gazes at me, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Do you have anger issues, Tobias?”

“No,” I say, though a hundred memories of when I’ve lost my temper pop into my mind—including when I elbowed Lauren while I was freaking out over the fact that we couldn’t find Mary.

Lauren reaches across the table and takes my hand. “He’s great, Grandma.” Something in her eyes tells me she was thinking of the same incident. “He’s great, our relationship is great, everything is…great. Except for the fact that we have a serial killer on the loose, but we’re going to get him. We might actually have two…and we’ll get both of them.”

“Two?” her grandmother asks. “There’s only been one more crucifixion, right? How could you think there are two more serial killers?”

“Well, it’s just a comment that Mary Fitzgerald made,” Lauren says. “I shouldn’t talk about it too much, but it may have something to do with these people’s belief that they’re part of the Holy Trinity.”

Peter snorts. “Humans can’t be part of the Trinity. The Trinity is God. To think that they are part of the Trinity is blasphemous. It’s an insult to God.”

“I know,” Lauren says, shaking her head. “But these guys aren’t playing by any rules. Or, at least, any rules that we can understand. From when we talked to Mary, it seems that they think they’re following a new set of laws they believe God set up.”

“The problem with this new generation is that they’re too liberal with how they understand the Bible,” their grandmother says. There’s a look exchanged between her and Lauren that’s filled with tension. I glance over at Peter and he even seems to be able to pick up on the tension.

“Or maybe this new generation just paid attention when Jesus talked about the two Greatest Commandments,” Lauren retorts. She shakes her head. “We’re not going to talk about this. Every generation thinks the next generation is getting worse. Let’s talk about anything else.”

Her grandmother turns to me. “Well, since I’m sure you’ve slept with my granddaughter, are you two going to get married? I’d like to have some great-grandchildren before I die.”

I nearly choke on my chicken, a strip of it getting lodged in my throat. Peter smacks me in the back until it comes out.

“Are you okay?” Lauren asks me.

“Yeah. Great,” I mutter.

She turns to her grandmother. “We haven’t talked about it.”

“We don’t plan to have kids,” I correct.

Lauren glances over at me, her eyebrow raised. “We haven’t talked about it. We never said that we didn’t plan to have kids.”

“We’re both in our thirties with dangerous jobs,” I say. “Why would we want to add kids? Right now, we’re dealing with two serial killers, a neurotic boss, and our relationship—do you really want to add kids into that mix?”

“Are you saying that our relationship is something you’re forced to deal with?” She stands up, her chair squeaking against the wooden floor. “Can we talk privately for a minute? This isn’t a discussion we should be having in front of my grandmother and Peter.”

“Fine,” I say, standing up. “I don’t know what there is to talk about, though.”

I follow her into the kitchen. She slides shut the door that is made to look like an oriental room divider. When she turns to face me, her cheeks are bright red. I’m not sure if she’s about to cry or yell.

“When you get into a long-term relationship with someone, you should tell them from the beginning that you don’t want kids,” she says.

“Or maybe you should tell people that you do want kids,” I say. “You’ve always seemed so career-oriented. I thought we were on the same page.”

“It’s not unusual for someone to want kids. You’re the one who should have told me that you didn’t want them. I don’t know why you would think that my career would get in the way of me having children.”

“Maybe because your life is already filled with your career?” I suggest. “This is Detroit. There are murders all of the time. We don’t get days off. And if you wanted kids, why on earth would you move here? It’s not exactly kid-friendly.”