Already dead, p.5
Already Dead, page 5
And Floyd noticed something else about this planned speech. It was something minor, and if he hadn’t been paying close attention, he might not have noticed. Hell, if Floyd didn’t have a history of stuttering, he probably wouldn’t have caught it, either.
The first part of the word vagrant sounded a lot like vi-grant.
For a moment, Tate’s chameleon act had lifted, just enough to show his true colors.
Based on their many discussions during long hours on flights, Floyd knew that Tate shared some of his opinions about the perpetrators that they hunted, which were very different from those that his previous partner, Chase Adams, held.
While what happened to Dr. Wayne Griffith III was undeniably horrific, there was another victim here.
This victim just happened to look like a living corpse and wielded a knife that was used to take the doctor’s life as well as her own. But she was still a victim, and it would take some digging to find out exactly why she’d done what she did. That was her pathology. Or, in this case, pathologies.
And Tate had nearly said victim instead of vagrant.
“I think the decision is easy then, innit?”
The lieutenant took a hard left, dramatic enough for Floyd to physically shift in the backseat, and gunned it.
“There are only a handful of places that a piece of shit like that would fit in, but you know what? I think I know just the place she might hang out.”
Lehner’s words had a finality to them and there was nothing either of the agents could say to change the man’s mind.
They sat in silence as Lehner drove through Columbus proper and toward the suburbs. Gradually, the size and overall state of the homes lining the road were on the decline. Eventually, the number of broken windows that Floyd spied from the backseat exceeded those intact.
They reached a junction consisting of several highways, but the lieutenant didn’t merge onto any of them. Instead, he continued along a small service road that led beneath an overpass.
“And this, my friends, is called Junkie Row.”
There was an element of pride in Lehner’s voice that Floyd didn’t quite understand, but the moniker was clear enough.
There were makeshift tents and tarp coverings as far back as Floyd could see. There were also several barrel fires going, which, even though it was the middle of the day, made sense due to the chill in the air.
And then there were the people. Some were sitting in lawn chairs, while others just staggered about. Floyd saw at least a handful of people carrying open liquor bottles and at least two who appeared to be injecting something into their veins.
They made no attempt to move, let alone to scatter, even when the lieutenant pulled over to the side of the road. Lehner drove an unmarked car, but anyone who had any experience on either side of the law, and Floyd suspected that many of these people did, would have identified it immediately.
“Geez, it can’t be like this all day?” Floyd couldn’t help but ask.
“All day, every day.”
“And they don’t care that you’re here?”
“Oh, they care all right,” the lieutenant said as he got out of his car and adjusted his belt. If they didn’t know he was a cop before, they must now; Lehner was wearing his uniform, after all. “There just ain’t nothing I can do about it. At least, not at the moment. Every fucking jail we got is over capacity. Normally, junkies from Junkie Row stay here, where they can inject whatever toxic compound into their veins without being bothered. But if this… if she came from this place? Then we might have to clear them all out, overcrowding or not.” Lehner took two steps forward and aimed a finger at a man in a faded baseball cap and a stained muscle shirt. “Hey, you!”
The man was rail thin, and there were red sores on his face that extended down his neck and onto the part of his chest that was exposed.
Floyd was suddenly struck by the realization that he couldn’t tell how old this man was. Puberty pimples were indistinguishable from drug sores in this case.
“You seen this woman before?” Lehner asked gruffly, producing a cell phone, and holding it out.
The man looked at the photo and then immediately shook his head.
“Naw, never seen her.”
The lieutenant shoved the phone right into his face.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“The fuck you are,” the lieutenant grumbled.
The vagrant muttered something incoherent and then stumbled off. Floyd suddenly felt uneasy and wished they’d gone to investigate Dr. Griffith’s private life rather than coming here.
Tate either felt the same way or picked up on Floyd’s apprehension, because he said, “Lieutenant Lehner, why don’t you go take a breather in the car. Let me and Floyd ask some questions around here.”
The lieutenant wasn’t happy about being told what to do, and it showed on his face.
“They know you here,” Tate quickly added. “That guy was scared shitless. They don’t know us—they might just slip up, you know? We’ll meet you back at your car in about half an hour.”
A compliment disguised as an order. Clever.
The lieutenant still didn’t look one hundred percent pleased, but he accepted.
“Half an hour—I’ll meet you right here.”
Floyd and Tate waited until the big man was tucked away inside his vehicle.
“Thanks for that,” Floyd said after their backs were turned.
“You thought that was for you? I can’t stand that guy,” Tate hissed. The admission was so surprising that Floyd chuckled. “All right, let’s move. I really doubt we’re going to find anything, but you never know. You still have the picture of the woman on your cell?”
Floyd opened his phone and pulled up the cadaver photo. Then he pinched the image and zoomed in so that the ragged neck wound was just out of the shot.
Tate cocked his head.
“I mean, she probably didn’t look that different when she was alive, am I right?”
They canvassed some of the junkies, moving from tent to tent, person-to-person, but they got nowhere fast.
No one had ever seen the woman, heard of her, and no one had any idea who she was.
It was almost as if everyone in Junkie Row had the same lawyer, and they were conditioned to answer in the same way.
No, sir, never seen her. Don’t know who she is.
“What did you talk about with Dr. Barnaby, anyway?” Floyd asked as they moved to an adjacent tent.
“About you, my son,” Tate joked.
“Very funny. Seriously.”
“I asked him about some of Dr. Wayne Griffith’s extracurriculars—I got the feeling that they were more than just acquaintances if you know what I mean?”
“I do—I had the same feeling.”
Tate stopped a woman wearing a bikini top and cutoff jeans despite the frigid weather.
“Hey, have you seen this girl before?”
Usually, they would add more information than just the picture to such a query, such as age, hair color, eye color, that sort of stuff. In this case, they just didn’t know these details.
The woman’s response suggested that they could have had a DOB, name, and social security number and that wouldn’t have mattered.
“Fuck you.”
“Cute,” Tate said, and then lowered his phone as the woman walked away. “As I was saying, I asked the ME about Dr. Griffith and his regular trips to the nightclub.”
“And you thought he wouldn’t be comfortable answering in front of me?”
Tate shrugged.
“Pretty much. You’re too young and naive to know about women of the night.”
Floyd thought back to the small footnote on the file about Dr. Griffith being with one Julia Dreger, not his wife, at the time of death.
“And?”
“He admitted that Dr. Griffith was a regular, but only with one woman in particular: Julia Dreger. Not only that, but he said it wasn’t much of a secret, and went as far as to suggest that Wayne’s wife was probably aware of the affair.”
Bingo. Motive.
Alarm bells went off in Floyd’s head, but he quickly stopped them from ringing too loudly. He had to remind himself that a vagrant had stabbed Dr. Griffith in the throat and then killed herself.
Hardly what one would describe as a revenge killing.
“Hey, you ever seen—”
This time, Tate didn’t even finish his sentence before the hunched man with a long white beard streaked with dark brown nicotine stains told him to fuck off. At least, that’s what Floyd thought he said. It was difficult to work out based on the man’s mouth being completely devoid of teeth.
“You know what?” Floyd said, his mood perking. “I think that this here is maybe one place you can’t fit in.”
Tate looked around.
“And you can?”
It sounded like a challenge, and Floyd didn’t back down.
“Skinny, young black man? Sure, I blend right in.”
“Wearing a Brooks Brothers suit?”
Floyd couldn’t resist and glanced down at himself. He wasn’t wearing a suit, but an overcoat, pale blue button-down, and slacks.
“More like J. Crew.”
Tate laughed.
“Okay, let’s see what you got.”
Floyd nodded and started away from his partner. As he walked, he pulled his secret weapon out of his back pocket: a handful of ones and several five-dollar bills.
And in less than ten minutes, he’d not only found someone who said he saw their vagrant but that he’d also spoken to her.
Chapter 10
“Third time we’re meeting, you and I,” Brian said with a leer.
Even during times of high stress, when challenged, Chase’s responses were automatic.
“Only this time, you’re the one chained up and not me.”
Brian raised his hands and the chain connecting him to the table rattled on the metal.
“I don’t recall tying you up. I mean, I woulda if you wanted me to.”
The man continued to grin at her, but it had transitioned into something downright sinister.
Chase glowered.
“What do you think your brother would have wanted?” she shot back. Brian’s eyes immediately narrowed, and his lips became a thin line. “Do you think he wanted me to tie him up? I mean, before I slit his fucking throat, that is.”
Brian tensed and started to rise from his chair, fury plastered all over his features. But then he shook his head and sat back down.
Chase had nearly had the man. Not quite, but almost. And, if nothing else, this proved one thing: Brian Jalston could be goaded. So long as she pushed the right buttons, Chase could get him to react. This realization made the monster human again.
“I guess we’re even,” she muttered. Chase wasn’t even sure why she said this, but she had. And once the words had left her mouth, there was no way to get them back.
“What are you talking about?” Brian snarled.
Chase raised her eyes and stared at the man across from her.
It suddenly dawned on her that he didn’t know. Brian Jalston had no idea what had happened to Georgina. And how could he? The man who had had a child with Georgina Adams didn’t know that she was dead.
Chase had enlisted Drake and NYPD friendlies to keep what had happened at the Butterfly Gardens under wraps to protect little Georgina. She hadn’t once thought about the implications for this piece of shit locked in a cell.
Chase simultaneously felt revulsion and a surge of power.
“What are you doing here, Chase?” Brian asked. His tone and drawl were still harsh, but less so than when she’d first entered.
“Just walking by,” Chase said. “Sizing you up, trying to figure how I can make sure you don’t ever get out of this shithole.”
Brian laughed.
“Hmmm, c’mon now, sweetie, I’m getting out in four days. Four. And there ain’t nothing you could do about it.”
Chase stepped forward and placed her hands on the table.
That’s where you’re wrong, Brian. There are a lot of things I can do to keep you in here, and there are even more ways that I can send you to the morgue.
“I just want you to know that when you get out of here, you’ll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your measly, pathetic life.”
Brian laughed again.
“From what? From you?”
Chase jutted her chin.
“Did you forget about little Timmy? About how much he bled?”
Brian Jalston’s expression hardened.
“I don’t need to look over my shoulder,” the man said flatly, “because I’ll have my wives to do that for me.”
While Chase had figured that she could get to Brian, he knew how to get to her too. She bared her teeth and reached across the table, intending to grab him by the throat, but the man raised his large hands and she touched them instead.
And then it happened.
The same thing that happened when she’d come in contact with Father David.
Chase was transported into the man’s shoes, living his life… living his despicable, disgusting, reprehensible—
But that wasn’t it. Chase felt something, sure, but it wasn’t what she expected from a man like Brian Jalston.
Calmness washed over her. There was a sunrise behind a blue house and white dresses in tall grass. There was laughter and smiling faces.
Chase’s mind rebelled against this imagery. This couldn’t be Brian’s life. Brian existed in one of Dante’s nine rings of hell.
This was… relaxing. Soothing.
A hand came down on her shoulder, and Chase pulled back so violently that she would have fallen if not for the chair. Trembling, she took a seat.
“You okay?” Terrence asked softly.
Before she could answer, Brian spoke up.
“What’s wrong, Chase? You don’t like my silky-smooth hands? They take good care of me in here. They take such good care of me that—”
“Georgina’s dead,” Chase breathed. “She’s dead.”
Brian Jalston pulled back as far as his chain would allow.
“What are you talking about?”
Chase stared blankly at a spot over Brian’s left shoulder. She realized that there might be some confusion as to who Brian thought Georgina was: her sister or her niece. So, she did the man a favor and clarified the situation.
“My sister, the one you called Riley, but who was actually Georgina Adams was murdered. She was shot and killed.”
“You lie,” Brian hissed.
Chase hated using her dead sister as leverage in a conversation with the devil, but she knew that what she was about to do next was even worse.
“I’m not lying, you piece of shit. She was shot and killed.” Brian’s face turned a deep shade of red and he started to hiss. “Oh, upset you, have I? Well, how about this for upsetting: your daughter? Yeah, little Georgina, my niece?” Chase looked at Brian’s hands and saw that they were clenched into tight balls of hate. “I adopted her. Your daughter is mine.”
“You lie!” Brian screamed.
Both doors, the one behind Brian and the one behind Chase, opened at the same time.
But Chase wasn’t done yet.
“My sister’s dead and it’s all your fault! And even if you get out of here, you will never see your daughter again!”
Brian jumped to his feet, only the chain caught when he was halfway up and yanked him back down. Chase seized the opportunity and grabbed the back of the man’s head and slammed his forehead against the metal table. There was a resounding thump and Brian cried out. Chase, still gripping his scalp, went to repeat this action when someone grabbed her by the waist and spun her around.
It was Terrence, and he was holding her back.
“You’re the one who needs to look over your shoulder, Chase!” Brian said.
There was blood coming from a cut on his forehead, but the man was smiling again. That fucking grin of his.
“Fuck you!”
Chase tried to get to the man, but Terrence was too strong, and he dragged her to the door.
“I have my people, my wives, looking out for me, but who is looking out for you, Chase? Anyone? Anyone at all?”
Then, as Chase was pulled out of the visiting room, Brian Jalston began to laugh.
Chapter 11
The man in the pleather overcoat and not much else pocketed the two five-dollar bills that Floyd gave him.
“Yeah, I recognize her. I saw her.”
Floyd immediately raised his arm and snapped, looking over the tents for Tate. He spotted the man and gestured for him to hurry over.
“Just a second.”
When Tate arrived, Floyd said, “Repeat what you just told me.”
The junkie who had thick lips that seemed too big for his face and eyes far too small, blinked, then said, “Yeah, I saw the girl.”
To reinforce this point, Floyd turned his phone around and showed him the image of the rotting woman in the morgue.
“You saw her?”
The vagrant curled his fat upper lip, making it look like a fleshy banana.
“Yeah, like I said I fuckin’ saw her. Hard not to see her… or smell her.”
The mention of the smell clinched it for Floyd. All of Junkie Row reeked—piss, shit, sweat, you name it—and if this particular woman stood out, then it had to be the one.
Floyd was transported back to the morgue and was reminded of the sheer visceral reaction he’d experienced when the sheet had been pulled back.
He shuddered just thinking about it.
“All right, all right. When did you see her?”
The man shrugged.
“You don’t remember? Too much—”
Floyd hushed Tate and pulled out another five. This time when the man’s chapped fingers reached for it, he held it back.
“This is for all our questions, not just one.”
The man licked his lips, never taking his eyes off the money.
“Yeah, sure. All the questions you want.”
Floyd held the money out of reach for a second longer, then gave it over. It disappeared even faster than the first two.
