Do You Want To Play: A Detroit Police Procedural Romance Page 8

  “Maybe she got it at a thrift shop,” I say. “Maybe it was donated to a church and she got it from there.”

  “No,” she says. “Jasmine did well at selling herself, and everything else she owned was the best that money could buy—she was wearing Guess jeans. Do you know how expensive that is?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Guess is one of the most expensive brands in the world,” she says. “I think she was dating someone. And that someone was likely the one who killed her, which would mean…”

  “She was dating the killer,” I finish. I shake my head. “So, she tells him that the police are asking questions, he gives her the box to give to us, and then…”

  “He cracks her skull to silence her forever,” she says. We exchange a look.

  “We have to get to the police station and figure out what they found in her apartment,” I say. “I guess Jasmine did manage to fool us.”

  “She’s still a victim,” Lauren says. “I’m sure that she thought she was doing everything for love and…it didn’t work out.”

  “Do you think she knew that he was the PVP killer?” I ask. “Or did he convince her of something else? He could have said he was being framed or that he only killed one person.”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “I just know that she didn’t deserve to die.”

  She wraps her arms around my waist and kisses the back of my shoulder.

  “It looks like this guy is slipping up more and more,” she says. “We’ll get him.”

  I kiss the top of her head. My concern over the PVP killer has surged to an alpine level. As I watch Lauren turn on the water in the shower, I realize it’s because, for the first time, I have something to lose.

  ~~~~~

  “There’s no evidence in the house that she was dating anyone,” Jared Fowler, one of our forensic analysts says. “Not exactly.”

  “What does not exactly mean?” I ask. Jared, Lauren, and I stand in Jared’s lab as he works on a home robbery case, where it appears that the thief broke the window of the house with a rock and ended up cutting his arm on the glass. The police had plenty of DNA evidence from that. I almost envy the robbery department.

  “Well, as Miss Williams pointed out, there was no way that Nina Wayland could afford her lifestyle by herself,” Jared says. “But there was also something else in the house that seemed odd for a woman to own. Evidently, it’s not indisputable, but…”

  He picks up a small, circular glass container that has nothing in it.

  “What am I looking at?” I ask.

  “A contact lens,” he says. I peer into the container closer and see the smallest bit of plastic in it.

  “What does this have to do with Jasmine dating?”

  “Well, I had a hunch because there were no other signs that Nina Wayland had vision problems,” he says. “So I checked with the eye doctor that she saw about six years ago. She had 20/20 vision during her last visit. It is possible that she received these from someone who isn’t a doctor…but I am highly skeptical that her vision changed that much, and there were no other contact lenses in the house or any cleaning solution. There wasn’t even a case to store the lenses. It’s not indisputable…someone could have been visiting and lost their contact lenses…but I wear contacts and the only time you take them out is—”

  “Right before you go to sleep,” I finish. “Which means that whoever was wearing them stayed the night.”

  “I guess we can rule out anyone who is wearing glasses,” Lauren says. “Unless they recently began wearing them because they lost their contact lens.”

  “I don’t think so,” Jared says. “Nina Wayland had some defensive wounds on her arms and legs. I would surmise that she put up quite a fight. I would bet good money that if the killer was wearing glasses, they would have broken during the struggle.”

  “So, no glasses,” I say. “Is there a way to figure out who that contact lens belonged to?”

  “No, sorry,” Jared says. “All I can tell you is that the owner wore it a lot longer than he should have, because it’s worn out.”

  “Great. Well, at least we can look into anyone who gets a contact lens prescription and cross out anyone who wears glasses,” I say.

  “You might also want to be more discreet,” Jared says, peering into a microscope. Lauren and I exchange a look. Did he figure out that the messages from the killer were to Lauren?

  “About what?” I ask.

  “Your coitus,” he says. I groan.

  “How can you tell?”

  “Well, Lauren is wearing clothes that she must have worn yesterday and they were bunched up on the floor by the sheer number of wrinkles in them. She is also not wearing make-up, which is abnormal for her. This all points to the fact that she did not sleep in her own apartment and she undressed in a hurry,” he says. “And you…you’re wearing cologne and you combed your hair, which is abnormal for you. You also both look more relaxed than I have ever seen either of you. It weirds me out.”

  “What are you? Sherlock Holmes?” I ask.

  “No, I just pay attention,” he says. He removes a slide from under the microscope and replaces it with a different one. “Other people prefer to ignore all of the little details.”

  “Well, I guess we don’t have to worry about being more discreet if other people aren’t going to notice,” I say. Even with his face hidden behind a microscope, I can see the corner of his lip turn up.

  “I guess not,” he says.

  ~~~~~

  Lauren

  LOOKING UP PEOPLE who use contact lenses cut down our suspect pool by 90 percent, which would be helpful if it didn’t leave 68,109 suspects. It’s disheartening for everyone in the police station. Tobias and I sit at The Onyx Bar. He drinks a beer while searching through felony criminal arrest records of anyone who has a contact lens prescription, while I drink Kahlúa with cream and search through felony criminal arrest records of anyone who has been caught soliciting prostitutes.

  “Here’s a guy who found out his girlfriend was sleeping with another man,” Tobias says. “So, he set her house on fire, but the fire burned out and the only thing he managed to destroy was his motorcycle.”

  “I think our guy is smarter than that,” I say.

  “Well, how about this…Mark Nealon, twenty-four years old, beat his father with a sledgehammer, but his father didn’t die,” Tobias says. “So, he served eleven years in prison and got out almost a year ago.”

  “No…” I say. “I don’t think so. That’s a killer who has rage issues he can’t control. The PVP killer has rage issues, but he seems to be able to control them enough to focus it into murdering strangers.”

  Tobias’ phone vibrates. He picks it up and unlocks his screen. He groans.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Balloon.”

  “Balloon?”

  “The PVP killer,” he sighs, standing up. “There’s another balloon with the skull and bones. Apparently, we’re on level two…even though we failed level one.”

  “Where was it found?” I ask. “Another playground?”

  “No,” he says. “I think the killer just lets the balloon loose and it goes wherever it wants to go.”

  “Why?” I ask. “Where was it found?”

  “It was deflated and hanging out in the parking lot of a retirement home,” he says. “Our forensic team thinks it was floating around for a few days.”

  “What does it say we have to do?”

  “Set the 10th precinct on fire.”

  “…So, he never really needed the money,” I say. “All of this is just a power play.”

  “That’s what you got out of that?” he asks. “Because my first thought was, shit.”

  “Well, if we don’t do what he says…someone else dies.”

  “That seems to be the theme,” he says.

  “So, what are we going to do?” I ask.

  “I’m not going to let what happened to Ray happen to someone else,” he says. “Let it burn.
”

  ~~~~~

  The 10th precinct drags out every filing cabinet, computer, evidence bag, and expensive piece of equipment we own. I help Tobias carry out his desk as we set it on the sidewalk, I see a short, bald man in a suit running toward the police station. Tom Powell, the lieutenant of the 10th precinct.

  “Wait! Wait!” Tom gasps for breath as he slows to a walk and then stops in front of the building. “What the hell is happening?”

  The policemen stop moving, confused expressions all over their faces. Tobias steps in front of Tom.

  “We need to do what the killer wants right now. We can’t risk—”

  “Haven’t you heard that we don’t negotiate with terrorists?” Tom spits out.

  “I’ve heard that our job is to protect the public,” Tobias says.

  “Who says this will protect anyone?” Tom asks. “And even if it does, this makes us look weak. Now every criminal in Detroit is going to try to get us to be their puppets. We’ll be getting threats left and right if we go through with this.”

  “We already do get threats left and right,” Tobias says. “But this killer has proven himself to be more capable than anyone else we have dealt with. So, we’re going to take this threat more seriously than other threats we’ve received.”

  Tom grits his teeth. “You are not in command of this precinct now that Stewart is dead. That’s my job. And my precinct will not negotiate with this piece of shit.”

  “Stewart was murdered,” Tobias says. He turns to me. “Could you throw me a little support?”

  “A building is worth less than a human,” I say. Tom gives me a dirty look.

  “We are not doing this,” he says. “It will open up Pandora’s box and there is enough evil in this city.”

  He points to the equipment.

  “Put everything back,” he says. He glares at Tobias. “And next time anyone in this precinct wants to make a decision…you run it by me first.”

  The precinct begins to move everything back. Tobias turns to me.

  “Call your grandmother,” he says. “Call everyone you care about. Hell is about to reign down and we need to protect as many people as possible.”

  As I take out my phone, I have the feeling that I’m being watched. I look around. There’s a crowd observing the precinct, some of them recording what’s happening on their cellphones, but nobody is directly looking at me. I put the hood of my coat up anyway. A cold breeze seeps right through it.

  ~~~~~

  My grandmother, Tobias’ parents, Tobias, and I sit at my dining room table. I only had four chairs, so Tobias sits on a stool that brings his shoulders barely above the table. Tobias and I made chicken parmesan for everyone except for his mother, who is vegetarian, so we made one eggplant parmesan. Everyone seems like they don’t have much of an appetite though.

  “So…Tobias…why did you become a cop?” my grandmother asks. He shrugs.

  “It’s kind of always been expected, since my father’s side has generations of policemen,” he says.

  “Are you saying you didn’t want to become a cop?” his father asks, a hint of disapproval in his voice.

  “No, Dad, I’m just explaining to Mrs. Carpenter,” he says. His father bunches up his napkin.

  “Well, to everyone else it sounds like you’re complaining,” his father says. “Any policeman worth his salt would say that they become a policeman because it was the only job worth doing.”

  “Dad, you know I didn’t mean it in a bad way—”

  “Don’t tell me what I know, son,” his father says, his eyes hardening to coal.

  “David, let’s not be argumentative,” his mother says.

  “Shush.” His father makes a cutting motion with his hand. My grandmother and I look at each other with raised eyebrows. Tobias’ phone rings. He reaches for it. His father grabs his arm. “You don’t answer your cellphone at the dinner table.”

  “It has to be from the station,” Tobias says, pulling his arm out of his father’s grip. “And I recall you answering the phone all of the time during dinner.”

  Tobias’ father kicks back his chair as he stands up. Tobias stands as well and they glare at each other, both looking like they are about to tear out each other’s throat. I run in between them, putting my hand on both of their chests.

  “This is my apartment,” I say. “You two aren’t allowed to fight in my apartment. Don’t think that I won’t call the station and make a complaint about two men brawling. How will that look for either of you?”

  Tobias phone stops ringing. He and his father keep staring at each other for a few seconds more before Tobias looks away. His phone dings, indicating that he’s received a text message. He takes his phone out of his pocket and glances at it. Without speaking, he grabs his coat.

  “What is it?” I ask, following him to the entrance hall. He yanks open the door.

  “We lost the killer’s second level,” he says. “We lost a second life.”

  “Do we know who it is?” I ask. He doesn’t look at me.

  “Richardson,” he says before slamming the door shut. The sound echoes through my apartment as if it were empty. I walk back into the dining room and grab my coat.

  “Lock the door after I leave,” I say to everyone. I glance at Tobias’ father. “Take care of each other. There’s no guarantee that we will all be here tomorrow.”

  When I leave the apartment, I see Tobias walking back toward me.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I was walking away when I realized that you would come no matter what. I should have waited for you.”

  I shrug, smiling. “You didn’t need to wait.”

  “I did need to,” he says. He kisses my cheek. “I’ll always wait for you.”

  ~~~~~

  Tobias

  OFFICER LIONEL RICHARDSON is about to be buried in Woodlawn Cemetery. He had been stabbed multiple times in his abdomen and left in a police car that had 2 lives lost. 1 to go. scratched onto the hood.

  I stand in the back with Lauren as a priest reminds everyone to cherish life.

  “You know, you can be upset,” she says.

  “What makes you think that I don’t feel upset?” I ask.

  “I mean, you can show that you’re upset,” she says. I shrug, but I keep my eyes downcast.

  “There’s still one more level in his game,” I say. “We need to catch him before he sends out the balloon.”

  “How are we going to do that?” she asks. “We’ve tried everything. I’m beginning to think that this guy doesn’t have DNA.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe we should start knocking on doors and raiding people’s houses.

  “Yes, the media would love that,” she says. “We might as well kill ourselves and burn down the police station, because the public would do it anyway.”

  A folded flag is put in the arms of Richardson’s wife. Her tears roll down her face and soak into the flag. The bagpipes begin to play “Amazing Grace.”

  “I wonder who they will give the flag to when I die,” I say. “Because I can tell you that my father won’t come and he’ll convince my mother not to come.”

  “You’ll be married by the time you die,” she says. “You shouldn’t be thinking about that anyway.”

  “I think about it all of the time,” I say. “That’s what happens when you’re chasing violent criminals. You get shot and you die. Or you get stabbed and you die. With this killer, I could even be drowned and I die.”

  The cemetery goes silent as Richardson’s final radio call is broadcast.

  “All units: Officer Lionel Richardson, Badge 3446, is out of service. End of watch, October 19th, 2014. You will be deeply missed.”

  I press my uniform hat against my heart and bow my head. While the cemetery is so quiet that I can hear someone’s shoe slide against the grass, I promise myself that I will avenge their deaths. I will win this game.

  ~~~~~

  Lauren

  FIVE FBI AGENTS, Tobias, and I sit
in the break room with all of the advanced technology the government could buy and zero suspects.

  “I’m the least informed on the topic, but I don’t think the last couple of murders were staged like any video game,” Tobias says. “Richardson’s murder was meant as a type of taunt and Jasmine’s was a type of revenge murder. She talked to us and he killed her for it. He’s getting more violent.”

  “He’s losing control,” I agree. “He used to have a kind of code, but this veers from it…and now that he has broken from his own code, he’s more likely to continue to kill without discrimination or any kind of set-up.”

  “Well, from his first present, we know he likes brunettes,” an FBI agent says. “So, why don’t we lure him in with a brunette?”

  “No,” Tobias says. “There’s no way that would work. Besides, Jasmine…I mean, Nina Wayland, was blonde.”

  “I think Jacobs has a point,” another FBI agent says. “If the killer was dating Nina Wayland, he was just using her. He probably set up Nina to sleep with Timothy Wood, so that he could blackmail him. But what if we turned the tables? Maybe we could get someone to write an editorial in the newspaper and convince the killer that he has a fan. He’s going to need someone new to do his dirty work. Why don’t we make him think that this person has just fallen into his lap?”

  “Why don’t you shut up?” Tobias asks. I touch his arm.

  “That might work,” I say. I turn to the FBI agents. “I can do it.”

  “No, you can’t,” Tobias says, tension thick in his voice. “It’s too risky. Come up with a new plan.”

  “There is no other plan,” Jacobs says. “He is always a step ahead of us because we are always playing defense. We need to switch to offense.”

  “You sound like the killer now,” Tobias says. “You think this is a game now too.”

  “Tobias—” I say.

  “No,” he says. “You’re not going to do it.”

  “You don’t get to tell me what I can or can’t do,” I say.

  “I’m your partner,” he says. “I have your best interests in mind.”