The Blood Dahlia (The Dark Angel Mysteries Book 1) Page 12
“Me, neither.” Gina reached into Lynch’s scotch and with her long slender fingers, pulling out a large ice cube that she promptly rubbed against his forehead. He’d had a feeling the pain he felt was showing through outwardly, now he knew for sure. “I watched every time you gave him a little verbal jab, and yes, I picked those up, and there was nothing. No sadness or disgust at what you said. I would say he was a cold person, but a cold person wouldn’t spend so much time undressing me slowly with his eyes.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
“Were you jealous?” Her hand paused with the ice cube to wait for a response.
Lynch just grunted.
“I have seen people more upset for hitting a bird driving in to work. This was his daughter, and he didn’t seem like he cared.”
“Seeing him at work wasn’t that odd. I get it, and I might be the same way, and don’t make this an opportunity to point out my lack of emotions.” He looked at her through the side of his eyes. The scream of pain in his head told him that was a mistake and he grimaced prompting Gina to rub the ice faster. “But I would think he’d maybe come in and do a few things, and then head back home to be with his wife. Once again, though, I don’t really know what their relationship is like and this might be normal. Ignoring all that, the demeanor was off. At worst, he should be subdued, but he was gregarious.”
“So, what is the Dark Angel going to do about it?”
Lynch took a drink, swallowed, and let out stream of air through his pinched lips. The muscles in his back and neck tightened from the nerve she’d just hit. “Stop it. You know I hate that name.”
“I know. It’s what they call you on the street. The stories are legendary.”
“Whatever,” he just brushed it off. He hated that name. Lucas told him the same thing. That some crackhead who saw him at a scene told the cops that some dark angel descended down and took care of business. Since then, anytime something odd took place it had to be the dark angel, like he was some damn superhero. Super, absolutely not, and hero is not a word Lynch would ever associate with himself. Even with the little plaque in his office. He just did what he did when he wanted to do it.
“So, am I interrupting date night for you two?”
Gina stopped rubbing Lynch’s forehead and dropped the half-melted cube of ice into her wine glass. “Nah, Lucas. Grab a drink and have a seat.”
“Not drinking tonight. Been a long day and if I drink now, I might feel like he looks.”
“Either way, your ass is wet,” Lynch leered back at his partner. Lucas had sat on the dish towel Lynch sat on to avoid getting Lloyd’s bench wet. From the look on Lucas’ face, Lynch knew it had transferred to his pants. Lucas reached down and pulled out the towel and held it up with an uncomfortable smirk. It fell on to the bench next to him.
“Do I even want to know?”
“Oh, you want to know, just not about the towel. Sorry about the messages.” Lynch knew his partner well enough. This wasn’t a social call, or just one of those times they happened to run into each other, those never happened between the two of them. This was a purposeful visit, and he bet when he got home Totter would tell him that Lucas had stopped by there, too.
“It’s only a few, no biggie. So, I take it you went and talked to Mr. Hines.”
“Yep,” Lynch said and then took a drink of his scotch. “He’s a nice guy. You would love him. Heart of gold kind of guy. You wouldn’t even know his daughter died yesterday. Oh, and the thing that killed her is really close with him.”
Lynch saw a look on his old partner’s face, like he had just told him aliens were real, who shot JFK, and that we are all just figments of some other being’s imagination. He sat back in the bench, slack-jawed and stunned. His hand went up. “On second thought, I might have that drink.”
Over the next thirty minutes, Lynch filled Lucas in on the visit, both visits. To say it piqued his interest was an understatement. Lucas even jumped to the conclusion that Lynch held back from making himself. With some dark entity involved in Cheryl Hines’ death also involved with her father, there was more to this than just a simple murder. There was also a good chance it was involved with more.
“You know, her funeral is at three tomorrow. Wouldn’t be surprised if some of the other families were there, too. They all travel in the same circles.”
Lynch looked at Gina and considered his headache. Another scotch or two at home and a good night of sleep should take care of it, or at least make it survivable. “Up for another day out?”
Her arm wrapped under his and gripped his hand. This was not something partners did, but it felt nice. “Sure thing, boss.”
“We need to get you another outfit.”
“We can do that after your 10:00 am appointment with Mr. Yan.”
22
Lynch sat behind his desk, still feeling only half alive. The two scotches at Stiffies, and three more when he got home, didn’t help do much more than put him out. Which was only half of what he wished for, but it would have to do. Screams still invaded his sleep. A sure sign he needed another before he laid down. They weren’t screams from one of the many nightmare situations he was forced to relive over and over, this was all new, which was strange. That had never happened before. Yet another first for him in the last few days. Lynch was getting tired of all the firsts; he was a creature of habit.
Mr. Yan left his office partially satisfied. Lynch was always a straight shooter, not the type to hold anything back to avoid hurting anyone. Feelings, his or others’, were never something he considered. He had every intention of telling him the full deal of what went on under his nose, but when he heard the door shut behind him, he just couldn’t. He wasn’t in the mood to destroy someone else’s world, and instead found an alternative way.
Lynch told him that someone was stealing from him, but he didn’t want to condemn the person and suggested Mr. Yan put up a camera over the register and all the exits and watch what happens in his store. It was something, he explained, was a good practice as it was, and he was shocked he didn’t have it already. Mr. Yan tried to get him to tell him, but Lynch held back and even turned down an offer of additional credits. He did accept a small portion as a fee to setup the cameras for Mr. Yan. Lynch knew exactly where to position them. Over each of the exits, the register, and the door to the break room that his wife and the bag-boy snuck into a few times throughout the day. The old saying was the truth shall set you free. This truth will set a few people free, Lynch just hoped it stopped there. He had no reason to really be that worried. Mr. Yan was clear to him, not even the slightest tint of grey, but that was really none of his concern, he had something more important on his mind.
Gina was due there in just over an hour. She was out shopping for another suit to wear to the Cheryl Hines’ funeral. Lynch didn’t know what to expect to see or learn from there. Attending a funeral was common for a detective when the death was not natural, and there was definitely nothing natural about this one, no matter what tale her father tried to sell. The biggest reason was to observe. Observe family and friends and their reactions for anything that might stand out. It wasn’t uncommon for the murderer to attend the funeral themselves. Like an arsonist that sat around and watched a building burn, many like to come around to see the hurt and destruction they caused. A funeral gave them the perfect chance to do one-stop shopping for what they desired.
Would IT be there? Lynch didn’t have a clue. He seriously doubted that it was motivated by the same purposes a human assailant was. Motivation was still a serious question in his mind.
Observing family and friends might give him something. Her father was already acting what many would call odd.
For the first time in over a decade, Lynch really missed Paul. It wasn’t an emotional miss. Lynch wasn’t even sure he was capable of that. For the first several years he would curse Paul’s memory as he had to learn how to deal with his gift by walking down a hard, and most of the time, painful path. There was no guide, no instruc
tion manual, and only a few words of guidance. This forced Lynch to keep things simple. Not that he would know how to try anything more complicated unless it was an accident.
He was left with his thoughts until Gina walked in through his empty reception area and straight into his office. He never kept his office door closed. No point to it. There was never more than a single client there at any time, and he didn’t have an actual receptionist.
“I didn’t need your credits,” Gina said. “This is something I had from when I used to be a respectable woman.” She stood there in front of him in a classic black suit with a skirt that came down to just above her knees. She wore hose, something he didn’t include in her outfit yesterday to add to the distraction. Under the jacket was a simple white shirt, but it was accented by a red and blue paisley scarf that she managed to tie as an ascot. Her makeup was barely there, letting the natural beauty of the woman he used to know shine. No bright red lipstick like yesterday.
“You have always been respectable,” he muttered.
“Was that a compliment?” She smiled from ear to ear.
Lynch just grunted.
“So, what’s the plan?” Gina asked that question for the second day in a row.
Lynch hadn’t thought about the plan yet. In fact, he wasn’t really sure on why he’d invited Gina. He didn’t need her there, but never considered her not being there. There was a part of that he didn’t like and ignored it.
“Well, Lucas and I used to go to victim’s funerals to watch who showed up and how they acted. Same thing here. We watch, but from a distance. Remember, we aren’t really invited, not that they send invitations for that type of thing.” The thought of pretty little white envelopes with white paper inside them with the deceased’s name printed on it in gold leaf. He could imagine them arriving at a home, and being opened with much anticipation. “Oh honey, Rachel died and we have been invited to the funeral. The invitation didn’t say if it was garden party or resort attire. I wonder what I should wear?” The thought of it all made him chuckle deep down inside himself. Not because of how absurd it sounded, but in surprise that someone hadn’t coined the market on it yet. “We will just hang back and watch. I like the shade under a tree with a good view.”
“Let me drive?”, Gina all but begged
“Hell, no. Trying to kill me?”
“No, you just look like shit, and it might be best.”
Lynch looked down at the top of his desk. He had a glass display over the top of it, which he rarely used, opting for his Scroll instead. The face that looked back up at him did look like shit. He barely recognized himself. Disguising the person he knew were layers of sleep deprivation, concern, and something else. He looked drained.
“Okay, just be easy with her, she’s old.”
“Who are you calling old? Your car or me?”
There was no snide response to Gina’s quip. Just the retrieval of the keys from his pocket, which he flipped to her. He walked toward the door, passing his old duster on the coatrack without even a pause. It wasn’t cold out when he came in, and even when it was, he normally didn’t bring that coat with him. That was for another purpose. It was only there this morning because something about it called to him as he left his house. When he slipped it on, it steadied him.
“You okay?” Gina asked. Her voice dripped with concern. “You just seem off.”
Lynch braced himself for the next comment about always being off or something to that effect, but it never arrived. Instead, she stood and watched him walk by in a way that made him uncomfortable, almost like a side show freak.
“Yeah, fine.” He thought about doubling back for his overcoat, but kept on going and waited outside his office door for Gina to follow. He locked the door behind them, and Gina threw her arm around his and walked him down the rickety stairs. Lynch did nothing to resist, instead he used it to pull her closer.
23
“You didn’t die.”
“No thanks to you. The speed limit is not just a suggestion.”
The snide look Gina turned and gave Lynch said it all, and she was right. The pot was talking to the kettle. He honestly couldn’t tell you what the posted speeds were on most of the roads he traveled. The flow of the universe and the traffic was his guide. Most of the times those were both too slow for him. In truth, it wasn’t the speed that bothered him. It was the last minute cornering she did. No blinker. No easing into a turn. Just a yank on the wheel while in the middle of the intersection. There were two occasions he grabbed the handle of the door for a quick escape, just in case. Lynch didn’t know if he could pull Gina out with him. He had never tried to go under that fast.
The Memory Gardens was a place Lynch hadn’t visited more than a handful of times. The murder rate among the privileged bordered on non-existent, as did the list of friends Lynch had who could afford a plot there. The lush rolling green property, dotted with bleach white marble headstones, was a stark contrast to the dirt pit with cracked or missing headstones and large mounds of dirt where bodies were buried on top of others over at New Metro Cemetery. He heard once that they were now on the fifth level. Funerals there were nothing spectacular. The family stood around a hole that, hopefully, the caretaker didn’t dig so deep as to allow the top of the casket in the next level down to show through. A priest would say a few words, and then everyone left. No arrangements of flowers. No chairs to sit on while speeches and eulogies were spoken. No one wanted to be there that long. The stench, and the constant cloud of dirt and dust kicked up by the wind, made you think you were standing in the middle of the city dump.
From the tree Lynch picked out as his post, he could see the dark green tent over a hole covered in similar green felt. Rows of chairs were off to one side. Not just any kind of chairs. These were chairs covered by clean white fabric. Flowers in gold vases adorned the end of each row. A who’s who of Italian suits meandered around behind the chairs. All shaking hands with one another. Sharing a word here or there. Most had a woman on their arm in a form-fitting black or navy blue dress. The forms, aided by age and modern plastic surgery. If Lynch added up the age differences between the men and women, he would get into three or four-digit numbers.
“I am not even sure she has any tears left. Her eyes look like she has been crying for two days straight. My heart really goes out for her. Of course, you wouldn’t think about feelings like that.”
Gina’s elbow gave a little pat to Lynch’s ribs.
“I understand the grief a parent can feel for a murdered child. I can’t tell you how many parents I have had to deliver that news to, so I can honestly say I have seen all forms of grief. Give me a little credit will ya.” The jab irritated Lynch. He knew she was probably kidding, but it rubbed him a little raw, which Gina’s comments never had before. He chalked it up to how bad he was still feeling.
Both Gina and Lynch were now looking at the pair that every new arrival came to see first. Devon was easy to find. His bald head stuck out in the sun-drenched afternoon. Everyone stopped by and shook his hand and said just a few words before moving on to Christine, who was to his left. She was a wreck. Not a simple car fender bender. No, this was a building collapse that started at the bottom with a destructive blow to the foundation and began to fall, pulling down every external façade, one at a time, until all that was left was a pile of smoking rubble that didn’t resemble what used to be there in the least. She’d made every attempt to be who she was before she heard the news about her daughter. Hair done decently, with a few individual strands here and there escaping the shape she’d attempted to mold it into. Makeup attempted to cover her pain and paint a smile on her face, but evidence of a hand that shook during its application was everywhere. The emotional wear had undone most of the work the magic of nip-and-tuck had performed to try to keep her looking as youthful as the others in her crowd. Christine didn’t benefit from the natural miracle of youth, like most of the women in their crowd. She was 42. Old enough to be the mother to some of her friends. The
disease of grief and loss ate at her enough to make her look 62.
The crowd mulled around behind the chairs. They talked, greeted, and even laughed at times. Lynch always wondered what kind of story someone might tell at the funeral that would make one laugh, but all of that stopped as the hearse turned in off the exterior road and began its slow and intentional meander between the trees and grass plots toward them. It was always the same. Everyone knew when it entered, even though the shiny black stretch all-electric wagon didn’t make a sound. The gaze of everyone watched as it approached. Everything took the somber tone one would expect at a funeral. Lynch always considered this the moment that things became real for the family. He explained it to someone in the past, a name that escaped him now, and they agreed. Standing there waiting for your loved one is a normal situation. They could be at work, or school, shopping, or any other several dozen real-world situations. When the hearse comes in, it is that grim reminder of why you were waiting, and how you will never wait for them again.
As it pulled up to the crowd, Lynch watched as six men stepped behind the hearse. They followed for a few feet until it stopped. When Lynch saw them next, they were walking back up the green incline of the grass carrying the dark walnut casket of Cheryl Hines. They placed her on the pedestal next to the covered hole and joined the others who were now making their way to the row of chairs.
Lynch looked back along the road in and saw no more cars and assumed everyone that was going to be there, was. He knew what he needed to do. It was the same thing he always did, but this time was different. He hadn’t felt this weak before.