Every Deadly Kiss

  “You know, some frozen pizza, an orange, and a beer doesn’t sound all that bad.”

  “I’ll text you my address.”

  ________

  After I left the building, on my way through the parking garage to my car, I saw SAC Kennedy speaking with a man about my height of Middle Eastern descent.

  Trim beard. Athletic frame. When Kennedy saw me, he signaled for me to join them.

  “Agent Bowers, I’d like you to meet Idris Kourye. He runs the Ferilex Corporation and is one of our city’s most generous philanthropists.”

  “I was at Grandshore Medical Center earlier today,” I said. “It’s quite a place.”

  Idris took a sip from a travel mug. From here, the coffee smelled Kenyan, but I couldn’t pinpoint it, which kind of annoyed me.

  “I can’t take any credit for that,” he said. False humility is annoying. His sounded genuine. “The people who serve there, they should get all the credit in the world.”

  “Right. I enjoyed the Bugisu. I hear you’re a bit of a connoisseur. I am as well.”

  “I like a good brew.” He held up the travel cup. “Maybe before you leave town, we’ll be able to grab a cup together. Talk the art of roasting.”

  “I’d be up for that.”

  Kennedy nodded. “It’s all due to Idris’s work that Ferilex got the contract for providing the state with emergency medical materials—at a very competitive rate.”

  “It’s the least I could do for the city I love.” Again, the humility did not seem feigned.

  The text with Sharyn’s home address came through.

  I was about to head to my car, but Kennedy gestured for me to join him. “May I speak with you for a moment, Agent Bowers?”

  Idris politely excused himself and left for his Tesla.

  “Yes?” I asked Kennedy once we were alone.

  “I need to tell you: I asked to speak with Idris for two reasons. First, he’s involved with an organization, the Muslim Concern League. Are you familiar with them?”

  “I’ve heard of them, but that’s about all. It’s an advocacy group?”

  A nod. “We have reason to believe that some of the Muslim charities they represent . . . Well, I don’t trust them.”

  “You don’t trust them or you don’t trust him?”

  “He’s a pillar of our community.”

  That’s sometimes where the deepest cracks can be found, I thought, but said, “Yes. Of course.”

  “Secondly,” Kennedy said, “I gave him a heads-up to have his supply warehouse staff on call 24/7 until further notice.”

  “Did you tell him about the possible outbreak?” I asked.

  “His company has the contract for emergency response supplies. Also, Grandshore is the most logical hospital to use for a base to head up a response in the city. I told him simply to make sure that his people were prepared in case we decided to run a simulation.”

  I wasn’t sure I agreed with his decision to let Idris know anything, but I could see that with all that was at stake, it was prudent to be prepared. Detroit was Kennedy’s city and it made sense that he would do all he could to protect the people here.

  “Additionally,” he said, “I should mention that I’ve been thinking about all of this, especially in regard to what’s happening with the serial homicides and Blake ending up in the area. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that these events are triangulating here in Detroit.”

  “I agree with you. The timing speaks to a correlation.”

  “I’m wondering if someone in law enforcement might have been compromised.”

  “What? Why would you think that?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say at the moment. In the meantime, until you hear from me, don’t trust anyone.”

  “I’ll keep my head up.”

  And with that, he patted my elbow, nodded, and headed to his car.

  And, trying to process the implications of our conversation, I unlocked the Crown Victoria and took off for Sharyn’s place.

  55

  Tessa set down her purse and her teddy bear, Francesca, and then listened to Rachel give her the first-time-babysitter-for-my-kids spiel. When she was finished, Tessa stared at Aja. “I’ve never changed a baby before.”

  Rachel picked her up and sniffed at her bottom. “It looks like you’re in luck. Smells like she could use a change right now. Give you a little practice.”

  “How is that luck?”

  “Come here. I’ll talk you through it.”

  Rachel handed Aja to Tessa and went to get the changing table ready.

  Tessa held Aja stiffly. “Hi.”

  The baby drooled onto Tessa’s arm.

  “I’m not smelling you.”

  Aja smiled mischievously, as if she actually understood the words, which sort of weirded Tessa out.

  “And I do not coo.”

  Aja smiled again and Tessa gently laid her on her back on the changing table.

  She seemed so small and fragile and also so amazingly alive at the same time. It was a little freaky, but also, admittedly, pretty cool.

  She was waving her chubby little arms and legs back and forth like she was trying to jog vertically up through the air.

  Rachel held up some powder. “You’ll want to get everything ready before you take off the diaper.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because you’re going to want to wipe her and powder her and get the fresh diaper on as quickly as you can. Sometimes she likes to send a poop stream out while you have her down.”

  “Poop” and “stream” were two words that just should never appear in the same sentence.

  Tessa unwrapped the old diaper from Aja’s bottom. Even at arm’s length, it smelled yellowish and brownish and gross and looked just as bad as it smelled.

  “How is it possible that something—one, someone—this small can make that much poop?” she muttered.

  “Babies poop out their own weight every sixty hours,” Rachel replied.

  “Did not know that. Am not glad I do.”

  Tessa found herself calculating how much poop that would be three hours from now, when Rachel returned. But it was too unpleasant to think about, so she gave that up.

  Seriously afraid of having to weather a poop stream, Tessa hurriedly wiped Aja, powdered her bottom, and snugged the new diaper onto her.

  Then tugged her onesie over it. Snap. Snap. Done.

  “See?” Rachel said. “You’ll be a pro at it by the end of the night.”

  “I was kinda hoping I wouldn’t have to have any more practice.”

  Rachel checked the time. “Aja’s had some tummy problems lately. If she cries, you’ll probably need to burp her. You know how to do that, don’t you?”

  “Who doesn’t know how to burp a baby?” Tessa said, but then added, “But just, you know, you can review it for me once if you want to. Just in case there’s some sort of new findings or research out there that I didn’t know about.”

  “Right. So, hold her like this.” Rachel demonstrated. “Then pat her back gently. Talk to her. Maybe sing a lullaby. Or do a little bouncy walk. She likes that. It usually calms her.”

  “Bouncy walk I can handle. But believe me, if I tried to sing it’d probably make her cry more.”

  “And you’ll want to put a towel over your shoulder first, for when she spits up.”

  “Right.”

  “Got it?”

  The words formed in Tessa’s mind, a way to remember it all: Pat her back. Gentle talk. Towel shoulder. Bouncy walk.

  “Got it.”

  “Great.” Rachel laid Aja down in her crib and turned on the butterfly mobile above her. “I really need to get going.”

  She grabbed her purse and called to her five-year-old, “Hannah, come in here, I want you to meet your babysitte
r.”

  Hannah peeked around the corner of the hallway.

  “It’s okay,” her mom assured her. “Come on.”

  Hannah edged out. She was holding a stuffed alligator.

  Tessa picked up the teddy bear she’d brought over, hugged her, and smiled at Hannah to show how nice it was to hold her.

  Hannah watched her carefully.

  “That’s a nice alligator you have there,” Tessa said.

  “She’s not a alligator. She’s a crocodile.”

  “Oh. Right. What’s her name?”

  “Toothy.”

  “Toothy the crocodile.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That’s a good name for a crocodile. Does she bite?”

  “No.” Hannah shook her head. She was still eyeing Tessa’s teddy bear.

  “Do you wanna hold Francesca?” Tessa asked her.

  Hannah nodded.

  “Can I hold Toothy?”

  “If you’re nice.”

  “I will be. I promise.”

  They exchanged stuffed animals and Tessa slipped two fingers gingerly into Toothy’s mouth and pretended to be seriously relieved that the crocodile didn’t chomp down on her.

  “Told you,” Hannah said.

  “Yeah. You were right. Oh, by the way, if Francesca cries, just do a little bouncy walk. She likes that. It usually calms her.”

  “Just like Aja,” Hannah said.

  “Yep, just like Aja. There’s a rhyme to help you remember what to do if she gets fussy: Pat her back. Gentle talk. Towel shoulder. Bouncy walk.”

  Hannah nodded knowingly, then repeated the words softly to herself, accurately remembering the entire rhyme.

  “Well,” Rachel said to Tessa, “looks like you’ve found a friend.”

  “Yeah.”

  Rachel summarized the snack and bedtime routine, then finished by telling Tessa, “Feel free to call me if you have any questions at all.”

  “Thanks. Okay.”

  Then Rachel kissed both of her kids on the forehead and bustled out the door, leaving Tessa alone with them.

  Hannah crossed the living room to show Francesca her dollhouse, then asked Tessa, “Does Francesca like tea parties?”

  “She likes root beer best, but yeah, tea is okay.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yeah, of course,” Tessa lied. “I love tea parties more than anything.” Then she carried Toothy over and had a seat beside the dollhouse, glad that the tea party wouldn’t have any actual tea.

  56

  Sharyn’s place was in a slightly run-down neighborhood at 20 Mile.

  “You’ll have to excuse the mess,” she said self-consciously as she invited me in.

  Her place had an outdoorsy vibe to it. Warm autumn colors. Somewhat austere. Not cluttered with knickknacks, but decorated simply, with stylish, framed photos of Detroit’s iconic buildings and of Michigan in the fall.

  “If this place is a mess, I wish my apartment was messier.” I gestured toward the photos. “Did you take those?”

  “Nope. Julianne did. She has a really good eye. Sells them online. I try to support her. Honestly, with her disability, she hasn’t always gotten a lot of breaks at the department.”

  Until Sharyn mentioned it, I hadn’t thought of Julianne’s underdeveloped left arm, not since the first time I met her.

  Rather than kitchen chairs around the table, Sharyn had three rolling office chairs.

  I took one and spun it in a circle beneath my fingers.

  “They were used,” she explained. “They were cheap. I’m here by myself, so I only needed two—I mean the second one for when Olivia stays with me. But the used office furniture store had a buy-two-get-one-free sale.”

  “Gotta love a good deal.”

  “Olivia likes ’em better than normal chairs. She rolls all around the kitchen when she’s here. Oh, and she named them.” Sharyn pointed to each chair in turn as she introduced them to me. “That’s Annabelle. Then you have Gracie. And here’s Horace.”

  “Those are the three best chair names I’ve ever heard.”

  “I’ll tell Olivia you said so.”

  I chose Annabelle.

  Most office chairs are designed so that anyone over six feet tall needs to crank them up to their highest position in order to find any semblance of comfort, but when I pumped this chair’s handle, the seat didn’t move. So, as low as it was, when I sat down, my knees jutted off to each side.

  A light smile creased Sharyn’s face. “That looks comfortable.”

  “Just the way I like it.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You’d be amazed how hard it is to get most adjustable chairs into this exact position.”

  “I can only imagine.”

  She’d already set her laptop and a stack of file folders on the table. She pointed to my side. “How are the burns doing?”

  “No worse than a sunburn.”

  She waited me out.

  “Well, a little worse, but I’ll be alright.”

  She put in a pizza, uncapped a couple of beers, and then offered me an orange.

  “Thank you. Oranges and beer. A classic combination.”

  We worked for a while at the kitchen table, and when the pizza was done, I watched her smother her piece with Sriracha sauce.

  No surprise there.

  Although I kept my phone nearby in case there was an emergency, I turned off the ringer so it wouldn’t disturb us.

  We ate quietly for a few minutes, then as Sharyn slathered her second piece with hot sauce, she asked me, “What did you figure out regarding the geoprofile? I’m guessing that with a Bluebeard it’s more difficult to pinpoint where his home base might be.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Especially with how these sites are scattered all over the city. What does that tell you? That he’s trying to cover his tracks?”

  “I’d say they’re scattered throughout the city, not all over it.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Intention.”

  I took a moment to show her the precinct map and what I’d discovered earlier today.

  “Hmm. It would make it harder to link the crimes at first, because they would all be in different precincts, but eventually, it would almost certainly ensure that the Feds would get involved. Maybe that’s what he wanted all along. The grenade would do that too—or it might’ve been meant to.”

  “You know how we’ve found letters carved into the victims?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Spelled backward, he has started to write ‘arrow.’”

  It only took her a moment to come to the same conclusion I had earlier. “Or Farrow.”

  “Yes. It’s possible.”

  She considered that carefully, then said, “Why a blue beard?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why does the killer in the story have a beard that’s blue? What’s the significance of that?”

  “The way Calvin explained it to me, both the beard and the key carry the same significance. People don’t typically have blue beards, and it’s certainly not natural for a key to bleed. The world of the story is an aberration from the natural order of things. It’s likely that the man’s crime was just so horrifying and inexplicable that the beard color was the folk teller’s way of acknowledging that there was something completely foreign about an individual who would do such a thing.”

  “A medieval serial killer.”

  “Most likely. Yes.”

  She reflected on that for a moment. “So how do we catch him? Think like him?”

  “No. Think like the victims.”

  “Or maybe a potential victim.”

  “What?”

  “I think we need to draw him out. And the best w
ay to do that might be offering him the right kind of bait.”

  “Bait? What are you—?”

  “Me.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “You’d be the fly landing right in his web.”

  “On the contrary,” she said. “I’ll be the bat looking for the spider. Right now, the question is: how is he keeping his identity secret and also enticing the potential victims to meet at those specific locations? And I think the answer is Hook’dup.”

  She told me about what she’d found so far regarding the app, then asked, “Why do you think the guy posted that footage of the house where Jamika was found onto the news feed?”

  “Maybe to get a crowd there.”

  “Or to hide in plain sight? So he wouldn’t be the only one there?”

  “Interesting. Let’s have an agent search through any news footage we have of the other sites, see if there’s anyone who keeps showing up taking pictures or posting through the same account.”

  She put a call through.

  “Back to the bait idea,” I said, “put that on the back burner.”

  “Alright. For now.”

  We talked some more about the case, and after we’d both had our fill of pizza, we migrated into the living room with our beers and a small bowl of orange slices.

  After my second slice, I said, “I started watching Sanctuary, but I didn’t get a chance to finish it yet. What happens in the scene you were telling me about?”

  “You get to see how I became a star.”

  “That’s a killer teaser.” I wasn’t sure how to frame what I wanted to ask next. “Sharyn, you never really told me about Hollywood.”

  “About it?”

  “Growing up there. Living there.”

  “Truthfully, it wasn’t easy—especially with two parents who despised each other almost as much as they both loved the idea of me making them rich. Made for an interesting dynamic.”

  “That must have been tough.”

  “You live in a trailer half the year. Every aspect of your life is orchestrated by adults who don’t necessarily have your best interests in mind. From the outside it looks glamorous, but when you’re inside the fishbowl, you just want to swim away from it all.”

  “And that’s what you did eventually.”