Sword and Lead (Book 1) Read online

  Copyright © 2020 Rhiley McCabe

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

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  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  About the author

  Books in this series

  Chapter 1

  Detective Joy

  “No one past the yellow tape. I’m going have to ask you to stand back, sir.”

  A rookie with uniform too big for his pubescent frame stretches his hand out in front of me, blocking my path. I stew silently. Opening my mouth seems like too much work. I briefly consider walking back to my car; this sweltering weather isn’t doing much to help my current condition.

  “Adam? Let the man through! That’s Detective Joy! Jesus!” Officer Peyton yells, waving wildly, a few feet from where the rookie and I are engaged in a staring competition.

  “Sorry, sir,” the rookie mumbles, flushing instantly.

  I nod as he pulls up the yellow police tape, letting me through and into the crime scene. If I was in a better mood, I’d tell him to forget it, I might even give him a friendly pat. It’s not really his fault he’s such an ass kisser, we’ve all been there at some point in our careers: young and hopeful, with our lives stretching out ahead of us. That is, until life screws you royally.

  “Morning, Joy,” Peyton greets me, slapping my back continuously with one meaty palm. The pain in my head skyrockets with each slap. Who is this caveman?

  “Morning,” I return in a low voice, holding on to the last thread of patience and self-control I have.

  He smiles to punctuate our comradeship, and then sniffs the air around me, his face souring almost instantly.

  “Wait, have you been drinking?” he asks. There’s this incredulous look on his face – I can tell that he’s shocked.

  To be fair, Officer Peyton isn’t like me. He’s one of those men who wake up to a home-cooked meal, a paper at the door and his clothes pressed. He definitely kisses his kids when he drops them off at school and goes to Sunday mass with his lovely wife, and they probably have people over for barbeques on Saturday even though it’s forty degrees outside. So of course he’s shocked. He has good reason to be.

  “Well, I guess it’s five o’clock somewhere after all,” he says, laughing uneasily, filling the silence that had sprung up between us when I didn’t answer his question.

  Thank God for these sunglasses – Peyton can’t see my eyes. We walk in silence to the house. It’s burdensome. I feel like I should say something to clear my conscience.

  “I had a rough night is all,” I say, scratching the stubble on my cheek. I really should shave one of these days. Peyton probably shaves every day, not fortnightly like me.

  “Of course, of course,” he agrees as he flashes me a friendly smile.

  “So, Officer... You said you had something for me. Lay it on me,” I announce as we arrive at the door. He nods in affirmation, going in before me.

  The door’s sitting ajar after Peyton passes through, so I have to push it a bit to accommodate my large fame. Eleanor used to say I reminded her of Mr. Incredible, so big I cause a mess. What she really meant to say was, ‘You’re so big, you break everything around you.’

  The first thing that welcomes me in the house is the smell. It hits me so forcefully, snaking its way into my lungs and lingering at the back of my throat, that I can almost taste it.

  “Christ! What happened here?”

  I cough, covering my nose in the crook of my elbow.

  “We found him a week after his folks reported him missing. Lab coats say he’s been here for almost three weeks.” Peyton stops because he gets choked and has to look away. I don’t, I just stare at the stains on the hardwood floor, and I’m sure it’s not ketchup. “In all my years, Joy, I don’t think I’ve come across something as brutal as this. They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks but, wow! And with how busy the scene of a crime is, would you believe it, there’s no evidence?” he continues, looking out the missing slat in the louvers.

  “No evidence at all?”

  “Nada! Everything you can think of detective, we’ve done it. Had forensics come here in the early hours, sweep the whole place twice. Nothing!”

  “This is just like ‘Underbelly,’” I soliloquize, putting on a disposable glove and pacing the entire expanse of the small room.

  “Huh?”

  “My daughter, she’s into reading a lot of gory stuff. I pick it up sometimes. Nora says it’s a phase... It’s been five years already,” I say, surprising myself by divulging.

  “You’re lucky your daughter doesn’t go around calling herself ‘Smith’ and saying she’s a boy trapped in a girl’s body. Why kinda name is Smith? What happened to Connor or Paxton?” Peyton cries, running his hands through his already thinning hair. There’s a bit of salt and pepper in the mix, same as me, I just recently noticed. I shake my head, dispelling the thought.

  “You said you had something for me; otherwise I wouldn’t be here, you know I’m...” I start, already feeling the irritation wear me down. At least the headache’s better now that the aspirin is finally kicking in.

  “Yes, isn’t your division, I know. But I was on the task force before it got disbanded, in case you haven’t forgotten.” I run a hand over my face, finally taking off my shades. He should know I’m not here to play. Getting called out this early in the morning for speculations and mere theories isn’t how I hoped to start the day. “Wait for it. Wait for it... We found some stuff that seemed pretty interesting. Hear me out.”

  “Fine. Go on, I’m listening,” I encourage despite my exasperation.

  “The body of the deceased was already decomposing, but there were twelve stab wounds on the torso, and he was hog-tied, fingernails and toenails pulled off. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but that’s the same MO as the cold cases we worked on before the team was disbanded.”

  “Twelve times. You’re sure about this?” I cut in, growling at him.

  “To the letter, Detective. To the letter.”

  “After two years, do you think this is the same killer or a copycat?” I ask, hating the way my insides swell with hope. I’d been here time and time again, I needed to be cautious, not get caught up... Not like last time.

  “There’s more. We found books on the premises. Books with the name Verity.”

  “Verity?”

  “Exactly. I remember how last time the name ‘Verity’ kept popping up, and for a long time we didn’t have any leads because that’s not a lot to go by. But how about a middle name and surname?” he says, gesticulating wildly.

  “A middle name?” I ask, eyeing him skeptically.

  “Anne. Verity Anne. We found the name ‘Anne’ tattooed on the arm of the John Doe we discovered.”

  “Urgh! Peyton, that could mean anything at all!”

  “Wait for it. Wait for it... We found some stuff that seemed pretty interesting. Hear me out,” he insists, reaching for a clear see-through evidence bag. Taking the books out carefully, he flips over to the last page in one of them and sure enough, �
�V. A Jones’ is spelled out in short, blocky letters. “I told you the ‘Anne’ tattooed on our John Doe was significant. Verity Anne Jones. We might not have had a lot to go on when we first started, but now we have a full name.”

  “How did you get these?” I ask, looking through the books for any more clues.

  “They had already bagged them as evidence. I held on to this box and told them I’d bring it in myself. I just wanted to show them to you first.” Peyton smiles, pleased with himself. “Oh, and someone called while you were on your way here. I think she might be able to help you out with the case.”

  This might just be it.

  * * *

  “Hey, Nora. I can’t talk right now, I’ll call you later,” I answer, clicking the speaker button and placing my phone on the dashboard.

  “I wish. Nate, I’m not calling for me, it’s the kids. You were supposed to pick them up today,” she says, sounding harried.

  “Today?” I go blank.

  “Yes! I told you about the seminar I have to attend,” she explains, struggling to keep her voice from slipping into her famous whine.

  “Seminar? Oh, you mean the two-week boat cruise?” I throw out, knowing it’s low even for me, but I don’t care.

  “Har-bloody-har. You’re a riot, Nathaniel Joy,” she deadpans, her voice becoming hard as nails.

  “Wait, that’s this week? I can’t do this week Nora, there’s a break in the case, it can’t wait,” I say, stopping the car as I get to a red light.

  “God! I can’t believe you forgot. We spoke about this for months, Nate. I kept calling to remind you. It’s in your fucking calendar!” I can hear someone else talking to her in the background. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but I hear Eleanor’s reply. “I know, I’m sorry. I’ll put a dollar in the swear jar later.” She brings her mouth close to the phone again. “Nate, you can’t do this. Not right now,” she pleads in a tiny voice. I can almost hear her grip the phone tighter.

  “I must’ve lost track of time. I can’t do two weeks, not with the case how it is,” I argue stubbornly, ignoring her pleading. I need this more than she knows. I’ve invested fifteen years into this case – that’s the same age as Rita.

  “This is why we’re doing the whole custody battle thing,” she fires back. For every low blow, there’s an even lower one.

  “No, that’s because I won’t have my kids staying with your shady boyfriend. How is Bob, by the way? Commit any felonies I should know about?” I retort. It’s weak, but it’s all I’ve got.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, be civil!” she chides sternly, and I feel reprimanded.

  “Let’s stay with Nana if he doesn’t want to,” Rita interjects – has she been there the whole time?

  “Hey! I can hear you Rita,” I shout into the phone.

  “Finally! I thought maybe I was invisible to you,” she bites back. I can almost picture her rolling her kohl-lined eyes, made even darker with mascara and eyeshadow, all the way into her head.

  Black, to match my soul, was what she said when I tried to correct her fashion choice. That was the last time I ever really tried my hand at parenting, Eleanor was better at it than I was after all. But that’s another reason we weren’t together.

  “Rita! Don’t talk to your father like that.”

  “He’s not my dad! He’s just some weird guy who’s always drunk.”

  She doesn’t stop talking even as her voice gets farther away from the phone.

  “I’m sorry, Nate,” Eleanor apologizes. She sounds tired all of a sudden, not like her thirty-five years at all. She sounds like someone older, burned out.

  “Still think it’s just a phase?” I ask, trying to make a joke, but it comes out wrong, and in a second her hackles are up again.

  “Don’t pin this on me, Nate. I didn’t ask you to be deadbeat,” she snaps, kissing her teeth.

  “I see where she gets her attitude from,” I retort, not feeling a lot of love toward tired old Nora.

  “You know what? I can’t do this. I’ll find them a babysitter. Maybe Bob can watch them,” she says.

  “No! No way! I’ll watch them,” I say before she can hang up, because I sense she’s about to.

  “I thought you said...”

  “Well... now I’m saying I’ll watch them,” I interject. She doesn’t say anything for a long while. I listen to her steady breathing.

  “Thank you,” she says, finally. “Come on Nikki, say goodbye.”

  “Bye dad.” Nikki’s child-like voice fills my car. I’m already outside the office, but I don’t get out. I want to stay a while longer for her.

  “Bye Pip. Watch your sister for me,” I say in farewell, turning off the engine and staring blankly out the windscreen.

  “I will,” she assures me with a laugh. The phone line goes dead.

  Chapter 2

  Detective Joy

  The Memphis State Police department building is a mammoth structure with polished white bricks (though others might argue the color’s grey, or maybe even ash) swallowed partly by the soil on which it’s built. Four massive pillars and a gigantic eagle greet any and everyone upon arrival. It’s supposed to be a symbol of service and justice, but now it turns my stomach every time I have to come back here.

  I stare up at it from my car, dreading the walk into the building. Dreading being noticed, dreading the stares and side talk as I walk by. Is that him? Detective Joy? The Noah Killigan case, that’s him?

  No matter how far you go in the force, you’re always recognized by your last case. For me that case was big, a hit in fact. For me that case was big, a hit in fact. The case before the cold case task force was disbanded, before the death of Noah, a young girl in her twenties found in the woods just outside town, stabbed multiple times – actually, twelve times. I counted. Twelve times, like Anthony Jensen, Martin Shwartz, Donnie Rover and Andre Stiles, all hog-tied, all missing fingernails and toenails, all found the same way, their eyes staring out into nothing. I knew them by name. I had to. They were more than cases, they were people, and they mattered. Now, no one really does.

  Noah was the first female, and also the first to give me an actual clue: a page in her college notebook where she had written out the name ‘Verity’ in soft, cursive letters. She dotted the ‘I’ with a heart. It meant something, I just knew it. So I went back and reviewed all those other cases, and sure as hell, I found what I was looking for. A bath towel with the letter ‘V’ inscribed on it, a grieving family member who recalled a brief, secretive affair with someone called ‘Ver’. The chips miraculously started falling into place and I was hot on the trail. There were talks of a promotion if only I could nail the killer – I was so close!

  It’s common knowledge you burn out when you burn too fast and boy did I burn out, like a fucking firework.

  I shake my head, clearing my throat twice before stepping out of my Camry, tired, old, and in need of a wash, just like me. I walk briskly into the formidable building, head low, pretending to read the news on my phone. No one notices me for the better part of the walk, but as I approach the office I’m looking for, someone shouts my name. I look up to find a woman I barely recognize raise her hand in greeting. I ignore her and go into the office.

  Paige Riley, a petite female with a gap tooth, freckles, and unruly red hair held back by a yellow Alice band like the ones I’ve seen Nikki wear to soccer practice greets me the minute I’m inside the office. The yellow of the Alice band matches the logo on her FBI standard-issue t-shirt. I immediately regret my agreement with Peyton to come here. What have you gotten yourself into Nate?

  “Detective Joy,” she says cheerily, extending her hand to me.

  Her hands smell of sanitizer – heck the entire office smells of sanitizer – but there’s no time to react. I take her hand, nodding to her before taking a seat.

  “I was able to look into some of the cold cases you worked on with Officer Peyton, and I have decided to offer my services,” she says, going straight to the topic at
hand, no preamble whatsoever.

  “Who said I needed them?” I argue, already feeling an incoming headache.

  “Well, no one. But you clearly do need a fresh air of eyes, and since no one else is willing to work with you, I’m your gal,” see quips, smiling triumphantly.

  What’s with gap-toothed people and smiling like maniacs?

  Normally, I looked fit enough, albeit a little large. People used to joke that I probably played football in high school or college. Now I’m thin, or thinner. Not skinny or sickly, just thin enough to notice my shirt collar is too big, and to make the shadows under my eyes stand out. I know this because I catch a glimpse of myself in the glass behind her. Nothing accentuates how much I have changed like standing next to someone so healthy and bubbly.

  “Can I have some water?” I ask, suddenly feeling very parched

  “Of course.”

  She bounds out of her chair, going to the water dispenser. She brings out a disposable cup from the mini-fridge, fetches the water and hands it to me all in one breath. I thank her, proceeding to loosen my tie before drinking. Old habits die hard.

  “This isn’t my office – I’m warming the seat for Offer Knowles. I prefer the chilling confines of my laboratory to this,” she explains with a laugh.

  Everything is always so damned funny!

  The phone rings, and she jumps to answer. She holds a finger up to me to signify ‘one minute,’ and I nod in understanding. She powers on the desktop and begins to transcribe whatever data is on there, so I decide to get lost in my thoughts.

  It was common knowledge that the Memphis State Police department was in the dumps – that was why I was sent here in the first place to work on their cold case division. Now, I’m sure a large percentage of people in this building believed the rumors that I was on the juice. As unlikely as that was, people believed it.

  She ends the first call but makes another short one before finally getting back to me. She beams at me, not saying anything, and I give a small smile of my own. She has become infectious. I need to get out now.