Johnny-Boy (A Delia Mariola Novel) by A. F. Carter

Author:A. F. Carter
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penzler Publishers
Published: 2024-09-20T00:00:00+00:00

We’re within a few blocks of headquarters before either of us speaks again. Then Blanche lowers the window, lights a cigarette, and leans outside. She inhales, lets the smoke go, finally turns her head to face me. The cigarette’s still outside the window.

“I have a bad feeling, Delia. I think the asshole’s getting ready to run.”

“That would explain the variations between the two murders.”

“Yeah, I think he’s very nervous. Maybe he saw the witness as he drove away, but even if he didn’t, a panel van without the name of the business on the door or sides? That’s distinctive, a mistake because he didn’t anticipate that scream. A fatal mistake if we trace the van to wherever he held Case Dixon. Any drop of blood that fell on that dry wooden floor was instantly absorbed. There’s no scrubbing it out. He’d have to tear up the floor. Which, by the way, is exactly what we’ll do when I track him down.”

Not if, but when. Blanche has always been an optimist, but in this case her optimism is supported by her own efforts. Working door to door, Blanche finally recovered video of a white van passing Liberty Federal Savings Bank at 4:41 a.m., six minutes before it appeared in the parking lot outside the laundromat. The bank is only five blocks from the mall and the van, if driven straight through, would’ve passed the laundromat in less than two minutes. Blanche knows because she timed it in her own car. The bad news is that the security camera outside the bank didn’t catch a glimpse of the license plate or the driver.

“If he’s decided to move on, then why is he still here?” I ask.

“At a guess? He came here to do something specific, something unrelated to his sadistic hobby, and it’s yet to be done.”

I guide the cruiser into the parking lot and slip into a space designated for BPD vehicles. I’m about to open the door when Blanche stops me with another question I can’t answer, at least for now.

“Bard Henry?”

“What about him?”

“Cut the crap, Delia.”

“Okay, straight answer. I’ll go to our boss, Commissioner Taney, and tell him what I witnessed in that cornfield. Maybe it’ll be enough, maybe not. Either way, your job doesn’t change. Find the place where Case Dixon was held and you’ll find his killer. The rest is above our pay grade. We’re cops, not commissars.”

Blanche’s quick nod seems more defiant than anything else. But she’s technically on paid leave and can’t follow me into the house. I watch her walk away before I head inside, thinking now of the texts Blanche received. Trolling seems to be an American art form these days, making it impossible to separate serious threats from mere harassment. I’m going to assign one of my detectives to investigate, hoping the assholes will back off when news of the investigation gets out.

Sergeant Vince Trentino’s behind the reception desk when I enter, nodding to a middle-aged woman seeking assistance of some kind.

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