Part 15 (2/2)
”Let's go out to the Davies property again.”
Her phone rang again. It was Rod.
”What do you have for me?”
”h.e.l.lo to you, too.” His words were slurred.
”You okay?”
”Never been better,” he said sarcastically. ”Just came home from the morgue to shower the stench of death off my body.”
”You're drunk. Let's talk in the morning.”
”I have the report from my team who went to your house.”
”And?”
”The only fingerprints are yours, Juan's, and Mr. Zaccardi's.”
That made sense. Juan was a regular visitor, they often had drinks after work, especially when his wife took the girls out of town to visit their large extended family. And Zaccardi had gone through her entire house.
”What about the coffeepot?”
”Yours and Zaccardi's. You told me he's the one who checked the grounds.”
”What about the jar I keep my coffee in? The back of the coffeepot where the water goes?”
”I know how to do my job. The entire coffeepot was checked. Mercury-laced grounds, a borderline lethal dose. You're lucky Zaccardi was there.”
Lucky? What if he had poisoned her to begin with? To distract her while his accomplice searched her house? Destroyed the journal? Or replaced the journal with blank, torn pages? She'd told him to leave the country; what if he had helped the killer? What if he was part of a larger conspiracy?
Her head pounded. ”Thanks,” she said quietly and hung up.
It was Anthony all along. He'd poisoned her coffee, his were the only fingerprints on the pot. There was no other explanation.
How could she have been so wrong about him? How could she have screwed him? He'd filled her mind with doubt and confusion, steering her away from the truth, giving her hope through trickery. She'd wanted so much to believe him when he told her he never lied. Even her heart lied to her, telling her she was safe in his arms.
Anthony was a master of deception.
”I want an APB put out on Anthony Zaccardi,” she told Reiner. ”Call the front desk sergeant. I told Zaccardi he could pick up his pa.s.sport. When he does, I want him arrested.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN.
ANTHONY FOUND ROD FIELDING at his house. The head CSI was three sheets to the wind, and still drinking.
”Hey, preacher,” Rod said, opening the door wide, looking like an old man.
”I'm not a priest.”
Rod shrugged. ”What can I do for you?”
”Can I come in?”
He shrugged again and Anthony stepped in, closed the door. ”You're done with the autopsies.”
”Eight of them. Four more tomorrow. Then tissue a.n.a.lysis, blood work to follow up on, body parts to catalogue. Fun.” He drained a tall gla.s.s that looked more rum than c.o.ke.
”I-”
Rod interrupted. ”We found the eyes, by the way. Skye was upset about the eyes, but I found them.”
”Where?” he asked quietly.
”In the hands of another victim.”
Anthony swallowed thickly. ”I need to ask you something.”
”I can't tell you anything, you know that.”
He raised his eyebrows. ”But you can share the information about the missing eyes?”
”Where's Skye?”
”Working.”
”She booted you off the case.”
”I'm not a cop.”
”She can be p.r.i.c.kly, but she's a good cop.”
”I know.”
”She doesn't believe your theory.”
”Do you?”
He rose, mixed himself another drink-rum with a splash of c.o.ke. He sat down across from Anthony, leaned forward, face flushed but eyes surprisingly sober. ”I don't know what the f.u.c.k to believe, Zaccardi. This s.h.i.+t doesn't happen here. I'll never get rid of these images. I want to believe that something supernatural did this, that no human being could be so vicious. But I know we can. I saw what a man did to his family last year. Stabbed them to death while they slept. But nothing, nothing like this.”
”Who was on the altar?”
<script>