Ghostly Justice (Seven Deadly Sins, #2.5)(40)

She said to Rod, “Find the weapon and get me a good TOD.” Then she left him to do his job.

She walked out of the house but before she could take in a deep breath of fresh air, she came face-to-face with District Attorney Martin Truxel. Truxel had been born and raised in Santa Louisa just like her. He was only a few years older than she, and while she’d become a cop after getting her two-year degree at a nearby community college, he’d gone to UCLA to become a lawyer. He returned and ran for D.A. Of course he won. The Truxels were well-known and had money. But she’d never expected him to stay. She’d been surprised he’d returned, considering he’d always had grand plans. When he ran for student body president as a senior, when she’d been a freshman, he’d said he planned to be the first black governor of California.

She’d always wondered why he’d come back to small Santa Louisa if he planned to run the entire state.

“A little early for you to be involved,” she said to the D.A. “We got the call forty-five minutes ago. The M.E. just arrived. We’ll have more by morning.”

“Just checking on things.” Truxel tried to side-step her.

She put her hand up. He turned and glared at her. If he wasn’t such a prick, he would have been handsome, but he loved himself more than anyone else. There are been some rumors that he was aggressive with women, but she’d never been able to find anyone who would press charges against him.

She wasn’t afraid of Truxel. Except for his money. He was funding her opponent in the Sheriff’s race. Tom Williams wasn’t a bad cop, but he was older and easily led. He—perhaps rightfully—thought he should have been appointed Sheriff three years ago when the Sheriff died of a heart attack. That the City Council had voted to appoint her to complete the term had been a blow to the seasoned cop. She thought she’d smoothed it over with Tom, but Truxel got to him.

“You can’t go into the house without gloves and booties.” She motioned for one of Fielding’s CSI’s to approach. “The D.A. wants access. Dress him up and stick with him.” She stared Truxel in the eye. “We wouldn’t want the crime scene compromised.”

He hesitated, just a fraction of a moment, then said, “I don’t need access. I just want to make sure you’re not giving civilians free reign here. Dr. Bertram was one of our most respected citizens.”

She knew exactly what he meant, but she wasn’t going to let him push her buttons.

“Dr. Bertram is just as important as Joe Smith, the homeless vet who was killed in an abandoned building last week,” she said. “And I will investigate both homicides with equal diligence.”

“At least for the next month,” he said clearly, then walked away.

“Fuck him,” Skye muttered. Truxel had made a stink about her bringing in Anthony to consult on the murders at the mission last November, especially when he learned that Anthony was a demonologist. Truxel had made her professional life miserable, and it was getting worse as the election grew nearer. He’d mocked her, leaked information to the press, and created a division in her department that she didn’t know if she could rectify.

She meant what she said—she wanted to solve Joe’s murder. Joe had been living on the streets since she was a kid. He’d been a veteran from Vietnam and her dad used to bring him leftovers at least once a week. He was a drunk, and lived like a homeless drunk, but he had never caused problems in town. No theft, no vandalism, no trouble. He’d been brutally gutted ten days ago and their investigation was stalled. No evidence, no witnesses, no hope to solve the crime unless something new popped up. But she wasn’t going to let Joe’s death get buried under a pile of bureaucratic bullshit.

Yet, even though she didn’t like the man, Richard Bertram was her responsibility. He was most likely a criminal affiliated with Fiona O’Donnell; he’d possibly drugged or poisoned Rafe Cooper and may have been involved in the mass murder-suicide of the twelve priests at the mission; but there was no proof to any of it. Someone violent had killed him, and he deserved justice as much as kind, drunk Joe Smith.

And Skye wanted her town back. She wanted the violence to stop.

She watched Truxel drive away and then called Anthony.

“Skye, mi amore, I am sorry I did not come home last night,” he said in lieu of hello. “I was caught up in work until dawn.”

“Richard Bertram is dead.”

Silence.

“Anthony?” she prompted.

“He is dead? How?”

“Looks like he was beaten to death with a blunt object, but I’ll await Rod’s autopsy for the final answer. His home office was tossed, we don’t know what was taken.”

Again, silence.

“Anthony, I’m still here. Talk to me.”

“I had a semi-public disagreement with Dr. Bertram yesterday morning at the hospital.”

Her stomach flipped. Please, no. “I told both you and Rafe to stay away from him.”

“Rafe’s headaches are getting worse. We must learn exactly what Bertram did to him.”

“Yet, he didn’t tell you anything. You knew he wouldn’t talk. So why did you even try?”

“I had hoped to appeal to his greed.”

She lowered her voice, but still looked around to make sure no one was paying attention to her conversation. “You bribed him?”