It's One of Us(87)

Happy for something tangible to do, the two men depart with alacrity.

Osley stows the sunnies in his pocket, one temple in, the frames dangling across the man’s muscled chest like a sunburst. “Wanna tell me what’s happening?”

Park does, quickly.

Osley whistles, long and low. “This kid’s been sneaking around you for quite a while, hasn’t he? How do you think he found you?”

“Has to be Winterborn. Or maybe that Discord group my daughter set up?”

“More likely he matched to you on the DNA site and decided to look up dear old dad for shits and giggles. Developed a fixation. Which would answer why we’ve found a fresh match—we’ve got his DNA in the system, and the ancestry database lawyers agreed to share what they have. We catch Peyton Flynn, we do a DNA test, and he matches, we got him dead to rights for Beverly Cooke’s murder. Got any coffee hot?”

“No. I don’t.”

“You should make some. You tied one on?”

Park shrugs. “Shit morning.”

“Yeah. I saw the presser.” Osley moves unerringly toward the cabinet with the coffee, expertly pulling together the pot and setting it to brew. Park assumes he must have seen Olivia do the same. It’s a violation, the cop’s familiarity with his home, his life, his thoughts. He wants to rush the man, throw him to the ground, stamp on his head a few times, but stays put. He needs a drink. Badly. But coffee will help, too.

“Yeah, well, I got ambushed.”

“No idea where she dug up the St. Louis story?”

Park stiffens. “No. And it’s totally horseshit. I had nothing to do with that girl’s death.”

Osley only says, “Hmm,” which is maddening.

Blustery now, Park spits out the words. “I want to know what your people are going to do about keeping my family safe while you search for Peyton Flynn.”

“Hmm,” Osley says again, but his booted foot is tapping. Nervous energy, a tell. If Park were to sit down across from him at a poker table, he’d only have to listen for the thick tap tap tap of Osley’s cowboy boot to know when the man was bluffing.

The coffeepot is now full of steaming dark brown liquid, and Osley helps himself to a cup, stevia, creamer. Takes a slurp, then raises a brow inquiringly.

“Yes,” Park says, annoyed to no end when Osley makes him a cup light, with two packets of stevia, like he’d seen him do enough times to make an impression.

Osley joins him at the table, pushes the cup across the wood.

“Listen. This is a weird case, no mistake. Personally, I believe ya. You’ve gotten the short end of the stick, and that’s not cool. I don’t know if you should be happy about finding all these kids, but the rest, from what I’ve seen, you’ve just been cursed with some seriously bad luck. It’s all circumstantial coincidences as far as I’m concerned.” Slurp. “It’s Moore who’s got her firebrand lit. That girl is serious about her shit, you know what I mean?”

Park sighs and sips the coffee. It’s good. Damn good. But he’s not going to say that aloud.

Osley keeps on with his soliloquy. Park can’t tell if he’s playing good cop or if he actually thinks Park is getting railroaded.

“So we got a lot of facets, right? Kid you’ve never met is stalking you. He’s been in your house, he’s stolen things from you, he’s left flowers for your wife. He’s been lying to his mother for months, so I’m thinking he’s got a plan. He’s building up to something. He’s already killed one woman that we know of and has taken another. Might be he kills her, might not. I surely pray we get to her before he does. But then what?”

“He comes for Olivia again.”

Osley touches the side of his nose. “Bingo. He comes for Olivia again. But I don’t think he wants to hurt her. He’s had a lot of chances to hurt her. My gut instinct here? He’s a boy in love. Was he in love with Beverly Cooke and she blew him off, so he killed her? I don’t know, but now that we have this information about the security system breach, I can go back to Mr. Cooke and look at things from a different angle. Same with Ms. Kemp. I can talk to Ms. Wilde-Kemp and see what she knows. So while this is a scary, frustrating thing, it’s also a big help to the case.”

“Why them, though? Why Cooke and Kemp?”

“Why does a killer ever choose his prey? Something about them attracts him. Looks, attitude, whatever, they send off some sort of silent bat signal the killer claims to be helpless against. We’re pretty sure he’s been following along his mama’s private Facebook group for women who’ve used sperm donors, so chances are the two said something that triggered his interest, or they have a certain look. You write this stuff. You know how to build a victimology, yeah?”

“Jesus.”

“Don’t think he has much to do with this, son.”

“Did you actually just call me ‘son’?” Park is still slightly tipsy, and this makes him want to giggle. “I must be a decade older than you, at least.”

“Probably not. I take care of myself. Anyway, not the point. I’m trying to separate out the weirdness of you having all these kids from the facts, but I’ve gotta wonder if our friend Peyton is jealous of his siblings, and that’s what’s driving a lot of this. Or if he’s got a mommy complex. That’s for the shrinks to play with, not me. Me, I just want to be sure your wife is safe, and I want to find Ms. Kemp before she turns into fish food.”