Progeny (13 page)

I was quiet for a moment. “The juror?” I asked.

The captain shook his head. “She and her husband were found deceased in the home. Why don’t you guys get out there? They are expecting you.” Bostok gave us the address.

I glanced at my watch. It was already after five.

“Something the matter?” Bostok asked.

“No. It’s just looking like it’s going to be a late one.”

“Check out the scene and go home after,” Bostok said. “I’d say ‘enjoy your weekend,’ but I’ll need you in tomorrow to get everything wrapped with this.”

“That’s fine. I was planning on coming in anyway. Jack Redding’s daughter is coming in for an interview in the morning.”

“Redding’s daughter?”

“The woman we just spoke with, who had the restraining order against Carmen Simms, is Redding’s daughter’s adoptive mother.”

The captain looked confused. “Just fill me in on everything later. Call me when you leave the scene,” Bostok said.

“I will. Are you ready, Hank?”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

Hank and I walked out. I grabbed my keys from my desk and locked up my office. When I met Hank outside in the parking structure, his pink car was parked a few spaces down and across from my Cadillac. I opened my car door and yelled over to him, “Are you just going to follow me over there in your little pink car?” I asked.

“At least it’s not a station wagon. Where’s your wooden sides?” he asked.

I smiled. “Just try to keep up.” I hopped in and fired the motor. The exhaust rumbled and gurgled. I pulled out from the station with Hank in tow. On the road, I took my phone from my pocket and dialed Callie.

She answered right away. “Hey, babe. Good timing. My show just went to commercial.”

“What are you watching?” I asked.

“Oh, some wedding show. Nothing important or anything. It just happened to be on when I turned on the television.”

“Hmm,” I said.

“Hmm what?”

“Nothing. Just calling to say I’ll be a little late, as usual.”

“No biggie.”

I heard Callie yawn.

“Butch, the baby, and I are just sitting around. What time do you think?” she asked.

“A couple hours, I’d guess.”

“Do you want me to just order us something to eat? I’m not really up for cooking,” Callie said.

“I’d be fine with that. I’ll call you when I know exactly what time I’ll be there.”

“Okay. It sounds like you’re driving.”

I got onto Highway 60 toward Clearwater. “Yeah. I’m heading over to Clearwater. It looks like the case I’m working is getting wrapped up.”

“That’s good. Um, do you still have to work this weekend?”

“Tomorrow, for a little.”

“Any chance of us getting out of town after?” Callie asked.

I thought for a moment. “Actually, maybe, now that I think about it,” I said.

“Really?” The question came out quick and higher pitched.

Who’d have thought she was actually that excited to go sleep in a tent and fish?

“I’ll know for sure tomorrow afternoon,” I said.

“Cool. Call me when you leave so I can order us food. What do you want?”

“I’m fine with anything, Cal. You pick.”

“Sushi it is.”

“Except that. Or squid.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m just kidding. I’ll think of something. Okay. My show is back on. I have to go. Love you.” She hung up.

I put my phone back in my pocket.

Wedding shows, huh?

I spent the next fifteen minutes driving and trying to talk some courage into myself, to finally ask Callie to marry me.

I turned into a golf-course community and navigated up and down the streets. I saw the lights from the Clearwater PD squad cars and ambulance up ahead. I looked in my rearview mirror and saw Hank still following behind. Two police cruisers were parked nose to nose in the street, making a barricade. I parked in the middle of the street a few feet from them. Hank parked directly behind me. To our sides, lining both curbs, were news vans. Reporters jockeyed around wires, lighting, and microphones. I stepped out and waited for Hank to meet me at my car. He did, and we walked toward a female officer at one of the sideways cruisers. She stood at attention, making sure no one from the press or neighborhood got any closer to the scene. Hank and I approached her.

She wore the standard-issue Clearwater PD blues. Her hair was brown, tied in a bun at the back. She was young—midtwenties was my best guess.

“Officer,” I said.

She held out her hand for us to stop.

I showed her my badge, and Hank did the same.

“Lieutenant Kane and Sergeant Rawlings from Tampa Homicide,” I said.

“You’ll want to speak with Captain Evans. Second house up on your right.”

She took her eyes off of us and went back to watching the growing crowd of reporters and neighbors.

Hank and I squeezed between the noses of the squad cars and walked over. A group of officers stood at the sidewalk in front of the property. They stopped talking and looked toward Hank and me as we approached. Beyond them, I saw a tarp over a body on the front lawn.

“Lieutenant Kane from Tampa homicide. This is Sergeant Rawlings. We’re looking for Captain Evans.”

“That’s me.” A short older man wearing a suit stepped toward us. He had white hair on the sides of his head, with a bald top. His mouth was wrapped with a thick white-and-gray goatee. He held out a hand for a handshake. “I heard you two were on your way. I spoke with your captain. I guess one of your forensics guys is coming as well.”

“Okay.” I waved my finger around in the air. “What happened here, Captain?”

“Well,” he motioned for us to follow him toward the house, “we are pretty certain this is your Carmen Simms. We pulled her sheet. It looks like her. I guess you’ll have to fingerprint her to be certain. The woman doesn’t have any ID on her. This is her here.” The captain stopped at the tarp over the body in the front yard.

I knelt and pulled the tarp’s corner back.

A deceased woman’s face looked back at me. She looked like the old driver’s license photo of Carmen Simms that we had—though she was older. Her black hair had some gray mixed in, and her skin was weathered. I pulled the tarp back further. She wore a leather butcher’s apron. Everything under her chin was covered in blood. Her hands were cuffed. I noticed two bullet wounds center mass. “Has she been touched or moved?”

“That’s where she went down after she attacked my guys. We’re waiting to call the coroner until after your forensics guys go over the scene,” the captain said.

“Your officers? Either injured?” I asked.

“No. Not for a lack of her trying though.”

“How did it go down?”

“I’ll let you get it from the horse’s mouth. Glodek! Campbell!” he shouted. The captain waved two uniformed officers over.

They approached. I lay the tarp back over the woman and stood.

“This is Lieutenant Kane from TPD homicide,” the captain said. “He’s been leading up their case on this woman. Tell him how it went down.”

Glodek, the bigger and older of the two, spoke up. “We were dispatched with orders to try and make contact with the homeowners. We get here and knock and ring the doorbell a few times—there’s no answer.”

The other officer, Campbell, pulled on the back of his ear. “But we can hear someone inside,” he said.

Glodek continued. “So we go through knocking and ringing the bell a few more times before we try to get a peek inside the home. I looked through the living room window there”—he pointed—“and I see blood everywhere. I call it in, and we were about to attempt entry when a blood-covered woman runs from the front door.”

“Holding a scalpel, covered in someone’s blood,” Campbell said.

“We instructed her to drop the weapon and get on the ground. She didn’t comply,” Glodek said.

“She attempted to attack you?” Hank asked.

“Not at first. At first, she stood there talking. Crazy talk. It seemed as if she was having a conversation with someone that wasn’t there,” Campbell said.

“What was she saying?” I asked.

“Honestly, I can’t recall,” Glodek said. “I kept repeating my command for her to drop the weapon and get on the ground or she would get the Taser.”

“It was something about someone named Jack,” Campbell said. “Like she was talking to him and then answering.”

“And then?” I asked.

“I fired the Taser on her,” Glodek said. “The shot went into her chest, but the barbs must have been caught by the butcher’s apron she was wearing. Our Tasers fire two shots. I was about to fire the second when she lets out this bloodcurdling scream and runs at me with the scalpel. I fired, hit her clean, but she still got to me. The gun did nothing. I mean, I’ve heard stories of it not affecting people high on PCP and whatnot, but I’d never seen it not have an effect on someone in person. She was on me in an instant, stabbing away. I bet she stabbed me in the chest with the scalpel ten times. The vest caught all of her attempts, thankfully. Then she went for my gun. I pushed her away from my body, and Campbell fired. She dropped.”

“We disarmed her at that time, cuffed her, and called the ‘shots fired’ in,” Campbell said. “Glodek stayed with the body while I cleared the house. It was empty, aside from the bodies I found within. She was deceased before the paramedics got to her.”

“Okay, guys. Thanks,” Captain Evans said.

The two patrol officers went back to the curb to speak with another man in a suit.

“Let’s take a look inside,” I said.

“It’s, um… Well, I don’t know any other way to say it other than there’s two bodies hanging and skinned in the garage,” the captain said.

“We’re aware,” I said, motioning for him to lead us inside. Hank and I followed him into the home. Five feet inside was a blood pool next to a spilled bag of groceries. Ten feet farther, another blood pool.

As Angel drove toward her condo, she glanced over at the phone sitting on the passenger seat. Marcy had called five times since Angel had gotten off the phone with the cop. The phone lit up and rang again.

“Shit!” Angel yelled. She banged her fist against the steering wheel. Angel took a few deep breaths to calm herself, reached over, and picked up the phone. She clicked Talk. “Hey, Marcy.”

“I tried calling you five times,” Marcy said.

“Yeah, sorry. I’m driving.”

“Did the police call you?”

Angel rubbed her face. “Police? No. What for?”

“Carmen Simms. I was just at the police station, answering questions about her. They think she’s killed people, Angel.”

“What?” Angel tried stringing the word out, as if she couldn’t believe it. “Killed people?” she asked.

“Yes. Killed people. Have you seen her?”

“No, Marcy. I haven’t seen Carmen in years. You know that.”

“Honey, are you sure?” Marcy let out a hard breath into the phone. “I told you that woman was dangerous.”

“Marcy, I haven’t had any contact with her.”

“Where are you? Are you going home? Your father and I are coming over. We need to talk about this.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. And, no, I’m not going home.”

“Yes, we do need to talk about it. Where are you going?”

“Ugh. Work.”

“Well, we’ll stop in there, then.”

“Um, geez, Marcy. Whatever, I guess just meet me at my condo. I have to stop there before my shift anyway.”

“We’re on our way.”

“Just give me, like, a half hour. I have to make a stop. Bye.” Angel hung up. “Shit!” She banged the steering wheel again and stepped on the gas.

She sped the ten miles to her three-story condo, which she hadn’t paid a lease payment on, or stayed overnight at, in months. Angel pulled the car into her garage, lowered the garage door, and rushed inside. She had minutes before Marcy and Bruce arrived. Angel knew they wouldn’t wait. As every other time her adoptive parents came over, anything having to do with Carmen needed to be hidden. Angel had a mental inventory of the items that needed to disappear—she had photos on the refrigerator as well as in the living room and master bedroom. The corny #1 Daughter coffee cup needed to be hid. Angel grabbed a box from a shelf on the garage, opened the door into the foyer, and ran up the stairs to the main level. She started in the kitchen. The photos of her and Carmen together on the refrigerator went into the box, as did the coffee mug, sitting in the sink. Angel looped around the breakfast bar and went to the living room for the framed photos hanging on the wall below the television—each one went into the box. She stopped and counted her items.

“That’s everything,” she said.

Angel ran up the next flight of stairs to the bedrooms. In the master, next to her bed, was the single family photograph that she owned—courtesy of Carmen. She snatched the framed picture and stared at it. Carmen had told her the photo was from New Year’s Day, 1981. It showed Angel’s father, Jack, leaning against a car with his arm around a young, pregnant, Carmen. The two were smiling. Angel also smiled as she looked at the picture.

“I’ll see you two soon.”

Angel set the photo carefully in the box and headed back downstairs.

She passed the landing for the main level and continued down to the front foyer and the door leading into the garage. Angel used her chin to steady the box while she reached out to open the door. As she twisted the knob, she heard a knock on the condo’s front door to her left. The door pushed open, and a woman in a light-blue fleece and a man wearing jeans and a gray polo shirt filled the doorway. Marcy and Bruce. They entered.

Bruce looked at Angel opening the garage door. He adjusted his glasses on his nose. “Need a hand?” he asked.

“No, I’m fine. You guys can go up. I’m just going to toss this box of junk in the garage. What’s so important that it couldn’t wait?”

“What do you mean ‘what is so important?’” Marcy snapped her head back. “Carmen is wanted for murder.”

Angel rolled her eyes. “Just go upstairs. I’ll be up in a sec.”

“Come on,” Bruce said. He tugged at Marcy’s sleeve.

Angel heard the couple walk up the steps. She placed the box in her car and headed upstairs a few seconds behind them. Bruce and Marcy took a seat on Angel’s brown leather couch. Both clasped their hands together in their laps. Angel walked over and sat down on the matching leather chair a few feet away.