Page 80 of The Broken Places

“Yeah,” Ambrose said. “It’s Nancy.”

Nancy Sweeton.Doc’s deceased daughter. The one he’d dedicated his project to. The only one of his patients who’d died during treatment. “What does this mean?” she asked.

“I’m not exactly sure.” Ambrose took out his phone and dialed and then let out another frustrated breath as she heard Dr. Sweeton’s voicemail pick up.

They both exited the house, coming to stand at the top of the driveway, Lennon’s gaze on the darkening water of the bay far below this mansion in Pacific Heights. She attempted to organize the information they’d collected over the past hour as Ambrose sent the doctor yet another text.

Her phone rang, and she answered, putting it on speaker and holding it out as Ambrose moved closer. “Franco Girone’s not here,” Lieutenant Byrd said. “But he’s still living in the same house his mother owned. There’s a lab in the basement—he must have spent years assembling this. It’s completely state of the art. He’s definitely our guy, and he intended on doing big things. There are also what look like videorecordings of each murder, and lots of product, all with the ‘BB’ stamp. A hazmat crew is on the way.”

Her eyes met Ambrose’s. “Is there anything that might tell us where he’s gone or what he’s doing next?” she asked the lieutenant.

“No specifics found, but there are sketches all over his kitchen table. He plotted out each murder scene in advance. There are notes that must have been done later about ways to improve, some shit I can’t even read that’s probably drug formulas. He’s been very strategic.” The sounds of paper rustling came from the background. “There are also what look like plans for a bigger event, but it’s not clear what.”

“Can you send me a screenshot of that?” Lennon asked.

“Yeah. Take a look. Then we can convene about where to go from here. Of course, we’ll have this place staked out in case he returns. Oh, and hey, good work, Gray. We got him, dead to rights.”

“Don’t thank me too soon,” she said. “We still have to apprehend him before he hurts anyone else.”

She hung up, and a moment later, Lennon’s phone dinged, indicating a text had arrived. She opened it, frowning as she looked the rough sketch over and then turned it so Ambrose could see. “It looks like a dinner ... or an event,” she said. “There are tables inside ... and ...” She moved the phone closer to Ambrose. “What is that?”

He studied it for a moment. “A DJ booth, maybe?”

“A DJ booth,” she murmured. “Yes, an event. He’s targeting an event?” She turned the phone back to her and counted the tables.Twelve.“Ambrose, it looks like at least a hundred people are going to be here. Is this what he’s been working up to?”

Killing not just one or two or four, but over a hundred at a time?And maybe it wasn’t just what he was working up to. Maybe it was only another experiment on his way to more. Just a stop along the route to complete genocide. The evil stunned her, and she hadn’t thought she could be stunned by evil anymore. Sickened? Distraught? Yes. But no longer stunned.

“When, though?” Ambrose asked. “And where? If we don’t know those answers, we can’t do a damn thing.”

Lennon looked back down at the sketch. “Ambrose ... what do you think these are?”

His gaze lingered where she was pointing. “Framed paintings hung on the wall?”

No, not exactly.She chewed at her lip, looking away, her gaze snagging on the shards of shattered glass from the front door. Glass.Glass.“Stained glass,” she said. “Could these be stained glass windows?”

“You could be right,” Ambrose said, his head moving closer to hers.

“If so, it’s a church. He’s targeting a church service.”

“One with a DJ booth and tables?”

“Okay, no, you’re right. An event at a church.” Something was just on the edge of her mind.Stained glass. Bright colors. An event.She turned away and then suddenly turned back. “Oh my God, Ambrose. The Heroes for Homelessness ... there was a DJ advertised. And ...” Her eyes flared with realization. “Rays of Hope. His mother’s organization. Oh my God, he’s going to do something horrific there. For her.”

She googled the foundation’s number and dialed, her heart skittering as she waited, the call finally going to voicemail. She hung up just as Ambrose’s head came up from his phone, where he’d obviously been googling the event itself. “It’s being held at Mercy Cathedral. Tonight. It’s already started.”

Lennon called Lieutenant Byrd as they sped toward Mercy Cathedral and told him where they were heading and why. The lieutenant told Lennon he’d send a few backup cars to the church in the hope that Franco Girone was present and that they could halt any potential plan that was underway at the event this evening.

Ambrose reached over and took her hand as he drove and laced his fingers with hers. Their eyes met, and she whispered a silent prayer that they weren’t going to be too late.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Dr. Sweeton pushed through the people entering the church, his head swiveling as he sought out Franco Girone. He didn’t see him in the crowd, but the people present all looked happy to be here, the space filled with the sounds of chatter and laughter. He noticed a woman he’d met at the clinic many months before who he’d asked to come in for testing. She had, and he’d thought she was a good candidate for the project.Trinity.Her name was Trinity, and her father had been a preacher who’d molested her for most of her young life. His mind reeled, and for the portion of a second, he wondered if it was difficult for her that this event was being held in a church. She caught his eye, surprise flashing in her expression before he looked away.

God, his mind was everywhere, panic taking over. He wiped the sweat off his forehead. His heart was still beating far too fast, the shock and grief of seeing the photo of Nancy along with what he’d discovered about Franco causing his body to flood with stress hormones.

“Sir, can I take your coat?”

“What? Oh. Yes, thank you.” He shrugged off his jacket. The young woman standing in front of a rack of coats took it from him, and he turned away. A DJ was setting up off to the side, and a small stage had been erected at the head of the dozen or so tables, all set for dinner. There were placards in the middle obviously designating which groupswere sitting where. One readTHEGILBERTHOUSE; another one saidOCEANCRESTSOBERLIVING. Each place setting had a colorful ribbon tied around the silverware and a plastic-wrapped mint placed just beneath. And in front of each plate was a printed quote. The doctor was too distracted to focus on the one nearest him, but assumed it was something inspirational. “Keep Going!” or “You got this!” It made him want to laugh, and cry. Ridiculous platitudes to people with severe mental illnesses, like the ones suffering lifelong trauma and addiction. And this was what he was going to leave these people with when he went to prison. Another drop of sweat slid down the doctor’s cheek, and he worked to calm his breathing.

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