Page 43 of Sinful Promise
His saggy jowls. Droopy eyelids.
Death has neither helped nor hindered the man’s looks. He was always this lifeless and gross.
“No defensive wounds,” Torres murmurs. “He had no clue it was coming.”
Not entirely true. He had a second there at the end.
“Death came about by the blade.” He pulls Fentone’s sheet down to show off the Y-cut digging into the man’s chest, and the scar where Minka’s blade punctured flesh. “Straight through the heart,” he continues. “Though it went in on an angle, slicing the left ventricle. Instant death.”
Well… he had a few seconds to suffer. But close enough.
“And the bullet wound?” Fletch looks to Fentone’s forehead. “How was that not a killing shot?”
“Because it came after death.” Stepping along the table so he’s in line with Fentone’s head, Torres tilts it his way, so Fletch and I get a view of the back. “Through the front, out the back. Nine-millimeter bullet. That’s all we know.”
“Crime scene techs pulled the slug from the wall.” Fletch crouches lower and peers at the back of Fentone’s skull. “It’s with ballistics now. But until we find the gun that shot it…”
Torres drags his bottom lip between his teeth. “All of which is inyourwheelhouse, Detective. I just work with the body. But while we’re on the topic of weapons, the knife…”
My heart thunders heavier in my chest as the doctor steps away and picks up a manila folder from a steel counter lining the wall. Taking a stack of photographs from inside, he turns the first around and shows me theexactfucking style of knife I threw away two nights ago.
“Standard switchblade like this one. Or this,” he shows another picture. “Or this one.” A third image.
Nope. You got it the first time.
Fuck.
“They’re all quite alike, and unfortunately,” passing the file to Fletch, he sets his hands on his hips and studies us both, “entirely too common. They’re sharp as hell, and sold in every sporting goods, hardware, and homewares store from here to Canada. I took the liberty of doing a little research for you. But on my first pass alone, it would appear that three million of the same, or similar, blades have been sold across the country in the last two years alone.”
“Threemillion?” Whistling, Fletch flips back to the picture of the first blade. Bringing it closer, he studies each minute detail. For a long fucking time. “That’s a lot of blades, Doc. Why does every asshole and his grandma need one, huh?”
“Fishing,” Torres jokes. “Or for use at home. And apparently,” he walks back to Fentone and starts zipping up the thick black bag. “To kill people. There’s no way you’ll find your killer via the blade. But you might find the blade once you find your killer.” He stops for a moment and grins. “It’s a bit upside down, but you get it.”
“Yep,” I grumble. “We get it. So that’s all you got?”
Finishing with the zipper, Torres comes to the end of the table and slowly rolls the body back into the fridge he came from. “That’s it for now. Your crime, it would appear, was perfect.”
“No.” Fletch closes the file and offers it to me, but when I hesitate—I’ve seen the blade up close and personal already—he frowns.
Remembering I have a part to play, and a murder to pretend to investigate, I shake off my reluctance and open the file to peruse the other blades.
Finally, Fletch glances back to Torres. “No crime is perfect, Doctor. There’s always something left behind. Like the fact that canvassing has turned up no reports of hearing a gunshot that night.” Thinking, he breaks away from where he stands and paces the wall of dead people awaiting release and burial. “Which means, what?” He looks my way. “Silencer? Still get a pop with one of those, but it’s not as loud.”
“Maybe,” I grunt. Noncommittal. No idea. “Could be. But the neighbors we interviewed all seemed to have a similar opinion.” Snapping the file closed, I hand it to Torres and twist to watch my partner walk. “When they found outwhowas dead, none were all that keen to help. Maybe they did hear a shot go off, but no one cares enough to say so.”
“Wasn’t me,” Fletch quotes in a comically high-pitched tone. “But I’m not sad he’s dead.Only sickos touch kids.”
“I mean…” Torres chuckles. “They’re not wrong.”
“What do you have on Patterson?” I take a step back and study the wall of fridge doors. Change the subject. Change it all. “Anything new?”
“Not my case.” Like I’ve asked him to slap his boss, he backs away with his hands raised in surrender. “I don’t touch anyone else’s caseload, Detective. But I especially don’t touch the chief’s.”
“She’s scary.” Fletch smirks. “She can get a little mean sometimes.”
“She’s not mean.” Rolling my eyes, I turn toward the door and start in that direction. We’re already in the building, so there’s no reason we can’t drop in to see thescaryChief Mayet. “Thanks for your work on this, Doctor Torres. If you happen to find anything else,”shut your mouth and blend your brain with an electric cake mixer, “you know where to find us.”
“Actually.” Closing the fridge and dashing across tile to catch us at the door, Torres comes through with us and makes quick work of tapping at the check-in computer. According to Minka, that’s them letting the system know they’re done messing with a body and it’s now secure and locked away for next time. “The lab sent me something a little while ago. They’re run off their feet in there, so it got missed on the first pass.”
