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When he stands, the loss of his presence is palpable. I watch as he walks quickly across the room to the entry foyer as I call the precinct.
The sergeant picks up on the second ring. “Sergeant Blackman.” Curt and pissed off, as usual.
I screw my eyes shut again and force my voice to be even and professional. “Sergeant, it’s Detective Chavelle, there’s been an incident.”
“What the fuck do you mean, ‘incident?” The man’s got the bedside manners of a shark.
I sit up. I cannot be in a reclined position for this conversation. “I’m at Ignatius Beauchamp’s home-“
“What in the hell are you doing there?” he barks, cutting me off.
I watch Ignatius move toward the kitchen, most likely to lock the backdoor. “I was discussing the cases with him. He was a first responder at each of the crime scenes-” I clamp my mouth shut to keep from saying something I’ll regret.
“This is an ongoing investigation, Detective,” he growls, and it’s full of accusations.
“With all due respect, Sergeant,” I reply, now seething, “I know that. You would not have called me in if you thought I would damage a case.” I hear him drag in a sharp breath. Screw him. I continue, “However, as I said, there is a situation here. A pentagram was spray-painted on my car in front of his house.”
“What!?”
I can practically see the throbbing vein bulging on his forehead.
I close my eyes and press a finger and thumb onto my eyelids and force my voice to remain steady and my nerves to stay calm. “While we were inside talking, someone came onto Ignatius Beauchamp’s property and spray painted a pentagram on my car.”
“Does he have security cameras?” the sergeant asks tightly.
A light touch on my shoulder makes me jump a foot off the couch. I jerk my head up as I hit the hand away, it’s an automatic reaction.
“Sorry,” Ignatius whispers. Our eyes lock as my heart pounds an erratic beat inside my chest and a sheen of sweat covers my body. “And no, I don’t.”
I take a deep breath to steady myself as Ignatius lays his hand back on my shoulder. This time I don’t push him off. “No, he doesn’t,” I relay the information to the sergeant.
“Goddamn it. I bet this has something to do with the article this morning,” the sergeant replies.
“What article?” I ask. Ignatius’ grip tightens. I raise my eyes to meet his. His brows are pinched together and he looks…angry.
“You don’t know?” The sergeant barks out a disgusted sounding laugh. “Of course you don’t, nobody reads the papers anymore. Your name was printed in the newspaper this morning as a lead detective in the crimes.”
“WHAT?” I jump to me feet as red hot anger explodes inside me.
“I just found out a short while ago. I thought someone from the precinct notified you.” I can hear the regret in his voice.
I don’t care. This is bad. Really bad.
“Who released my name to the press?” I don’t yell. I don’t scream. I don’t lose my patience.
Inside, I silently fume and scream and punch the sergeant right in his fucking throbbing vein. But on the outside I keep it together because chaos breeds negativity, and I’ve had just about enough of that shit.
“No one was supposed to. Everyone involved is fully aware how dangerous the perp is and would never put one of their own in danger,” he gives me the spiel about anonymity and taking care of our own, and blah, blah, blah. I just roll my eyes. I’d love to hang up on him, but I can’t. Even if I’m from another precinct. From another state, really.
I choose to ignore everything he’s saying because it’s all handbook bullshit anyway. “Apparently, I’m a target, thanks to whoever released my name and wrote that article.”
“I’ll take care of them,” the sergeant states. “I’m sorry, Detective. This should not have happened.”
Those women shouldn’t have been murdered either.
The sergeant sounds genuinely bothered by the whole incident. I appreciate it, I really do. But do I care he’s bothered? No, not really. Because he’s not the one the psycho’s now targeting.
I am.
