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Mac had lost him, he could tell from the panicked movement of Mr. Turner's eyes, as a vicious flood of possibilities scattered like bowling pins what little composure the man had been able to collect.
He had to shatter their fragile illusion that the submissive posture and props were the act of only one mind. It was the worst aspect of this case, but it had to be done, to be sure his murderess had not been a peripheral part of Edward Turner's life that had come in contact with the family. The sister sat pale and silent, her hand on her father's arm, that touch staying with him even as he jerked with impatient, grief-ravaged movements. She was so still that Mac was afraid she might be in shock, and made a mental note to have the EMTs look at her as soon as he and Mr. Turner were done.
"You aren't going to rub that filthy accusation all over my son's name. My lawyer--"
"Mr. Turner." Mac deliberately lowered his voice, made sure the man met his gaze, saw the patience and understanding, the lack of threat. "No one is accusing your son of anything. He's the victim, a very good man, his life taken away long before it should have happened. We're trying to find and stop his killer."
"But he didn't ask for this."
"No more than any man who takes a lover home to his bed does," Mac agreed. "Mr. Turner, I know this is very difficult, but your understanding of your son's lifestyle may make you remember things that can help us."
"Lifestyle." Turner surged up from his chair, knocking it over. The sister flinched, but her fingers had curled into his sweater sleeve and clung to her father's arm, even as his movements half-yanked her out of the chair. "My son was not some twisted weak pervert who liked having a woman...beat on him. He was a junior varsity quarterback, and a wrestler. He took care of his sister for four years when my wife died and I had to work two shifts, put off college when he was an honor student with scholarships to go anywhere he wanted to go." The man had tears running down his face now and Mac was sure he wasn't aware of it. "Saved her from a mugger one night, when there were no cops to be found. Knocked the bastard's lights out. He wasn't weak."
"No, he wasn't," Mac ignored the lead weight that had settled in his stomach, effectively compressing all his vital organs. "He was a conscientious man who lived a good life and kept his sexual preferences in the bedroom, a place he thought was safe."
"You're supposed to help. I'm calling my attorne
y, and if one word of this preposterous story gets out, I swear to God --"
"You do what you have to do, Mr. Turner," Mac took out a card, laid it on the table. "But remember I'm out there looking for the killer, before she does it to somebody else's son. If you think of something, you call me."
After the shocked numbness and the furious denials died away, if the man loved his son, Mac knew he would think it through, try to skirt around the edge of what he couldn't accept to find a killer's footsteps.
The man swept up the card, flung it at Mac's face. It was a distraction that he should have seen coming. Turner's knuckles slammed into his jaw, and then Mac was trying to fend off the man, trying not to strike back and cause him more pain. Several uniforms came to assist, along with the police counselor. The sister sat at the table, her head bowed, her chin pressed to her chest, her shoulders shaking with a grief hard enough to shatter. Mac stood back from the uniforms trying to calm Turner down. As if Turner's sister was on a separate stage, he watched her fight the pain that, up until this moment, could have been assuaged in the arms of her father or brother.
Every sub thought of this scenario, or something like it. That's why most never took the play outside of a club, not ever. To have one's sexual preference exposed, one that ninety-five percent of the world considered deviant, to embarrass one's family, a spouse...it was unthinkable.
But when it was a part of a person that couldn't be denied, it manifested itself one way or another. For most of them, the desire eventually overrode caution. Like most, Mac just hoped never to do anything stupid enough to have something like this happen. But Edward Turner had not been a stupid man.
The police counselor gestured, the subtle movement clear. Mac left the room, knowing his value to the family lay elsewhere, out of their sight. Even if he caught the killer, delivered her head to Mr. Turner and his daughter, they would never welcome the sight of him again, a man associated not just with their son's death, but a truth they never wanted to know.
He stepped outside onto the front porch and found his sergeant waiting for him there, leaning against a column.
"Good punch for a guy twice your age." Darla straightened, reached up, touched his face. "I've got a pissed off Suarez in the dining room of the murder scene, Detective. You going to take care of that?"
"I clean up my messes. Is that why you're here on my crime scene, Sarge? To play daycare manager?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Careful, Detective. Maybe if the primary could keep his temper under control he wouldn't be thinking that's why I'm here. And I'll remind you," her countenance was hard and aloof, telling him he'd definitely stepped over her line, "that every crime scene that falls in our jurisdiction is my crime scene, as much as yours."
"I know. Jesus, Sergeant, I'm sorry." And he meant it.
Her anger defused as rapidly as his own, and she inclined her head. "You're pushing this one too hard, Mac. It's getting under your skin. But I'm not telling you anything you don't know. I should have given you some down time. You brought down that serial killer less than a handful of months ago and you haven't had a vacation since--"
"I'm fine." He waved that away. "I'm old enough to baby-sit myself, Sarge, don't worry. When we close this case, I'll cheerfully abandon the lot of you for a couple weeks in the Keys. Even if there's a major prison break and the streets of Tampa are swarming with death row inmates."
"I'll hold you to it," she responded. "I guess this one hits pretty close to home, hmm? Hearing everyone say he asked for it."
From her expression, he could tell she wondered the same thing herself, and what his position on it was. If it had been someone else, someone like Consuela or Suarez, he would have brushed it off, changed the topic. He'd never had any interest in being a salesman for his personal life, but she had gone out on a limb for him, and he owed her at least the answer to her curiosity. "It gets tedious," he admitted. "He asked for it as much as anyone asks for it who opens himself up to another person, hoping to find a connection."
Mac glanced back at the door, behind which Mr. Turner and his recriminations lay. "But my father would have felt the same as him. I was varsity, myself. Was offered a scholarship based on my football skills. I went into law enforcement instead. Most people I know feel like this about D/s. That's why you always hope to find someone with whom you can finally be who you are. Isn't that what we all want?" He said it lightly, wanting to shrug it off, but her eyes told him she wasn't buying it. Cops never did, but they also knew when to respect the boundaries and back off. He didn't want to do this now, not with the stench of blood in his nostrils.
"Why are you here, Sarge?"
"Connie called me before we located you. She felt I needed to see one of the pieces of evidence on the body and talk about it with you directly. She pulled it off before you arrived on scene, handed it over to me when I got here just now."
Her face unreadable, she lifted the plastic evidence bag that she'd been holding under her arm.
It was a folded sheet of paper, standard ruled notebook stock. His murderess was smart enough not to personalize herself with perfumed stationary. In small block letters, only taking up one line in the center of the page, was her message.
