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T.J. paused with one foot on the first step. She clenched her hands, already beginning to cry even as she asked, “What is it? Is she hurt?”
Jaine shook her head. “No. She—she’s dead. Someone killed her.”
Luna and T.J. came to her in a rush, and they clung together, weeping for the friend they loved and had lost forever.
Corin sat in front of the television, rocking back and forth as he waited, waited. For three days he had caught every newscast, but so far no one knew what he had done and he thought he would burst. He wanted the world to know the first of the four bitches was dead.
But he didn’t know if she was the right one. He didn’t know if she was A, B, C, or D. He hoped she was C. C was the one who had said that awful thing about trying harder to be perfect. C was the one who really, really needed to die.
But how could he make sure? He had called them, but one never answered her phone, and the other three wouldn’t tell him anything.
But there was one he didn’t have to worry about now. One down and three to go.
There! The newscaster, looking oh-so-serious, said, “A shocking murder in Sterling Heights takes the life of one of the Detroit area’s latest celebrities. Details when we return.”
At last! Relief filled him. Now everyone would know they shouldn’t say such things about Mother’s perfect little man.
He rocked back and forth, singing softly to himself. “One down and three to go. One down and three to go …”
nineteen
Finding Meldon Geurin, nickname “Brick,” didn’t take very long. A few questions led to his favorite bar, which led to the names of some of his friends, which led to the statement that, “Yeah, Brick, uh, he and his old lady, uh, had a fight or something, and I heard he’s crashing with Victor.”
“What’s this Victor’s last name?” Detective Roger Bernsen asked very nicely, but even when he asked nicely, it came out sounding somehow like
a threat, because Detective Bernsen was about two hundred and fifty pounds tightly packed on a five-eleven frame, with a twenty-inch neck, a bullfrog voice, and an expression that said he was about an inch away from a ‘roid rage. He couldn’t help his voice, didn’t care about his weight, and practiced the expression. The total package was very intimidating.
“Uh—Ables. Victor Ables.”
“Any idea where Victor lives?”
“In the city, man.”
So the Sterling Heights detective contacted the Detroit P.D., and Meldon “Brick” Geurin was picked up and held for questioning.
Mr. Geurin was in a surly mood when Detective Bernsen sat down to talk with him. His eyes were bloodshot and he stank of stale booze, so his surliness could perhaps be attributed to the wrath of grapes.
“Mr. Geurin,” said the detective in a polite tone that nevertheless made Mr. Geurin flinch, “when did you last see Ms. Marci Dean?”
Mr. Geurin’s head snapped up, a movement he seemed to regret. When he could speak, he said sullenly, “Thursday night.”
“Thursday? Are you certain of that?”
“Yeah, why? Did she say I stole something? She was there when I left, and if she says I took something of hers, she’s lyin’.”
Detective Bernsen didn’t respond to that. Instead he said, “Where have you been since Thursday night?”
“In jail,” Mr. Geurin said, even more sullenly than before.
Detective Bernsen sat back, the only outward evidence of his astonishment. “Where were you in jail?”
“Detroit.”
“When were you picked up?”
“Thursday night sometime.”
“And you were released when?”
