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His illusory peace. The others—the ADA and the judge and the defense attorney—their peace, even if fleeting, was real. It sent out soothing tendrils that rooted their psyche in sanity. But the alcohol Murphy poured into the gaping chasm of his soul was a symptom, not a solution. Underneath the patina of song singing and guffawing, the maw of his pain waited.
That’s how he was like me: no amount of yoga or birdwatching or treadmill running could touch the snarling beast eating away at me. Everything I’d tried was akin to putting a Band-Aid over the gushing blood of a severed limb. I almost felt sorry for him because I understood the pain so well: it never stopped, not during the loud times and certainly not during the quiet times, not even in your sleep—it gave you nightmares or caused you to wake in the middle of the night, suffocated by darkness, terrified to move, your heart thrumming like the wings of a hummingbird.
But two things made me different from Murphy. First, that I was smart enough to realize that alcohol, or drugs or gambling or shopping or any other potential ‘ism,’ would only make the problem worse. I knew when the alcohol left his system the pain would be worse than when he started, that he was chasing his tail in a circle he’d never be fast enough to escape. Second, that Murphy had created his own hell by committing despicable acts, while my pain was created not by me; those same acts had ripped away any chance I ever had of having a normal, peaceful life. His daily struggle was the very least he deserved—in fact, his slow erosion was a blessing compared to the stark, dramatic shredding my own psyche had undergone.
I timed how long he smiled and sang. Because, sure enough, right on schedule, his momentary relief slipped away. The smile slackened into stupor, the singing into slurring. His pain roared back in the form of anger, small at first, little snipes at the guy next to him who spilled a beer. Then the gripes magnified, until the bartender leaned in close and threatened to cut him off. He pulled out some cash, threw it down onto the bar, and stormed out with the slow purposefulness the drunk use to keep the stumble out of their step.
I slipped out after him as the bartender turned to help a new customer, quickening my step once the creaky ballast of a door swung in place behind me. He wasn’t far in front of me. He’d barely made it around the corner into the back lot before stopping to relieve himself against the wall.
Revulsion pulsed through me and I considered killing him right then, smiling at the thought of the self-important former detective being found with his dick out, lying in a puddle of his own piss.
He finished, zipped up, and headed toward his car.
I did a quick double-check to be sure nobody was around.
“Steve Murphy?” I called out.
He turned, swaying, and almost fell over. He caught himself—barely—against the back of his car. “Who are you? Do I know you?”
With one hand, I pulled off my glasses and hat so he could see my face. That was the benefit of catching him drunk—I’d have no chance against a sober cop, even an older, retired one who likely still carried. The downside was I had to hope he was aware enough to process what I was saying. So I reminded him who I was and what he’d done to me.
Then, as I watched the beautiful, terrified realization break through his alcohol haze, I triggered my telescopic truncheon and smashed it into his skull.
CHAPTERFORTY-SIX
The sky over Philby was still ink black as Jo, forcing her anger down into the pit of her stomach, hurried up to the crime-scene tape blocking off the back half of The Tap Club’s parking area. The call had wrenched her out of a dreamless sleep, and for one confused moment she hoped she was having a nightmare that a fourth member of law enforcement had been murdered on her watch—but no, it was horrifyingly real.
How had Ossokov outsmarted her? She’d done everything she could to protect Murphy—warned him, tried to get surveillance on him, searched every dive in Oakhurst for him. But she couldn’t help but feel she should have been able to prevent it.
She shook her head and forced herself to focus. She couldn’t afford the luxury of either guilt or anger right now, she needed to remain clear-headed and on target. Arnett was the next victim in line, and she was no closer to catching Ossokov than she’d been four days ago.
As if on cue, Arnett’s blue Cadillac CT4 pulled up as she checked in with the responding officer. Arnett crossed to her side, his gait fast but stilted, a dead giveaway that he was suppressing an anxiety he’d never admit to.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I don’t have any intention of going behind the tape. But I need to know for myself.”
Jo grimaced. It wasn’t ideal, but as long as he didn’t enter the crime scene, he couldn’t be accused of tampering with anything or anyone. “Are you here? I hadn’t noticed.”
She turned back to the RO, a stocky, buzz-cutted barrel of an officer whose nameplate read M. Severn. “Catch me up.”
Severn looked down at his notes. “Owner, Ryan Preston, said he came out to dump the evening’s trash after closing up shop. Found Murphy dead on the asphalt by his car in the back. I saw the BOLO for him when I logged into my MCT this morning, so I recognized the name and contacted you all directly. Your CSI team is with him now.”
Jo stepped to the left so she could see around the corner of the building. Marzillo and Peterson were vaguely recognizable in their PPE, blocking her view of what they were processing.
“Did Preston recognize Murphy?” Jo asked.
“He did. Said he comes here once, maybe twice, a week. He’d been here for a couple of hours, had several beers, and left about an hour before last call, around twelve ten. He said he didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary about Murphy’s demeanor, and that he left alone.”
Jo was impressed—Severn was thorough and succinct, both qualities she appreciated in the current moment. “What time did Preston find him?”
“Just after two thirty in the morning. He says it takes him about an hour to close up after the last customer leaves, and then he tosses out the trash as he heads home.”
Jo reached for her PPE. “Good work.”
Once she’d kitted up she beelined for Marzillo and Peterson, trying to ignore the astringent scent of urine. She stopped short as the two turned toward her, silent faces grim, revealing the figure lying on the asphalt. They parted as she moved closer, still without a word.
Fighting back the anger and desperation, Jo stepped carefully around him, forcing herself to analytically take in and sort the details. The left side of his blindfold showed patches of blood, and matted hair stuck out above and below it. His mouth was now twisted unnaturally into an open slash that caricatured his grimace when he’d accused the man she trusted most in the world of misconduct.
“Another crowbar?” she asked.
