Cold-Blooded, page 4
“Take your time,” Jocelyn said.
For a few moments, there was only the hiss of his oxygen feeding the air into his nose. Finally, he spoke again, “She was in a grassy area, beneath the tree. No mud, so we don’t have any footprints. Of course, because so many people frequent that area, it would have been hard to tell if any footprints belonged to the killer. She wasn’t found until after midnight when her sister, grandmother, and a few of their neighbors went looking for her. It was a neighbor who found her and called it in.”
“Robbed?”
“Yeah. They took a gold necklace with a charm on it that bore her name, her class ring, and two small gold hoop earrings.”
“Raped?”
“No. But the killer pulled her shorts and underwear off and put them over her head.”
“They took her pants off but didn’t rape her?” Anita said.
Knox fidgeted with the cannula, pushing the tubing deeper into his nostrils. “Yeah. The ME said there was no evidence of sexual assault.”
Anita piled the photos neatly atop one another, their edges lined up perfectly, and pushed the pile to the center of the table.
Jocelyn chewed her lower lip. “That sounds a lot like a random,” she remarked. “Someone looking for a quick buck. Sees an opportunity, acts impulsively. Maybe he was going to rape her but got interrupted. They were in a public park.”
“Well, yeah,” Knox said. “That’s how it’s always been treated. We got nothing forensically. No trace evidence. No semen. Not one goddamn piece of evidence except the bullets, which we were never able to match to a gun. I know this is the kind of case most people give up on and Sydney being a black kid? I had no resources for this case.” He pointed toward the crime scene photos. “You’d better believe if that was a young white blonde girl, there would have been a goddamn hotline for tips. Maybe if I’d had a hotline, or more news coverage or more manpower, I could have turned something up.”
Jocelyn frowned. She looked at Anita, but the other woman’s eyes were locked on Knox. He looked at his lap and then back at Jocelyn. “You know it’s true.”
She did know. The year before, when Anita was viciously attacked and mutilated, no one cared. Only after a white schoolteacher was assaulted by the very same men did the case get the attention it deserved—the kind of attention that often meant the difference between a cleared case and a cold case. The press named the assailants the Schoolteacher Attackers, but Anita was a victim before the teacher. The men should have been called the Receptionist Attackers. Of course, Jocelyn could never prove that the disparity was due to the fact that Anita was black and the other victim was white, but the disparity was there, and she couldn’t deny that Knox had a point. He very well may have been given more resources had Sydney been white. But that didn’t change anything about the case as it stood now.
Jocelyn said, “I know what you’re saying, Knox, and I think you’re right, but this is what we’ve got to work with right now, and what we’ve got points to an impulsive, random type.”
He pointed a finger in the air. “But impulsive random types don’t pick up their shell casings and take them with them—I mean assuming he didn’t use a revolver.”
“Which is why you think it’s someone she knew.”
Knox reached into his back pocket and pulled out three color photographs, which he pushed across the table to Jocelyn. They were small, three by five inches maybe, and old, as if they had been developed back when people actually used rolls of film. Jocelyn studied them while Knox talked and then handed them to Anita. There wasn’t much to them. It was three flirty pictures of the girl.
“She was ambushed. Shot in the back. If it was a robbery, why not just threaten her with the gun and demand her valuables? This guy shot first. The few pieces of jewelry she had on weren’t that valuable—although I’ve routinely checked every pawn shop in the city for the last fourteen years, and none of it ever turned up. Anyway, if the killer’s intention was to rape her, why shoot her first?”
“People get shot in this city every day for no good reason at all,” Jocelyn pointed out.
“Yeah,” Knox said with a grimace. “I remember.”
“Who took these photos?” Jocelyn asked, tapping a finger on Sydney Adams’ bare midriff.
“I think her track and field coach, Cash Rigo, took them at his home. Based on how broken up he was after her death, I have always suspected him. I couldn’t prove it, but these photos show they had a relationship. Sydney hid these photos under her carpet, beneath her nightstand. They obviously had some kind of inappropriate relationship. She tried to keep it hidden.”
Jocelyn sighed and rubbed a hand over her eyes, suddenly feeling tired. She needed coffee. “Before we go any further with your Cash Rigo theory, does he have an alibi? I assume he does if you were never able to pin this on him.”
Knox pinched his oxygen tubing between a thumb and forefinger. “He left the school at five in the afternoon that day. He was home by himself until nine-thirty that night. His wife, who was the school nurse, was at a Home and School meeting, which started at six-thirty. It went a few hours. Apparently, there had been some ongoing vandalism in the school that parents were up in arms about. There was a lot of damage. Someone had even broken into the nurse’s office and stolen some things.”
“What about the wife?” Anita interjected. “Any chance she knew about her husband’s relationship with this girl and went off the deep end?”
Knox glanced at Anita and shook his head. “I don’t think she knew, but even if she did, her alibi is airtight. The Home and School meeting was taped. I’ve got her on video from six-thirty that night till just after nine. She never even got up to use the bathroom. Anyway, she got home around nine-thirty and found her husband violently ill. She took him to Chestnut Hill Hospital.” He pointed at the box. “The records are in there. But he was home alone for hours before his wife came home. He had plenty of time to go to the park, shoot Sydney and get home, assuming that she was killed shortly after seven. She ran the same route every night for two years. Everyone who knew her knew that. The Rigos lived in Mt. Airy, which as you know, is a lot closer to the athletic field than Franklin West.”
Anita pulled the box over to her. She handed a set of Emergency Room records to Jocelyn and kept rifling through its contents. She pulled out another pile of photos that looked like they had come from the same roll of film as the flirty photos. She pulled one out and held it up for them both to see. “Is this him?” she asked Knox.
He nodded. Anita caught Jocelyn’s eye and handed her the photo. “A pretty boy,” both women said in unison. Jocelyn studied the photo more closely, ignoring the quizzical look that Knox directed at Anita and then her. Cash sat at a desk, and judging by the student desks and chalkboard in the background, it was his classroom. He looked young and fresh-faced, not much older than a high school student. He had broad shoulders, kind brown eyes, an angular jaw and curly brown hair cut just short enough to look stylish. Long enough for a woman to want to run her fingers through it, but not so long that it would make him look dorky or effeminate. He wasn’t smoking hot, but he would definitely get second looks from most women he encountered.
“I really am going to need some coffee,” Jocelyn said, although her mind was abuzz with the news of Rigo’s shaky alibi. It was something.
She flipped the pages of the ER records until she came to the discharge summary. Food poisoning. “What did he have for dinner?” she asked.
Knox answered, “Chinese food from a local place that no longer exists. He picked it up on his way home, at about five forty-five, which still gives him plenty of time to shoot Sydney and get home. None of the other patrons that ate there that night got sick.”
“How about a gun? Either of the Rigos ever own a gun?”
“Not that I could prove. Nothing registered in either of their names. I went to the house several times, but I could never get a search warrant.”
Jocelyn looked into his jaundiced eyes. “I assume you leaned on this guy.”
He smiled, his cheeks reddening slightly. “Until I was formally reprimanded, and his wife threatened to file a lawsuit against the police department.”
Anita gave a low whistle. “Well,” she said.
Knox glanced at her. “I couldn’t break him.”
Jocelyn pulled out a chair and sat down. “This is not new evidence. I mean we’ll call it that to get things moving again, but it’s not. This is not a smoking gun. You know that, right?”
Knox frowned, the cannula on his upper lip bobbing. “I know Cash Rigo did this.”
“These pictures don’t prove that, Knox. You can’t even prove that Cash Rigo took these.”
“I know Cash Rigo killed Sydney,” Knox said. “He did it.”
Jocelyn exchanged another look with Anita. She knew her partner was on board, in spite of the fact that Knox had brought them next to nothing to work with. “You have no physical evidence. You have a suspect with something of an alibi. You barely have a motive.”
Knox opened his mouth to speak, but Jocelyn leaned forward and held up one of the flirty photos. “Even with these, you’ve got nothing, Knox. Which means you’ll need a confession.”
Knox’s expression morphed from crestfallen to the kind of earnest, hopeful expression dogs get when their owners pull out a leash. Anita clucked her tongue. “It’s been fourteen years, Rush. Fourteen years this piece of shit has gotten away with it. Why in the hell would he confess now?”
Jocelyn smiled. “Because we’re about to put the pressure on. First, I need a homicide detective. One who’s still on the payroll.”
June 8, 2000
It was hot in the house. Stifling. Sweat poured down his face and neck in rivulets, but Cash Rigo made no move to turn on the ancient AC window units throughout the house. Instead, he stood stock-still in the darkness gathering all around him, twilight sinking into the house. It was so quiet. He used to love this time of day, when he got home before his wife, and there was nothing but silence. Blessed silence, occasionally broken up by the muffled sounds of the outside world, like a car passing, a dog barking, and the children at the end of the block shouting and playing. The soft, silent dark time. It was all his, all peace, or what passed for peace in Cash’s world.
Today he’d gotten caught up by the table at the end of the foyer hall. The one under Francine’s painting with its ridiculously oversized faux teak frame. The table that was more the size of a stool—tall, narrow and good for nothing but holding decorative items, like the photo of the two of them that Francine had placed there the week before. Its gaudy eight by ten frame seemed to mock him. There used to be a candle there. One of those fancy, large candles that cost more than a Thanksgiving turkey and that you could smell throughout the entire house without even lighting it. It had been some kind of tropical scent. It had been there so long, untouched, that a thick film of dust clung to it. He remembered the fruity scent mingling with Sydney’s own smell—shampoo, sweat, and freshly cut grass. She had smelled like spring, he thought wistfully.
He heard her voice in his head. God, you’re so lame.
She used to say that to him all the time. It was a flirtation. She always smiled when she said it, her gaze lingering on him till his face flamed red. It was almost a compliment. She’d said it that night.
That night.
That’s what he called it. It stood out from all the other nights of his life. He tried to remember how he’d ended up behind her, his hands on her, their fused bodies rocking the ill-conceived little table until it left a small, thin gouge in the wall behind it. Had it really happened? Of course it had. He’d thought of nothing else for almost a month. Until she was gone.
He clenched and unclenched his fists. The sound of his wife’s key in the lock of the front door barely registered. He had to move, but he couldn’t. She’d be angry that he hadn’t turned the AC on.
You never consider me or my feelings, she would say.
That was what his wife always said. She was right in some ways. He hadn’t considered her at all when he’d fucked a seventeen-year-old student at this very table.
Sweat pasted his polo shirt to his body and poured from his crotch, dampening his khakis. He could smell his own foul stink. Francine wouldn’t like that either. She didn’t like a lot of things. Then again, he was a shitty husband. Even before they married, he’d been a shitty boyfriend.
Since Sydney’s death, Cash had told himself he would be better. He had to be better. They were trying again. His wife wanted a baby.
Her cool fingers curled around the back of his neck, startling him, as if she’d materialized out of thin air. She stood just behind him, looking over his shoulder. “I always liked that picture of us,” she said quietly, fingers kneading the back of his neck.
“What?” he mumbled. He tried to tear his gaze away from the table to look at her, but he couldn’t. He could still see Sydney there, feel her in his hands.
Francine moved around his body, filling up the space between Cash and the table. She looked up at him, trying to catch his eyes. She put her hands on his chest. “That photo of us. Don’t you remember? The wine festival in Vermont? We hadn’t married yet.”
“Yeah,” he said finally, looking at her. “I remember.”
A small smile lit on her round moon face. Her brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail. “Do you remember what we did in the woods that day?” she asked as her hands slid down to his belt buckle.
“Don’t,” he said as she undid his belt.
The smile tightened on her face. “You’re my husband,” she said, her voice cracking on the last syllable.
He pushed her hands away. “It’s—it’s too hot.”
She didn’t move. Instead, she stood there, her hands poised halfway between their bodies, the corners of her smile failing. He smiled, trying to salvage the moment. But he could already sense her disappointment. “It’s hot,” he said again, awkwardly. “I’ll turn the AC on and make you something to eat.”
He left her there, by the table, in the close, hot dark.
October 16, 2014
Caleb’s tongue trailed between Jocelyn’s breasts, moving lower and lower, circling her navel and then—she gasped and grabbed clumps of his thick brown hair in both her hands. She squirmed against her bedsheets and glanced at her nightstand where the video monitor of Olivia sat. Her four-year-old slept peacefully. She had always been a good sleeper. She didn’t usually try sneaking into Jocelyn’s bed until three or four in the morning. They’d been lucky in the year they’d been sneaking around. Olivia had never woken up while Caleb was there.
They had already done it once in a frenzy of roaming hands; hot, hungry mouths; and half-removed clothes. Now they were just lounging naked in her bed, enjoying their stolen, secret moments together. She had always loved the feel of his skin against hers. She had never truly enjoyed sex before Caleb. They’d been instantly and inexplicably drawn to each other. Lust at first sight.
Almost a year later, she still couldn’t get enough of him. His hands crept beneath her, palming her ass cheeks, bringing her closer to his mouth. “I can’t believe I missed the thong,” he said, his words muffled against her inner thighs.
“Me either,” Jocelyn said. “That may never happen again.”
His head shot up, a purple sheet monster. He peeled it back, staring at her with an alarmed look. Tufts of his brown hair shot out from the sides of his head. She eyed his broad chest with its black hair, his muscular arms and the knots at the top of each shoulder. He was lean and well-muscled for his age.
Single dads have to stay in shape, he had told her once, even though his son was nearly nineteen now. She had never met his son.
“Don’t take away the thong,” he implored. “You would look so hot in a thong.”
She laughed and pulled him up beside her, smoothing down one side of his hair. He nibbled her ear. “I’m sorry about today. You know I’ve been waiting to nail this guy for months. I wouldn’t normally ditch you—”
“Stop. Don’t apologize for work.”
It was a rule. She’d been a detective for many years. Until Olivia came along, her job was her biggest priority. She lived and breathed it. Caleb was every bit as serious and driven as she had been, and Jocelyn respected that. It was one of the things that had first attracted her to him. She would never begrudge him the time he spent taking down people who hurt children—as many of his cases revolved around children. She knew how hard he and his squad had worked the last several months and how badly he had wanted to arrest the Powell suspect.
She touched his cheek. “I’m glad you guys got that piece of shit off the street.”
Caleb smiled. He caught her hand and kissed it. “One down, one billion to go.”
There was no shortage of perverts or criminals; that was for sure. It was maddening and demoralizing if you let yourself think about it too long. To change the subject, she asked, “Do you know Trent Razmus? In Homicide?”
He sidled closer to her, pressing the length of his naked body against her side, and kissed her shoulder. “You mean Raz?”
Men and their nicknames. She turned into him, face to face, their lips nearly touching. “Yeah, I guess. Is there more than one Trent Razmus in Homicide?”
Caleb caught her lips, his hands roaming again. “No, there’s only one,” he breathed as he moved his mouth to her neck. “He’s a good guy, but do we have to talk about another man right now?”
She laughed. “We were talking about thongs. They’re very uncomfortable.”
It was his turn to laugh. His hand closed over one of her breasts, his mouth not far behind. “It won’t stay on for long. I promise.”
This was what she loved about Caleb—that, post-coitus, he didn’t leave or roll over or go unconscious. He kept worshiping her with his mouth and hands. “Please don’t deprive me of the thong,” he said again. He looked up at her, eyes twinkling. “What color was it?”
