Tequila Mockingbird (25 page)

Wrap me in leather

Buckle me down in hard lace

Drape me in white

Slap a mask on my face

Tie me down to your cross

Thorn ribbons in my hair

Blood down on my face

Kill me if you dare

—
Skywood

“W
ELL
,
SHIT
,”
Duarte drawled as he walked past Connor. “You find any more dead bodies, someone would think you owned a mystery bookstore in Pasadena.”

Kiki came up behind her brother, sniffling into a wad of tissue. She waved at Connor with her free hand, then gestured toward her partner. “Fucking asshole gave me his cold.”

Connor frowned, thinking back to how healthy Duarte seemed over the past week. “He didn’t have a cold.”

“Yeah, I know,” she snuffled. “He sidestepped the damned thing. It was his. I know it.”

“And if there was any wonder if Mum’s crazy got to one of us, it’s you, Keeks,” Con replied.

“Morgan! Get your asses over here,” Duarte shouted from the Amp’s open front door. “Both of you!”

Connor kept his stride shallow so his sister could keep up. Kiki shot him an evil look and hastened her step, forcing him to fall in beside her.

“Save me your chivalry, Lieutenant,” she muttered under her breath.

“If you save me from your macho bullshit, Inspector,” Connor shot back and stalled at the door, sweeping into a mocking bow. “After you, sis.”

“I don’t know why I look up to you,” Kiki grumbled but went in first.

“Because you’re really fucking short, Keeks.” He was stopped by Duarte clearing his throat.

“Children,” the man greeted them.

“You need me to walk through what happened, Henry?”

“In a bit,” Duarte said. “Come over here and tell me what you think about the asshole who did this. I want your thoughts. You’ve been knee-deep in this since the beginning.”

“So what, now he’s homicide?” Kiki teased lightly, jabbing at her brother’s ribs. “I thought we just paid his kind to bust heads for us. Now you want him to think? Might catch the building on fire if he sparks that thick skull of his.”

“At some point he’s going to be too old to be rolling through doors,” her partner replied. “Actually, I’m hoping we brainstorm this. Captain’s getting kind of pissed off about this case dragging.”

“Well, it’s connected to Marshall’s murder.” Kiki paced around the edges of the coffee shop. “I think we can safely assume that. The guy’s after Ackerman, but there’s no demands for anything. Does he just have bad luck and keeps missing, or is he just toying with the kid?”

“Forest’s not a kid,” Connor asserted. “Trust me on that one.”

A few feet away, Horan from the coroner’s office was making her initial inspection. The blonde woman spared the Morgans and Duarte a glance. Connor smiled a hello and felt her eyes drop down the length of his body.

“You okay there, Morgan?” She nodded at his thigh.

He looked down at the tear in his jeans, dried blood sticking the ends of torn fabric to his skin. “Nah, I’m okay. Thanks though, Doc.”

“Well, if you need to get stitched up—” She grinned back at him, winking. “—any time.”

Connor looked around, examining the shop’s remains. Amid the organized chaos of forensics and the occasional uniform, he took in the scene, then studied the graffiti painted over the wall. The letters were tall and thick, uneven at the edges and splotchy. The neon paint was a lurid slap of bright against the dull beige plywood, and Connor noticed a tech carefully handling, then bagging, a green-splattered spray can.

The message was ugly, a warning to Forest or maybe just to the world in general.
One Down, More To Go
definitely wasn’t a love letter, but it didn’t shed any light on who’d slaughtered the contractor.

“He’s tall. Probably a guy.” Connor stretched his hand up, measuring the length of his arm against the height of the letters. “Keeks, come over here so we can compare.”

“We have the lab for that, but sure,” Kiki agreed.

“Wouldn’t hurt to know who we’re looking at.” Duarte gauged the differences between the two siblings’ reaches. “Definitely shorter than Connor—”

“A fucking Balrog is shorter than Connor,” Kiki sniped. “From the looks of things, based on average arm length and all of that shit, this guy’s about six feet tall. About there.”

“Educated. Or at least schooled,” the older man commented, inspecting the letters closer. “Everything’s spelled right. We’ve eliminated Forest, by the way. His financials don’t show a cash layout for insurance, and motivation wasn’t there for the father’s death.”

“Really can’t be Forest. His handwriting’s not this neat.” Connor studied the wall intently. “Guy took his time, like it was really important.”

“Even. Too even.” Connor’s sister lowered her hand. “The lettering anyway. Nothing street about them. More like a font than actual handwriting.”

“But the guy didn’t know how to work a spray can. Look at the runs and splotches. A tagger would know better, even a newbie.” Connor shoved his hands in his pockets. “Chances are he got paint all over his hands. Or gloves. Left the cans behind. Maybe prints?”

“If we’re lucky,” Duarte murmured. “Wouldn’t that be great?”

The urge to step in and pick up evidence was overwhelming. He knew better. Hell, he’d walked past mountains of evidence on raids and never felt the urge to investigate further than he’d had to, leaving the sifting to the clean-up crew. He broke down scenes all the time, working with on-call detectives to close out a case, but this time it was different. This time it was Forest’s life on the line.

“So we’re looking for a tall guy with neon-green hands,” Kiki snorted. “That eliminates the huffers. They go for gold and silver mostly, right?”

“Yeah, those have more toluene,” Connor remarked absently. “So Henry, think we can get hardware stores to tell us who bought two green neon paint cans if we don’t get prints?”

“This ain’t no fucking TV show, Morgan.” Duarte gave him a sarcastic low laugh. “What the hell does this guy have to connect him to Ackerman and Marshall?”

“Think it’s got to be both of them?” Kiki took pictures of the wall with her phone. “Following the money isn’t taking us anywhere. Ackerman’s the sole beneficiary—”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t have a will,” Connor cut in. “His mother—the blonde you’ve got cooling her heels in lockup’s going to get anything Forest has if he dies suddenly. She’s got motive. And she was here.”

“Something doesn’t fit right. Didn’t see any paint on her. Not that we won’t look at her.” Duarte turned to look at the counter where Horan and her crew were delicately removing any evidence connected to the crime scene. “Marshall’s death was pretty clean, but the rest of it—it’s dirty.”

“He might have had time with Marshall. He’s scrambling around here. Marshall’s death wasn’t meant to be the main event,” Connor said softly. “If we shift the focus away from money and onto Forest, it makes more sense. Whoever’s pulling all this shit is doing it to terrorize—specifically Forest.”

“Then—what’s her name? Ackerman’s mother?” The senior inspector frowned and looked at his notes. “Ginger? That her legal name?”

“Yeah,” Kiki replied. “Looks like. They ran her prelim sheet. Ginger’s very well known for being in some pretty wrong places at the wrong times. And she dragged her little boy with her.”

Connor knew what Kiki was saying. From the tone in her voice, it was a subtle way—in true Kiki fashion—of calling out Forest’s own record. He smiled softly at her and said, “I know what’s on his record. We’ve talked about it.”

“And you’re okay with—”

“What I’m not okay with is the fact his mum was out hawking his ass to guys when he should have been doing homework or playing soccer. When’s the first time he got popped? Twelve? Thirteen?” Con rumbled. “And what kind of society is it when we’re arresting kids for hooking? Something—or someone—puts them out there. They’re fucking kids, love. Where the hell where you at twelve, Keeks? ’Cause I can tell you it sure as hell wasn’t out on the streets hoping you’d make enough money to get food.”

“Mum would have had my fucking ass,” she agreed. “Only hooker I knew about was playing Pygmalion with a rich guy who couldn’t drive a Lotus. God, she had great boots.”

“I worry about the education your parents gave you both,” Duarte muttered with a shake of his head. “So let’s do the money thing first, but yeah, this is something about Ackerman. Say his mom is driving the crazy train. She’d have to eliminate Marshall, then knock her own kid off.”

“She’d want to wait so he was declared Marshall’s sole beneficiary.” Kiki chewed on her pen. “But why’d she do all of this shit? She’s his mother. It wouldn’t be hard for her to get him alone. Would it, Con?”

“I don’t know,” Connor admitted. “I didn’t get the feeling they had a lot of contact other than a couple of phone calls. I don’t know if he’d come running if she crooked her finger. He might.”

There’d been a longing in Forest’s face when Con spotted Brigid embracing the drummer. And Brigid hugged Forest as often as she could. She’d taken a deep fondness to him—a quick, fierce affection rivaling even how she felt about her own children. Unlike Miki and Damie, Forest appeared to welcome the attention—warily, as if Brigid might change her mind—but that was something Connor would have expected from him. A kitten bitten by a snake would be afraid of a rope, Connor thought, or even a soft blanket used to keep him warm.

“Seems like we should start off with Ginger.” Duarte began to pick his way out of the coffee shop, carefully stepping around any debris. “I agree with you, Keira. The mother would be able to have gotten this done quicker, so to Con’s point, it’s got to be about rattling Ackerman up. Let’s head back in and see what Ms. Ackerman’s got to say.”

Connor held his hand out to Kiki to help her over a stack of plywood. She slapped his fingers away and stomped over the pile, pushing at him when she made it over. Rolling his eyes, he asked Duarte, “Mind if I sit in to listen?”

“Mind?” Duarte turned to raise a bushy eyebrow at Connor. “I didn’t think I even had a say in the matter.”

F
OREST
WAS
fucking flying. Hell, they all were. There’d been no stumbling about or fighting to find the beat between them. Within a few seconds of playing, Damien and Miki stopped being rock stars in his head and turned into just another couple of musicians.

And at some point after that—he couldn’t tell when—he felt like he’d been playing with them for years and couldn’t imagine ever
not
sharing the thread of music with them.

It was a scary thing.

And at the same time, almost better than sex.

Almost, Forest thought. Because sex with Connor was pretty fucking incredible.

Miki acquitted himself well enough on the bass. While Damien was the better overall player, they’d all agreed Miki’s bass skills could hold up—strong enough to let Damie’s fingers fly through complicated lead pieces, leaving Miki to his singing.

And God, Forest had forgotten how damned good Miki St. John sounded. Stripped down to just the three of them, the man still shone, and Forest realized so much of Sinner’s Gin’s success had been just that—a stripped-down rock band with powerful vocals, ripping guitar, and lyrics torn out from the pair’s souls.

When they finally stopped, Forest found his arms were hurting, and he was in sorry need of a shower. Hair plastered down to his face and neck, he dripped and shook from overusing his muscles. He’d tossed his shirt to the floor at some point during the set. It’d gotten damp and stuck to his back as he played, itching in places where it dried against his skin.

Ears ringing but smiling broadly, he bent forward, clenching the drumsticks in his fists, and leaned on his knees.

“Fuck, you’re good,” Miki finally said, shaking his fingers.

If Forest thought he’d been flying before, those three words from Miki’s mouth sent him soaring up into the clouds.

“Thanks,” he replied softly. “And thanks for letting me play. It feels good.”

Damie studied him, a careful assessment of something Forest couldn’t name. The guitarist shook out his own hands, then sucked on one of his fingers. Talking around his hand, he laughed. “Been a long time since I’ve played to blood.”

“Dude,” Forest exhaled the word, catching his breath. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just—been a long time,” Damie replied softly. “And yeah, it feels good. Really fucking good.”

They’d played everything—old blues standards, Sinner’s Gin songs, and even a few things Miki’d written since the accident. A few times, Forest slid in an opinion, replacing a beat or quickening a spot. Miki listened, free of anything even remotely resembling an ego, and changed the music to reflect Forest’s suggestions. At one point, they’d agreed the change didn’t work, but Miki shook his head, insisting it worked—they’d just not found the place for it.

As if something Forest wrote would be used in something Miki hadn’t come up with yet.

“God, I reek.” Forest looked around for his shirt. He needed something to wipe the kit down with.

“Want to grab a shower?” Damie tossed him a shop rag from a bundle he’d opened to use on his guitar. “I can loan you some stuff to change into. We’re about the same size.”

“That’ll be great. Thanks. I—um—should probably call Brigid to see if she can come grab me.” There wasn’t a clock in the studio, and he’d left his phone back in the warehouse. “Do you know what time it is?”

“No fucking clue.” Damie nudged Miki’s shoulder. “And I’m hungry. You guys wanna order something in to eat?”

“Damie dials a mean Thai,” Miki said to Forest. “You like Thai?”

“Yeah.” He made a face. “Actually, I pretty much will eat anything that doesn’t move. I’m not picky.”

“How about if we all go grab showers, and I’ll call some food in.” Damie stretched his arms over his head, and Forest heard his spine crack. “You know what this band needs? Someone who can fucking cook.”

“You know what this band needs?” Miki tossed Forest his shirt from the floor. “A fucking name.”