Leo chewed nervously at his lips and watched as Bourneville barked sharply at the curtains but abandoned them to go into the bathroom. She barked again, more insistently this time, and Cloister guessed it was probably at the toilet. Drug dealers knew better, but it was amazing how many users thought the tank was a good place to hide their stash.
“Mr. Szerdo?” Cloister said. He tilted his head and caught Leo’s nervous, bloodshot eyes. “Should I go look in the bathroom?”
Leo twisted his mouth into a bitter smile and crossed his arms. “Do what you want. My mom will get me a lawyer, and I’ll be out by tomorrow.”
“If that’s how you want it,” Cloister said. He grabbed Leo’s shoulder and pushed him back down into the couch. “Stay here. If you run, the dog will catch you.”
He went into the bathroom. Bourneville was standing with her front paws on the toilet, staring at the tank with intense interest and barking every two seconds. Cloister caught her collar and pulled her down off the toilet. He pulled a toy from his pocket for her and praised her enthusiastically. She looked pleased with herself and took the toy off him delicately with her front teeth.
Leaving her to chew on it, Cloister snapped his gloves on and lifted the cistern. It smelled of standing water and old bleach, and a double-bagged package of white powder was taped to the back of it. Cloister pulled it free, went back into the main room, and let it dangle between his fingers.
“Mr. Szerdo,” he said. “You’re under arrest.”
Chapter Twenty
THE LAWYERwas waiting for them when they got back to the station. Cloister supposed that, at this point, Leo’s mother knew what her son was like. On the plus side, at least it wasn’t Diggs. While he talked to his client, Cloister got to talk to his boss. And the guy who seemed to think he was Cloister’s boss.
The only one missing was Bourneville, who was getting her dinner in the K-9 kennels.
“Tell me, Deputy Witte,” Javi said through clenched teeth. He closed Frome’s office door behind him. “What exactly made you think it was a good idea to take a break from our investigation to arrest a councilman’s son?”
Sitting behind his desk, anger turning his temples red, Frome tapped a pen irritably against the table. “Couldn’t have said it better myself, Agent Merlo,” he said. “Witte. Thoughts?”
Javi snorted. “That would be a new experience for him.”
He stalked over to the window and jerked the blinds closed. The wooden slats rattled against each other.
“I wasn’t taking a break,” he said. “I was… following a lead.”
Javi turned on his heel to glare at him. “You don’t do detection, Witte,” he said. “You do dogs, remember? Stick to what you know.”
Fine. Cloister dredged his best shit-eating grin out of the back of his brain. “Sure thing, Agent,” he said. “Fuck you.”
Frome slammed his hand down on the desk. “Witte. That’s enough.” He swiveled his chair to look at Javi and included him in the rebuke. “You too, Agent. We appreciate your assistance in this matter, but my deputies donotcome under your authority.”
The muscles around Javi’s mouth pulled his lips into a bitter line. “As far as I can tell, Lieutenant Frome, they don’t come under yours either.”
Red spread down from Frome’s temples, and his nostrils flared as he took a deep breath. The room felt muggy with testosterone and tension—too small and getting smaller. It reminded Cloister of home. That was never good.
“My mom set fire to her car once,” Cloister said.
Both Javi and Frome gave him frustrated, incredulous looks, like he was talking gibberish. “What the fuck, Witte?” Frome asked as he shook his head.
Fucking frogspawn. Cloister shifted in his chair and forced his back out of the sullen slouch it wanted to be in. He squared his shoulders and forced the rest of the words out, past his mother’s old advice to “better to be thought a fool than open your mouth and remove doubt.”
“Wasn’t her fault. She’dmeantto throw the cigarette out the back window, not into the backseat,” he explained. “Dad didn’t care. He just got her a new car.”
Javi snorted softly down his nose and crossed his arms. His shirt pulled tightly over his shoulders. “Heartwarming tale of redneck love,” he said.
Frome gave him a hard look. “Pushing your luck, Agent,” he said. Then, just to spite him, he nodded to Cloister. “Go on. And have a point.”
“She was the only one who brought it up all the time. Five years later someone mentioned a burn in the backseat, and she would bristle that we were blaming her because of the Chevy. I figure that’s what this ‘Bri’ is doing with Birdie. Killing her was an accident, and that’s why he’s always the first to bring her name up. Name, photo, all of it. That’s why we’ve had no other bodies. He doesn’t wanna kill them.”
Frome sat back in his chair and looked dubious. “Serial killers don’t—”
“They don’t,” Javi agreed. “However, Witte might have stumbled onto his one idea of the year. I don’t know if this killer, or ‘Bri,’ cares much if his victims live or die, but you don’t dose someone up with psychedelics if death is all you’re after. Easier ways to kill people.”
“And if we’re right about Hector, he was in the ER that night too,” Cloister said. “You said that Birdie would have taken a couple of hours to die in that car. He’d have missed it all. That’s not what someone like that wants.”
