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  Walking past his Explorer parked in the driveway, Zane didn’t even bother to use the cement path, and cut across the brown, dead lawn to the front door. He used the side of his fist to pound on the door, hard. He waited, then pounded again. Waited.

  Through a four by five stained glass window in the front door, Zane could see the television was on in the living room. Sousa was home. He knocked again, so hard the glass in the living room window rattled.

  No response. His chest tightened. He didn’t hear loud music that would have drowned out his knock, or the rattling of the windows, but maybe Sousa had headphones on. He tried the doorknob. Unlocked.

  The cop in him knew better than to walk into a home unannounced and unarmed, so he pulled his Glock and held it at the ready as he stood to the side of the door and turned the knob. Twisting, he shoved the door away from him and waited a second before coming around into the opening and entering the house.

  The living room was to his right, and the TV played an infomercial for some sort of wrinkle cream or beauty product. Zane recognized the former supermodel pushing the merchandise. Cindy something or other. He looked to his left and saw the lights were on in the kitchen.

  As he walked past the stairs leading to the second floor, something caught his eye, but he thought it was best to make sure the first floor was secure. A quick check of the kitchen revealed nothing, so Zane doubled back and took the stairs two at a time, making sure to stay to the right of center. He didn’t want to screw up any possible shoe prints, should this become more than a welfare check on an officer. He led the way with his Glock, his hip against the stair railing.

  At the top of the stairs, it became evident why Sousa didn’t hear the knocking.

  Zane could hear another TV playing in the bedroom, but didn’t bother to check it. He pulled his turtleneck over his nose and mouth to smother the smell, said, “Damn,” and pulled the mic from his shoulder clip.

  “67 to HQ, over,” Zane said, his voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt.

  “HQ, go ahead.”

  “HQ, contact PD1 and CID and have them 10-19 this location. Possible 187.”

  Chapter 4

  Kate looked at the calendar next to her bed. Had it been eight weeks already? Where had the time gone? She thought she’d have more time to investigate Newton’s murder, but the Dallas Post Trauma Center had kept her busy, either in sessions, or working in the nearly dead garden, and of course, she never missed her time at the stables. Not to mention her daily appointments with her psychologist and physical therapy. She was so ready to go home, and yet, she wasn’t.

  When she thought about home, she thought about Azizi. The woman’s sixth sense terrified her. When she awoke from her nap that day eight weeks earlier, she walked into the kitchen to find it empty. Looking at her phone, she saw Zane had sent her the phone number to Dallas Post Trauma Center right away, as if he’d been expecting the question.

  Bryce had been kind enough to set up the servant’s quarters for her while she’d been in the hospital, and even moved most of her necessities into the room. After she called the center, she called Uber, then packed a bag. Glad she hadn’t seen or talked to anyone so she wouldn’t change her mind, and she walked out the door. The shittiest part, Payaso rode in the Uber car with her the entire two hours to Dallas. Kate had found it hard to breathe, but she didn’t know if it was Payaso or her nerves from having to talk to someone about what happened.

  During her intake assessment, when she did the initial screening with a counselor, they worked with her to design a tailored treatment to identify the variety of symptoms and challenges Kate had been facing. And Kate made sure Chief Rambone wouldn’t be privy to anything said or done during her treatment. She’d gone in with the idea of a twenty-eight day stay, but decided to take advantage of the full eight-week program, because she felt safe, even if Payaso had come along with her.

  The peer client they’d assigned as her “battle buddy” happened to be a fellow Texas patrol officer. He’d also been shot by a gang banger, the day before his retirement from the force. PTSD sent him to DPTC. Johan Jamison helped her gain familiarity with the facility, along with the program structure, rules, and basic layout of the massive ranch.

  She’d miss the stables the most. Something about the horses gave her a sense of calm. Maybe because Payaso never followed her there. She took riding lessons four days a week, and worked every morning and evening, cleaning stalls, grooming, and feeding. She had to stick to working on the ground and light work for the first four weeks, because her doctor wouldn’t approve her “permission slip.” But the fifth week, she finally climbed in the saddle, and at that moment, she knew what was missing from her life. She wondered if she could build a small barn and arena at the plantation. Or was that against the rules of Grandpa’s estate?

  It took almost a week before she relaxed in group therapy enough to share her trauma. She still couldn’t get past the idea the entire incident was her fault. By week six, she got it. She wasn’t in control, and that terrified her more than anything. She prided herself on her control. Something her mother never had, so she felt she needed to be in control twenty-four-seven.

  She could still feel the burn of her bullet scar, but now understood it wasn’t real. Just as Payaso wasn’t real. But if he wasn’t, she kept asking, “How did Azizi see him?” Doctor Melissa Winger explained Azizi hadn’t seen Payaso exactly, but had seen a shadow. That shadow could have been from her thoughts. Kate called bullshit, and Dr. Winger just laughed. Dr. Winger’s laugh somehow dissipated the tension she felt. If anyone else laughed at her, she felt the urge to shoot them.

  She’d often been encouraged to get her family involved in her therapy, and nearly all the other clients at the facility had done that. She felt no compunction to do the same. She wouldn’t burden Bryce with her problems, and she wouldn’t trust Zane with them. Her foster/adoptive parents had already dealt with enough from her, so no way would she tell them she was now a mental case. Sometimes she wished her grandfather was still alive, and they’d known each other, then she’d have real family.

  The one thing she dreaded about returning home was apologizing to Zane. They advocated a sort of twelve-step program for their clients, and making amends with Zane was part of that. She’d do it for her, knowing it would be for Zane, too. But right now, she had to get ready to leave this all behind.

  With the help of Dr. Winger, she’d regained her confidence. She also regained her determination to find out who killed Geo Newton. And every night in her room, she googled, researched, and took notes. Bario Azteca, her ass. They hadn’t been in East Texas long enough to gain any territory. Sure, they were ruthless, but they were also small in number compared to other gangs in the area. And if they were in Peculiar, who had they paid off already?

  Kate opened the drawers of her IKEA style dresser and pulled out her already folded clothes, placing them gently in her duffle bag. She’d spent the afternoon doing laundry instead of going to the stables. She didn’t want to say goodbye to the horses, so she avoided them by getting ready to leave. She packed everything except a clean t-shirt and underwear to sleep in, and clean jeans and a tee, along with a sports bra and comfy cotton underwear for the drive home. Or ride home, because she’d taken Uber for a reason: harder to jump in the car and flee when psychological therapy got hard.

  She placed the bag by the door, even though she had a meeting with Dr. Winger in the morning before she left. Johan had graduated back to the real world two weeks earlier, but he’d been nice enough to keep in touch, and he also let her know the exit interview would be long and extensive. No one else had told her what to expect, but then they were still here, so maybe they didn’t know.

  She looked at the clock. Ten after two in the morning. It didn’t really matter; she wouldn’t sleep much anyway. Too much on her mind. First thing, she’d book an appointment at the shooting range. She’d been away too long. Then she’d go over her research with Bryce and they’d work out a
plan of attack on how to find Newton’s killer.

  Kate knew she could only do so much without Rambone finding out she was investigating. And then she’d have to start watching her back. Who would he tell? The captain? Maybe the mole was someone else. Determined to find out who set her up, or how Payaso figured out where she was or how to follow her, she clenched her fists. Thinking about Payaso made her angry.

  On the plus side, he no longer taunted her. Dr. Winger and group therapy had caused Payaso to fade into the background. Once in a while, alone in her room, she felt as if she weren’t alone, but he hadn’t presented himself in about three weeks. She decided this alone was progress. Now it was time to start working on her physical well-being. She’d become a sloth in this place.

  Walking into the bathroom, she brushed her teeth, then showered and dressed for bed. The room felt warm, so she didn’t bother to pull back the covers on the bed. Flopping on top of the duvet, she leaned over to turn out the lights, then put her hands behind her head and stared at the darkness.

  A jolt of anxiety hit her only minutes later, but she used the technique Dr. Winger taught her to keep anxiety at bay. Out loud she counted, “One, sixteen, forty-two, five, eleven, nineteen, four…” As she said the numbers out of order, her mind and body calmed. She closed her eyes and prayed for sleep.

  Chapter 5

  Speaking of shit, Zane couldn’t get the smell out of his nose. He wanted to run back downstairs to his car and grab some Vicks VapoRub to wipe on his top lip to help alleviate the odor. But he had more important things to worry about, like the body of Officer Chad Sousa lying at his feet at the top of the stairs.

  Possible 187? Nothing possible about it; this guy was dead, and it was definitely a homicide from his point of view. Sousa lay halfway between the hallway and the bathroom, with his duty belt on the floor, and his PDU (patrol duty uniform) pants down to his knees. Zane was saved from having to see his dick only by the length of his uniform shirt. The needle he’d used, or the one used for him, was somehow still in his arm. His face stretched in a fierce agony, and the muscles of his neck strained, even in death.

  At first, Zane thought the stench was from the relieving of his bowels after death. But upon further inspection, he’d been caught in the act of taking a shit, because the brownish black sludge was smeared everywhere.

  He must have put up quite a fight, because everything in the bathroom was knocked over, from the soap, toothbrush, and razor in the sink, to the shampoo, body wash, and shredded shower curtain in the tub.

  He could have caused all this damage by a simple overdose, but the problem was, the needle was sticking out of Sousa’s left arm. It was his experience that an addict would use their more stable hand to inject the drugs, in order to get that juice in fast and accurate. They didn’t want to wait any longer than necessary for that high.

  Two things wrong with this picture: 1) Sousa was six feet tall, about one hundred seventy pounds, and cut, because he ate right and worked out like it was his real job. How does someone overpower a strong man like Sousa? 2) Sousa was left handed.

  Zane pulled his cell phone from his pocket and phoned his lieutenant, because he wanted him to hear the news directly. It went to voicemail, but he left the gruesome news anyway.

  Next, Zane radioed Dispatch to call the county sheriff. Because this wasn’t the movies, and Texas didn’t have unlimited resources, the county sheriff’s department would send a deputy to transport Sousa to the medical examiner’s office.

  The next twenty-four to forty-eight hours were going to be crucial. He’d have to put all of his resources into getting to know this officer he barely knew. He’d know more about him in death than he did when Sousa was alive. It was a shame, but he really hadn’t been with PPD long enough for Zane to know him that well. Cops aren’t a trusting sort; it takes time to win them over. He hadn’t won Zane over yet, but he sure as hell wouldn’t have wanted him dead. But he damn sure knew him well enough to want to track his killer down and stick a needle in that bastard’s arm.

  Zane headed back downstairs to grab his crime scene kit from his unit when Chief Robert Rambone met him at the door. Rambone wore faded jeans and some sort of canvas loafer that looked more like a slipper than a shoe. His navy-blue hoodie could have been covering a t-shirt or a pajama top, and his uncombed hair showed where he needed to invest in some L’Oreal Natural Black #372 to touch up the gray. Zane made the color up, and liked to say it whenever he talked about gray hair.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  Zane pointed up the stairs. “Sousa’s dead. Erin had me do a welfare check when he didn’t check back in after his dinner break. When he didn’t answer the door, I tried it and found it unlocked. When I checked the house, I found him upstairs. I didn’t even bother to check his pulse. He’s gone. Overdose.”

  “Sousa’s an addict?” Rambone sounded as surprised as Zane felt when he saw him.

  “I don’t think so, sir. I think he was killed. It looks like he was given a lethal injection of something. We won’t know what until the M.E. does his autopsy, but if I had to guess, it’s either crystal meth or heroin.” Zane looked up the stairs, dreading the investigation to come.

  “Who’s on detective rotation?” He looked like he wanted to go up those stairs about as much as Zane did.

  Unlike bigger cities, some small towns don’t have the budget for a detective squad, so the superior officers rotate on detective duty, along with Detective Peebles. Just his luck, Zane was on detective duty for this one. “It’s my case, sir.”

  “Okay, let’s go take a look at what we’ve got, and then I’ll update everyone when they get here while you process the scene. I’ve already got an officer taping off the area. Who have you talked to about this so far?” His concern was palpable.

  “I had Dispatch call you and the captain, then the county to send a sheriff to come pick up the body. I put a call in to Moore, left a message.” They stopped at the top of the stairs and Zane heard Rambone gasp.

  It wasn’t that Sousa looked so bad, although it was such an embarrassing way to die. It was the smell.

  “Moore should be here already,” Rambone said, looking down the stairs. Zane thought he was trying to find a way to get some fresh air.

  “He’s not back from vacation yet, sir.” As far as Zane knew, he wasn’t due back until sometime the next day.

  Rambone looked at his watch, then he said, “Who’s your partner on this?”

  He wanted to say no one, but he’d been accused of being a lone wolf since Kate was on leave, so he decided Trevino would be a good fit. He was young and moldable, and he’d do what Zane said without talking back. “I thought I’d take Trevino under my wing.”

  “You think he’s up to it?” Rambone seemed distracted as he looked around the murder scene.

  “I do.” Zane radioed to let Erin know he needed Trevino to join him in the investigation, and Gonzales here for her fingerprinting skills. He’d never made it all the way out to his car to get his crime scene kit, so he figured this was a good time to do that, and to get some fresh air. “Anything else you need to see here before I turn it into an official crime scene and kick you out?”

  The last sentence was said with the utmost respect, and it seemed to bring Chief Rambone back to his head. “Yes, I mean, no, I’m done here. I’ll let you get to it. I’ll start notifying everyone, and get ready for the shit storm that’s going to hit in the morning.”

  They’d reached the bottom of the stairs and Zane glanced at the open front door, and noticed the media vans lining up in front of the house. “What do you mean morning?”

  The chief looked out the door and groaned.

  Chapter 6

  Luis Trevino, a Hispanic officer, stood about five feet six inches, and probably weighed one-fifty soaking wet. He was a scrappy looking guy, with dark skin and black eyes, and he kept his head shaved, just like Zane, who liked having him on his team. Trevino joined Zane out at his cruiser, and as they powwowe
d at the trunk, Zane handed him a white Tyvek suit, a hairnet and booties. He already had his gloves on.

  “Ever process a murder scene?”

  “Murder, huh? No, I haven’t.”

  “Well, suit up, it’s going to be a long night.” Zane started putting on his suit. “Put your booties on when we get closer to the house.”

  “Or long morning, as the case may be.” He did as he was told.

  As they dressed, Zane explained they’d be taking photos from the perimeter of the crime scene from all angles. Next, they’d move in closer, taking photos from the area around the front door, and into the house, looking for anything that could be evidence. At this point, anything could be evidence, so they couldn’t rule anything out. After that, they’d go in for close ups.

  Zane handed him the crime scene kit, and another case that held the crime scene number tents, evidence bags, boxes, tape and pens.

  “When do we use these? The same as any other crime scene?”

  Zane liked that he was asking questions, but hoped that it wasn’t going to slow things down. “We’ll get our photos, then we’ll place the tents at the visible evidence and take more photos with the tents, so we can number the evidence, then we’ll bag it up. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Trevino said.

  And so the tedious process of photographing the crime scene from 360 degrees began.

  Once they were inside, Zane stopped at the bottom of the stairs and asked Trevino to pull out the roll of Mylar plastic from the CSU kit. He reached in and grabbed the roll.

  “Roll out a piece, about as long as my foot, and cut it off.”

  While he did that, Zane took his flashlight out and placed it parallel to the stairs, looking for dust and footprints. He could see some clean shoeprints, and they looked different enough from the others to warrant printing and photographing. Trevino handed him one piece of Mylar.