Chapter 6
I can feel you breaking my skin.
My bones shatter when you walk by.
The blood I taste is from my tongue.
You say you love me but I know it’s a lie.
—Shattered Lies
Kane caught the man up in his arms, sliding his hands around Miki’s slender waist to support his back. Miki fought him, pushing him away, but Kane held him tighter.
“You’re a damned cop, for Christ’s sake,” Miki grumbled. “You can’t just grab people in the middle of the place. They think I killed Shing.”
“We don’t. Well, Sanchez and I don’t,” Kane said. “Right now, how about if I’m just the guy who took you out for dinner and let you ramble on about music. I’ll be a cop again when I let you go, but right now, I’m a guy who’s worried about you. No one will see. Sanchez will keep people out of the hallway.”
“You don’t even know me,” he whispered.
“Yeah, I think I kind of do,” Kane replied and pulled Miki in. “Let’s face it. You need a friend right now. I’ll be that friend, Miki. Let me.”
“I’ve never wanted to fuck a friend before.” Miki’s whisper was almost lost in Kane’s shirt. The singer’s hands came up, slowly finding purchase around Kane’s chest, then around his neck when the cop buried his face into Miki’s soft, long hair. “God, this fucking sucks.”
Kane’s insides churned, as if he’d truly gone through the glass to put his arms around the trembling man. He tightened his embrace and sighed in relief when Miki let himself go. Catching up Miki’s slack weight, Kane held the man up, stroking the small of his back. Kane heard a sob catch in Miki’s throat, but the sound was muffled when he buried his face into Kane’s chest.
They became the eye in the center of a wicked storm. Kane rested his chin on Miki’s shoulder and simply listened to the man breathe, stroking his fingertips up and down Miki’s spine. The singer dug his hands into Kane’s shirt, tightly fisting the fabric as if afraid to let go… afraid he’d fall into something he couldn’t crawl out of if he didn’t have Kane to hold on to.
Kane couldn’t count the minutes they stood together, but eventually Miki looked up from the safety of Kane’s embrace. His face was bare of tears, but the specks of skin on his lips were nearly chewed through to blood. Taking a deep breath, Miki took a small step away from Kane, only enough so he could meet Kane’s gaze.
“I can’t believe I’m fucking crying in the middle of a police station,” Miki whispered. “Did you hear… all of it? Behind that damned glass? God, I want to throw something through it. Creeps me the fuck out.”
“You’re not the first person to cry in a cop house.” Kane kissed his forehead, then leaned back to cup Miki’s chin in his palm. “I don’t think you know how fucking strong you are. I couldn’t have done that. There’s no way in hell I could have stayed through that.”
Miki’s scoffing snort brought a smile to Kane’s lips. He hugged the singer tightly, then gently released him, keeping one arm around his waist to support Miki’s damaged leg.
“I don’t feel strong,” he complained under his breath. “I feel like a whiny bitch.”
“Yeah, well, trust me,” Kane said. “Not a lot of guys could have dealt with that shit. Makes me want to kill someone.”
“Like I had a choice,” Miki muttered. “Can I go home? Or am I stuck here for a bit?”
“Nah, I’ll take you home,” Kane replied. “Just promise me that hellhound you’ve got isn’t going to eat me alive when I get you there.”
“No promises. Dude usually likes everyone. I don’t know why that guy pissed him off. And why the fuck did I leave that damned cane behind?” Miki took a few tentative steps, using Kane’s arm to lean on. “God, I’m an idiot. Aren’t they going to kick you off the case for hitting on a suspect… or whatever the hell I am?”
“Only if you really killed Shing. Then, I’m up to my neck in shit,” Kane teased. “We’ll stop someplace, and I’ll grab you some ice cream. My mom always says ice cream can solve everything. Well, that and a cup of tea, but I’m going to disagree with her on that one.”
“Thanks,” Miki murmured. “For everything. For this. For the ice cream.”
“Not a problem,” he replied, gently squeezing Miki’s waist. “Let’s get you home. Sanchez and I will figure it out. He’s a good guy… a good cop. Almost as good as me.”
“Yeah, you guys better be,” Miki grumbled with a soft purr. “I want this shit to go away.”
“Do I have to go away when the shit goes too?” Kane prodded as they walked.
“No,” Miki mumbled, ducking his head. “Maybe you can stay. Even if you’re a cop, you’re okay. Especially if you’re buying me ice cream.”
SANCHEZ was waiting for him in an unmarked when Kane got back to the station an hour later. He slid into the sedan and passed Sanchez one of the two Mexican mochas he’d grabbed on the way. The smell of the coffee did little to mask the sour smell of vomit coming from the backseat, and Kel hit the button to raise the bullet-proof partition, hoping it would help.
It didn’t.
“Don’t look at me,” Kel warned Kane off before he could say something. “This was all they had.”
“God, I hate the motor pool,” Kane muttered. “Why do they have to punish me because they can’t stand you?”
“The dog shit wasn’t my fault,” Sanchez protested as he pulled into traffic. “I was doing the old lady a solid. It was pouring out, and she had five fucking poodles. How was I supposed to know they all had the runs?”
“I hate your guts right now.” He shook his head and reached for the touchscreen tablet on the seat between them. “Roll down the back windows. Maybe that’ll help some.”
Sanchez turned the heat on and lowered the back windows. The rattling wheeze from the air vents wasn’t promising, and when the lukewarm air finally hit them, it reeked of motor oil and cat pee. Resigned to being a victim of Kel’s ongoing feud with the department’s motor pool, he turned on the tablet and hooked it into the car’s network system.
“You didn’t tell me no one’s seen Vega in three days,” Kane said accusingly. “When’d you find that out?”
“Like an hour and a half ago,” Sanchez shot back. “You were busy cuddling your rock star and ferrying him home. I stayed back, remember? Working on this shit. He was supposed to go camping with some of his buddies, but he never showed up. They figured he flaked, so they didn’t call it in. I guess at some point someone realized he’d left home but never showed up at the campsite, so someone notified us.”
“He could have been grabbed before Shing, then,” Kane murmured, sweeping through the reports on the screen. “We don’t have time of death on Shing yet. The family wasn’t sure about the last time he was seen. He wasn’t working the restaurant as much. Bradley pretty much has taken that over.”
“Our boy Bradley, who’s cooling his heels in lockup right now,” Kel responded. “He’s none too happy about that. We’ve got enough to pop a warrant on the house too. Martinez and Lau are going to shake that down, but I don’t know how much they’ll find. I’m guessing old man Shing only used that upstairs room for his fucking sick games. Too many people at home, unless they turned a blind eye to it.”
“Sounds like Vega’s wife did.” He stopped at a screen and maximized the text. “The uniform who responded to the call said she was out of it when he got there. One of Vega’s coworkers… um… one Daniel Bassor, was there to answer questions. Valens, the uniform, said the wife wasn’t fully there. He was going to call in a medical, but Bassor responded that Cynthia… Mrs. Vega… has behavioral issues and is usually drugged up to the gills.”
“Is that a technical term?” Kel asked caustically.
“Must be.” Kane grinned. “That’s how it was written in the report. Very professional, our boy Valens. No listing of Cynthia’s medications. That would have been helpful. We could have chased down her doctor and seen if there’s any evidence of physical violence.”
“Surprised they let them foster kids if she’s like that. Any domestics called to the home?”
“Her medical issues apparently escalated.” Kane skimmed through an amended attachment. “Some domestics were called in over the last six years, all on her. Vega declined their foster parent status eight years ago, stating his wife’s mental issues and increase of his workload at his law firm.”
“So she’s crazy?” Kel whistled under his breath.
“Not everyone with issues is crazy. My brother Quinn’s wired a bit funny, and he’s done just fine,” Kane pointed out. “I don’t see you teaching college history.”
“Your brother’s hot. That goes a long way.” Sanchez winced at the look Kane threw him. “Hey, just stating the obvious.”
“Q’s worked hard to get where he is,” he said, going through the rest of the reports to hunt for more information. “Don’t know if being hot’s helped him any.”
Coming up empty on Cynthia Vega, Kane turned his attention to Vega himself. There was little to nothing on the man, mostly public citations of cases he’d worked on. Kane frowned at the lack of information, then called up the Vegas’ fostering records.
“They only took in boys, usually between the ages of eight and fourteen. He had Miki the longest. Some only stayed for a few weeks before being placed out elsewhere.” Kane looked up. “Shit. Why the fuck didn’t anyone see what this guy was doing? He had a total of eleven boys placed with him. Out of the eleven, seven tried to kill themselves. Four succeeded. This guy’s a walking time bomb.”
“From the sounds of things, I’m going to guess he split because he heard about Shing, or he’s not walking anymore,” Kel replied as he turned up a hill toward the Presidio. “I’m not going to cry over that either.”
“How far out are we?”
“Another minute. Why?”
“’Cause Casey’s coming across with a warrant for Vega’s house. Just got the clearance. Let’s hope the printer in this unit works, or I’m going to set some asses on fire in motor pool. I can deal with puke and cat piss, but if those fuckers cost me search time on this, then we’re going to have some words.”
DESPITE the high-end zip code, the Vega house straddled the edge of a middle-class neighborhood and a lower rent district. The residence itself was an unassuming, small adobe-style ranch set far back on its elevated tiny lot. Its front lawn was clipped down to a brutal half inch and thick, prickly hedges ran along either side of the house, effectively cutting off the view to the neighbors’ homes. There was nothing to soften its harsh lines, no flowers or bright colors to ease the sandy adobe or browning grass. To Kane, the place shouted temporary, even though their records said the Vegas lived there for years.
Sanchez parked the car on the slight incline in front of the house and waited as Kane fought with the printer controls in their car. After a phone call to a computer tech and a few choice swear words, Kane finally got the printer to spit out the warrant. Spreading the accordioned paper on his thigh, Kane worked out the creases and shook his head in disgust.
“You talk to them when we get back,” Kel said, getting out of the car. He adjusted his tie and flicked off a piece of hair from his sleeve. Stealthily sniffing at his arm to see if he carried the car’s odors with him, Sanchez was satisfied he’d been spared at least some of the motor pool’s revenge and nodded.
“Fuck talking to them,” Kane growled. “I’m going to find a baseball bat and threaten the shit out of someone if we get that car again.”
Sanchez stepped around a plastic three-wheeler left on the sidewalk and waited for his partner to join him. “Let’s go talk to Mrs. Vega and see what she’s got to say.”
It was hard to imagine Miki’s horrific childhood amid the rambling rose bushes and tall juniper trees, but they both knew some of the prettiest wrappers hid the foulest packages. Kane studied the house, wondering what other nightmares were forged inside of its walls.
Turning to Kel, he nodded, “Yeah, let’s do this.”
The door was newly painted, an earthy red that still smelled fresh. Sanchez rang the bell and they waited, listening to the chimes echo through the house. After a few moments, there was no sign of anyone coming to answer the door.
“She knew we were coming, right?” Kane asked as Kel rang the bell for the third time.
“Yeah, I had dispatch call ahead. She said she’d be waiting for us but that was over an hour ago.” Sanchez nodded. “Think we should do a welfare check?”
“Yeah, I think that’s a good idea.” Sanchez ducked his shoulder down and Kane grabbed him before Sanchez shoved at door. Reaching over, he took hold of the knob and turned it. The door swung open. “Always check the door, Kel. We went over that.”
They drew their guns, holding them down as they entered the house. Kane took point, stepping to the right. Kel followed, sniffing at the air as he stepped in. The overpowering paint smell from the door did little to mask the dankness of the shadowy interior. Slivers of light came through the living room curtains where they did not meet, catching on dust motes stirred up as they moved through the house.
The front room was an empty shell, a formal parlor of rose-patterned settee and wingchairs covered in a fine layer of dust. Across the hall, the kitchen echoed the house’s desolate feel. A bowl of wax fruit took up most of the banquette in the breakfast nook by the back door, and a single line of tumblers sat sentry on a rubber dish tray.
“Cynthia?” Kane called out. “I’m Inspector Kane Morgan from SFPD. If you can hear me, come out, please.”
“Valens, our uniform, said she wasn’t lucid. Maybe she passed out since she talked to Dispatch?”
They stood, poised and silent, but no one answered. Kel nodded toward the narrow hallway leading off of the living room. With all of the doors closed, it was pitch black, and Kane stepped forward, searching for a light switch. The bulb flared bright, and Kel blinked, chasing away the spots in his eyes. Hastily checking the house, they came to the one closed door off the main hallway.
“Ready?” Kane motioned with his gun toward the door.
“Yeah,” Kel grunted. “Kick or knob?”
“Kick. Hard.”
The hollow-core door splintered under Kel’s foot, and Kane ducked, taking one of the splinters in his cheek. He spat out a mouthful of grit and wood dust, then went in, covering Sanchez as the other cop went low. Sweeping the room carefully, Kane raked his gaze over the space, looking for any threat.
What they found was the remains of Cynthia Vega, swinging from a rope noose she’d tied around the broken light fixture.
The room was tiny, nearly as small as the storeroom in Shing’s restaurant, but unlike its cinder-block counterpart, it was furnished as if awaiting a guest. A daybed sat under a long window, its wrought-iron frame curling up and around the back, the white paint girlishly embellished with metallic pink flourishes. The floor was a wood laminate, cheap and easy to clean, but someone—probably Cynthia—had laid down a square floral rug to soften the room.
Death had not come quickly to Cynthia Vega. Instead, it flirted with her, tantalizing her with promises of a numb forever as she kicked and struggled before losing consciousness. Without enough space and momentum to snap her neck, the frail-bodied woman instead choked slowly, her neck’s waxy skin bearing a scrabble of long, bloody grooves where she clawed at the rope with her broken nails.
Those hands now swung freely at her sides, her body twisting slowly as the hot air from the room’s vent poured in. Kane stepped closer, careful to avoid touching the body. She wasn’t pretty in life, and the bloat to her dead face did little to soften the pinch to her sharp features. Deep grooves dug themselves in between her eyebrows and around her mouth, engraving a lifelong bitterness into her skin. The flowing white dress she’d put on as her final shroud was stained black from blood splatter and vomit, the eyelet at its hem yellowed from her body’s purge. Her legs were skinny and marked with blue veins, the blood drawn down to purple her bare feet in death.
“How long was it they called her?” Sanchez asked. “Half an hour, maybe?”
“Yeah,” Kane agreed. “For this much livor mortis, she must have done this right after she spoke to Dispatch. Fucking hell. Shit, Kel, look at her arms and legs. She was a cutter.”
Cynthia’s bore signs of old cutting, small nicks allowed to heal over, then sliced open again. She’d taken a blade to herself one final time. Before she tied off the noose, she gouged out furrows from her bare arms, opening up the flesh to bleed out enough to pen her final words to the world she obviously fought to escape.
The shock of her body was nothing compared to the horrors stapled to the walls.
There were literally hundreds of photos, each more depraved than the one next to it. He recognized Miki’s face first. How could he not? The defiant, beautiful man he knew was laid out in front of him, younger and fearful. His face figured prominently among the others. Pictures of a young Miki were the most plentiful… and the most horrific in what Vega chose to do to the innocent boy he’d been given to raise.
And all were smeared over with hateful words using Cynthia Vega’s blood.
“Whore” seemed to be Cynthia’s favorite, but others were used as liberally, filthy accusations made against the young men in the images but none for the man who’d put the pain in their eyes.
“I’m going to call it in,” Kel said finally. “The rest of the house is empty. This is the only room like this.”
“Yeah, okay,” Kane murmured, putting his gun back into his holster. He needed to shove his feelings for Miki aside, at least long enough to finish up the job laid out before them. But as he turned, he caught a glimpse of bright hazel eyes, and his heart skipped a beat. Nodding at the carnage of lives splattered on the room’s walls, Kane stiffened his shoulders and reached for his phone. “Let’s see if we can’t get CPS to shake out the names of the kids who survived this asshole Vega. One of them murdered Shing and maybe even Vega by now. We just have to find out which one.”
“What’s his beef with St. John, then?” Kel stopped dialing.
“Maybe Miki was Vega’s favorite. I don’t know, Kel, but he’s all over this room. He means something to Vega,” Kane replied. “We’re not going to know anything until we find either that kid or Vega. My bet’s that Vega’s gone. Our only hope is to find the monster he made.”