Written in Blood Read online

  Preach’s eyes flicked across the frayed brown carpet. Books, books, and more books. “What about Dostoevsky? Are you a fan?”

  Belker took a swig from the thermos, wary of the question. “Of course. He was a genius.”

  “What’s your favorite of his?”

  “Notes from the Underground. Wh-why?”

  Preach showed him the photo of the crime scene, enlarging it so Belker could see the crosses. The writer made a choking sound, and his limbs contracted, like a hermit crab retreating into its shell. “Is this a joke?”

  “I’m afraid not. Those were found on the body. I assume you know the significance?”

  “Of course. Wait, you don’t think that I—”

  Belker started cackling, and Preach’s instincts told him that this sad recluse could never stand behind someone with an axe and mercilessly cut him down.

  Then again, it was the outliers—the ones who could swing an axe and then lie about it so well a detective’s instincts spun like a compass at true north—that kept Preach in his chair and asking questions.

  He pressed the writer to keep him off guard. “Where were you last night?”

  “Here, writing. I almost never go out.”

  “All night? Alone?”

  “I save my drafts at fifteen minute intervals,” the writer said.

  “Laptops are mobile devices.”

  “Surely an IP address could establish my presence?”

  “It can’t establish that your fingers were on the keyboard.”

  Belker fell silent.

  “Tell me more about your relationship with Farley.”

  The writer looked away. “Lee wouldn’t buy my next book. My last novel didn’t earn out.”

  “What do you mean, didn’t earn out?”

  “We’re paid an advance. The publisher fronts us money, and we don’t see another penny until the book earns out the advance.”

  “How much was your last advance?”

  “Nine hundred dollars,” he mumbled.

  Preach knew writers struggled, but now that Creekville had become a fashionable place to live, nine hundred dollars was barely a month’s rent. “What about Damian? He had no say?”

  “Damian’s the money man. He enjoys the prestige of funding a literary press. Lee ran the nuts and bolts of the company. They only did four or five books a year, mostly local authors. E-books with a miniscule print run. I doubt they paid the electric bill.”

  Preach made a mental note to talk to Damian Black as soon as possible. “Have you found another publisher?”

  His attempt at a sardonic grin came across as a leer. “I couldn’t earn out on nine hundred dollars. I’m tainted goods.”

  “I see. So you were pretty upset with Farley?”

  Belker sniffed a few times before responding. “I . . . maybe I should call a lawyer.”

  “That’s your right. They’re awful expensive.”

  Preach stared at him, until the writer jumped up and started pacing. “I’m sure someone at the bookstore told you about our fight. Of course I was furious. Wouldn’t you be, if your dreams were shattered? I might never be published again.” He lifted his flabby arms above his head. “But the sad truth is that if I tried to swing an axe at someone I’d probably miss and chop off my own foot.”

  While his arms were raised, Preach glimpsed a long white scar on the inside of his left wrist, like an X-ray image of a worm. He decided to switch gears for his final few questions. He didn’t have enough on Belker to search his house. “Do you have any thoughts on the significance of the crime scene?”

  Belker returned to his seat, idly plucking at his hair as he considered the question. “You do know the premise of the novel?”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t read it in some time.” Preach knew the gist, but he wanted to hear what Belker had to say.

  “It’s a novel about many things, Detective. One of the greatest novels of all time. But the central crime, the one that was,” he swallowed, “apparently replayed in Lee’s house, is perpetrated by someone with no clear motive other than an existential one. Raskolnikov, the main character, wanted to see if he had the guts to commit a murder—and the brains to get away with it.”

  6

  Darkness pressed against the tall windows of the bookstore. After the last customer filed out, Ari finished straightening and restocking. She didn’t know what would become of the store, but she felt an obligation to keep it running smoothly until she found out.

  The death of her employer had left her in a state of disbelief. She kept expecting him to walk out of the back room, run his eyes over the store while he shrugged into his newest sport coat, and bid her good night.

  She supposed that was why people went to funerals, suffered through the body lying in the coffin like some macabre wax effigy. Not just to say goodbye, but to ensure that some terrible mistake had not been made.

  To make it real.

  She gave the store a final walkthrough, her eyes lingering on the comforting stacks. She worked because she needed the money, but she worked at a bookstore because it meant she would not have to suffer, at least not as much, that feeling of being parched without a good novel to quench her thirst. Ari craved not just any novel, but one that left her feeling weightless because the prose was so sharp and true, the story so moving, the characters living in the same room as her, breathing the same air.

  Her law school class load often left her too exhausted to read for pleasure, which she resented. But even a chapter here and there could see her through.

  A noise from the front of the store caught her attention. It sounded like someone trying the front door. Couldn’t they read the store hours?

  An image of Lee’s corpse popped into her mind. The crushed skull and sticky crimson stain, the two crosses lying primly on his chest. Maybe it had been a robbery, and the murderer was still searching for something.

  Maybe he thought it was here.

  The thought gained currency in her mind, and she took a step toward the rear entrance. A moment later she heard another sound from the front door. Not a wild pounding, but a deliberate rapping of knuckles on glass.

  Once she saw who it was, she released her tension with a self-effacing chuckle. Maybe she needed to lay off the serial-killer novels.

  Standing at the door was the blond detective from earlier, the one with the white teeth, All-American haircut, and creased but pretty face. He’d seemed sincere when he was questioning her, but it had to be an act. He was clearly a former jock as well as a cop. He wore violence and intimidation as a jacket.

  She opened the door, and Detective Everson stepped inside, his hands tucked into the pockets of his rumpled overcoat. His navy blue eyes flicked around the store, then rested on Ari with unsettling poise.

  “I was driving by and saw the light on. I thought I’d ask a few follow-up questions. If you don’t mind?”

  He was nice and polite, a good Southern boy. Which was strange. The defining characteristic of the cops with whom she had dealt had been arrogance. Maybe he hid his true nature to keep his witnesses and suspects off-balance, ready to whip it out and turn the screws when needed, a magician conjuring a vicious little rabbit from a hat.

  Or maybe he’d just stopped by to hit on her.

  “Go right ahead,” she said.

  “Given the nature of the murder . . . I was wondering if there were any other local authors who had a relationship with Mr. Robertson?”

  “He knew lots of authors. Plenty of them local.” The detective was looking at her with that sincere expression of his, and it was making her blush. Which irritated her. “I’ll make a list, if you like.”

  “I would appreciate that.” He leaned a shoulder against the counter. “I’ll need to read Crime and Punishment again. From what I remember, it’s not a quick read.”

  “It’s quicker than you might think,” she said, thinking he had probably read the CliffsNotes in high school. “Dostoevsky is a surprisingly accessible writer.”
/>   “Is he?” the detective said mildly. “Are we talking accessibility of prose or accessibility of ideas?” He waved a hand. “It’s been a long time. I’m sure you’re right.”

  Ari curled into an armchair a few feet from the counter. “No, you have a point,” she said grudgingly. “You could read that novel in a few days, or you could ponder it for years. I was just—” She bit back what she was about to say.

  “Surprised that a cop with a Southern accent has actually read Dostoevsky?”

  “Your accent isn’t that Southern.”

  He gave a faint smile. “I was wondering if anything else about the novel struck you as potentially germane to the crime.”

  “I . . . no, not really.”

  “Have you had time to think about it?” he asked. “I’m sure it’s been a trying day for you.”

  She twisted her thumb ring. “It’s not as if I can remember every detail—”

  He smiled again as he interrupted her. “Don’t get bogged down in the details; I’ll look out for those. Was the book of any particular significance to Mr. Robertson?”

  “I can’t recall seeing him reading it.”

  “What about anyone else? His author acquaintances? A frequent customer?”

  She stopped fiddling with her ring and felt the need for a cigarette, though she didn’t smoke anymore. It had been a long day. “I can see if anyone’s ordered a copy recently.”

  “Please do. Though only someone who’s taunting us would do something as foolish as that. And what criminal would try to toy with a detective?”

  At first she thought his arrogance was emerging, and then she got the reference. Raskolnikov, the protagonist-murderer of Crime and Punishment, had fancied himself superior to the police and had at times goaded them.

  “Maybe the crosses on Lee’s body,” she said, chewing on her lip as she thought, “were a reflection of the murderer himself. His mindset.”

  “Someone who lives in squalor and barely takes the time to wash, thinks of himself as intellectually superior but is a failure by his own high standards.”

  Their eyes met. While he could have been describing Raskolnikov, she had a feeling he had paid a visit to J. T. Belker.

  Could the local author with meek, haunted eyes, she wondered . . . could he be capable of something like that?

  “Someone who maybe wanted to make a statement,” Preach continued, “beneath the surface of the crime itself.”

  The detective’s gaze flicked to the petite tattoos facing each other on the insides of Ari’s wrists. Half hope and half agony. “I’m curious, have you ever tried your hand at writing?” he asked. “Since you work in a bookstore and clearly love literature?”

  Did this guy actually realize her tattoo was a Jane Austen quote?

  Then she grew cold as she realized what he was getting at. Cold and pissed off. “You don’t have to be a writer to love books. And no, Detective, I don’t write anything these days that’s not related to the study of law. Did you come here to ask about Crime and Punishment or to question me?” She crossed her arms, eyes sparking.

  “It could also have been someone trying to frame a writer,” he mused, as if the previous exchange had never occurred. “Why do you think there were two crosses?”

  The question caught her off guard; she had expected a response to her challenge. Now he was looking at her with a frank, almost intimate expression. She had always written off his type—guys that classically good looking were never interesting—but she had to admit there was a depth to those eyes.

  Depth and sadness.

  “Sorry?” she said. It occurred to her that this detective used his appearance to his advantage.

  “A single cross could symbolize a communion in blood between Raskolnikov and the pawnbroker, or the suffering he’d have to undergo before salvation, or something else beyond my limited powers of thematic interpretation. But Dostoevsky used two crosses—that strikes me as odd.”

  “I . . . don’t know,” she said. “I suppose I hadn’t thought about it.”

  “Why don’t you, then?” he asked, pushing off from the counter.

  “Isn’t there a literature professor you can talk to about this?”

  He let his gaze linger, his eyes unreadable. “Not one who knew the victim,” he said, then thanked her for her time.

  After Detective Everson left, Ari sent him a text with the names of the three students with whom she had pulled an all-night study session the night of Farley’s murder. They had been preparing a simulated jury trial for Trial Advocacy.

  She finished her closing tasks and locked the front door behind her, hand lingering on the knob, trying to wrap her mind around the terrible events of the day. When she turned to leave, she noticed someone in a beige overcoat and a bowler hat leaning against a wall across the street.

  It was dark and she couldn’t make out a face, but from the hefty build and the way the figure reclined against the wall, nonchalantly but with an aura of physical menace, Ari assumed it was a man.

  She hesitated, wondering if she should go back inside. The figure appeared to be looking at her, but she couldn’t tell for sure.

  And what if he was? Watching someone leave a store isn’t a crime. He’s probably just waiting on a ride.

  Still, Farley’s murder had spooked her, and her fears from earlier crawled back into her head. She found herself wishing the detective were still around, or that she had not walked to work.

  Then she berated herself. She was not some silly sorority girl, born and raised in the privileged bubble of Chapel Hill. During her twenty-seven years she had already traipsed through dodgy cities on six continents, often alone. She could take care of herself.

  She pulled her leather jacket tight and started down the sidewalk. A few cars whisked by. The bar next door was noisy and well-lit. She debated ducking inside but pressed on, knowing she had at least two hours of cases to read.

  The only thing that worried her was the greenway, which was two blocks away. Her apartment was just on the other side of it. But the greenway—one of a dozen paved, vehicle-free walkways that connected the main streets of Creekville like spokes on a wheel—would be isolated at night.

  On the other hand, this was Creekville. There was more danger of being verbally abused for a non-PC remark than being the victim of a crime.

  At least before last night.

  As she approached the mouth of the greenway, its narrow path lit by streetlamps but the wooded sides cloaked in darkness, she risked a glance back. The man in the overcoat was leaning against the wall in the same position, still facing the bookstore.

  Just in case, she pulled out her cell phone and feigned a conversation as she stepped onto the path. A few yards down the walkway, she pocketed the phone and hurried forward. The sudden and powerful urge to break into a run overcame her, but she settled for a brisk walk instead, refusing to have the mindset of a victim.

  The greenway was the equivalent of a three-block walk, and when she reached the midway point she glanced over her shoulder.

  Nothing. No one.

  Her pace slackened on the second half of the walk. Once she saw the lights of her apartment complex gleaming across the street she forgot about the figure in the overcoat. Her mind returned to her class load, the shocking death of her boss, and the dull ache of her breakup with Trevor.

  Where was he tonight, she wondered? Preparing the night’s tracks as he lay shirtless on the couch, brown locks spilling halfway to his jeans, eyes lit with an internal fire as he nodded in time?

  It was the music, he had said, and not her. Maybe things would change when the band was established and he had more time.

  She left the greenway. Her single-story apartment complex waited across the road, the wings of the U-shaped building extended as if reaching for a hug. A dirt-cheap rent, peeling paint, creepy-neighbors-in-the-common-space sort of hug.

  Still, it was home. She was ready for a bowl of noodles, some cheap Shiraz, and a night curled on the s
ofa, finishing her reading and then drifting to sleep to a late-night talk show.

  Out of an abundance of caution, or perhaps the irresistible pull of curiosity, she took a final look back—and saw the man in the overcoat standing in the middle of the greenway, hands shoved in his pockets, staring right at her.

  Ari’s peace of mind melted into a slushy puddle at her feet. Heart thumping against her chest, she hurried inside and locked the door, her cell phone gripped in the palm of her hand.

  7

  After Preach had left the station, Chief Higgins stopped by Kirby’s desk. “You’re on, kid.”

  “Chief?”

  “The murder. You’re helping Preach. An extra shift a week okay with you?”

  Kirby sat up straight. “You know it. Thanks, Chief. I’ll . . .” He trailed off as Chief Higgins walked away. She wasn’t one for empty promises, so it was better not to make one.

  He gave both his wrists a flick, snapping his fingers. He hoped they had their hands on the weirdest, sickest, flashiest case in the country. Something that would hit YouTube from day one, land him a book deal and a string of guest appearances.

  They were off to a good start with the literary angle. Yet despite the eerie correlations between the crime scene and the passage in the novel, he couldn’t help thinking the two crosses had simply fallen out of the killer’s pocket. That the winning lottery ticket couldn’t possibly be his.

  Tapping his pen against the stack of reports, he leaned back and eyed the Playboy calendar he kept pinned to the inside of a cabinet door. After his babysitting duties, Kirby had a date with a hot little waitress he’d met at Diamond Dave’s in Greensboro. His plan had been to stay the night in G-town, but now he wasn’t so sure.