What the fuck?
Sin rubbed her eyes trying to erase away a headache that was beginning to take up residence in her forehead. She was having a hard time concentrating and decided to lie down on Charlie’s couch. Sleep came moments after she closed her eyes.
Waking, Sin glanced at her watch and realized she’d been asleep for two hours. She went to warm up a cup of coffee and search the kitchen for food. She stopped short as she entered the kitchen, studying the place setting on the table with a note propped up against the glass.
“I stopped by to check on the place for Charlie and found you sleeping. I wanted to stay but had to leave to pick up Maria. Stop by before you leave the Keys. Love always.”
Sin lifted the note to her face and inhaled. The paper smelled like lilacs. It belonged to Carmelita, the only other person she loved unconditionally besides Charlie.
In the fridge she found a homemade dinner and a pitcher of iced tea.
The next few hours were spent gathering all the information she could find on the case. She searched both George and Ashley, investigating the writing found in the notes left by the killer, and the killer’s MO. Her findings were varied.
Nothing of importance came up on the Stokler children.
The words left by the killer were the first two lines of a poem; A Divine Image, written by William Blake over a hundred years ago. The more she searched, the more the MO didn’t seem to lead anywhere.
Why am I having such a hard time figuring out this killer, she thought. Does the poem have something to do with his MO, or is he just a fan of Blake.
Sin printed out what she needed and turned off the computer. Instead of going black, the monitor brought up another message from Charlie.
“Go by the hangar before you leave. Be safe and call this number if you need me.”
Sin committed the number to memory. If there was one thing she’d learned over time, it was that Charlie didn’t do anything without a reason.
24
Sin woke up early the next morning and rode to her dad’s house. Even though he was gone and she’d transferred the deed to the property over to Carmelita after he died, she still thought of it as his.
Carmelita had been the one to take care of her after her mom passed, and had stayed by her father’s side when he was diagnosed with cancer when everyone else in Tumbleboat deserted him for the riches promised by the now notorious Prophet Jeremiah Heap—the deceased leader of the defunct Church of the New Son.
The house was quiet when Sin arrived, so she placed her things on the couch and wandered down to the beach to watch the sunrise.
She sat on the sand cross-legged and stared out at the incoming tide, watching the sun as it began to rise over the eastern sky. She sat, twirling her pearl-handled Balisong. With each flick of her wrist she opened the knife, flipped it around her index finger, and then snapped the handles closed once again. In her peripheral vision, she saw Carmelita walking toward her.
Carmelita, now in her early sixties, was still stunning. Full-figured and always a lady, she exuded a rare mix of sensuality and class.
Carmelita sat down next to Sin and glanced at the knife before looking out at the sunrise. “Isn’t that dangerous?”
Sin eyed the Balisong, barely cognizant of the weapon in her hand. With a final snap of her wrist, she closed the blade between the two handles and held it in her fist. “In the wrong person’s hand, very,” she answered. “I find it calming.”
Carmelita held out her palm. “May I?”
Sin placed the knife in her hand, sliding her fingers over Carmelita’s, callused by years of hard work.
Carmelita turned it over in her hand and she spoke as she studied the weapon, “I watched you yesterday while you napped. It wasn’t a peaceful sleep.”
Sin unwrapped her legs and hugged her arms around her knees. “It’s nothing, just the case I’m working on.”
“The case of the Painted Beauty Killer.”
Sin dropped her head and sighed. “The damn news,” she said. “Does Maria know?”
“Un poco, mi hija, muy poco.”
“How little?”
“Just enough to be frightened for you,” Carmelita said.
“I’ll talk with her before I leave.”
Carmelita handed the knife back to Sin. “Si, that would be good.”
Maria was a little girl—a victim of the human trafficking ring from Nicaragua who had been adopted by Carmelita.
Sin could feel the woman’s eyes on her as she gazed at the waves. “Whatever you need to say, Madre, say it. Nothing is ever wrong when said in love.”
Carmelita smiled. “You remember your mother’s words,” she nodded. “I like that.”
Sin turned and looked into the big brown eyes of the older woman.
“Very well,” Carmelita said, “I will tell you what I think. I think from what I have seen of you on television that you are afraid—”
“Afraid? What are you talking about?”
Carmelita held up a finger and pointed her manicured red nail at Sin. “Let me finish. I am afraid you don’t know how to act playing by the rules, and I’m not just talking right now—this case. There has been something . . . not right, since you agreed to go back to the FBI.”
Sin threw her head back, and grunted. “This is crazy. I—”
Carmelita placed her hand on Sin’s arm to calm her. “You are like a caged animal, pacing and growling at everything and everyone. You have lost the essence of who you are.”
“And who am I?” Sin asked.
“La Perla Angel de la Muerte.”
A lump formed in Sin’s throat.
She was called the Pearl Angel of Death, because of her affinity for pearl-handled weapons and for the bodies she tended to leave in her wake. But this was the first time
