Murder and Mayhem by Rhys Ford Page A

“God, whoever did this is very sick. Get out of the way, Camden.”
    “I’m not even near you.” Hank shuffled back.
    “I can see you. That’s enough.” The examiner bent over, skimming her finger inches above the severed leg’s end. “Rough cuts. Someone didn’t know what they were doing. I have to wait until tox gets done with their runs to know if they were drugged, but what I can say is the cutting happened after they were killed.”
    “Definitely not at the scene.” Dante’s partner rocked back on his heels. “We’re going to have to shake Stevens’s tree a little bit. See if he knows anyone who’d want to kill these two. Processing should be done with him by now. If some asshole hasn’t let him walk out the front door.”
    “Can we get the pictures as soon as you get them done? We’ve got the prints, but those are going to take a bit. Walking through facial IDs helps. That assistant of his might know who they really are if Stevens doesn’t.” Dante examined one of the severed heads. Unable to step in closer without suiting up, he squinted, trying to get a better look at one of the victims’ faces. “Are they identical twins? Or did the women just try to look alike? The one on the right seems a bit off. Different from the other one?”
    “Women?” Rochelle looked up from her leg matching. “I don’t know how to tell you this, Montoya, but that one? That’s a man, baby.”
     
     
    It’d taken a bit longer to shake himself out of the cops’ hold than Rook would have liked. Too many protests and a phone call got him wiggled free before Montoya and Camden returned to pull his teeth, but the whole ordeal left him uneasy—and indebted further to his grandfather.
    Sliding past a patrol car parked too close to his back door for his liking, Rook muttered desperately, “Fucking Archie is going to own my soul if I’m not careful.”
    Archie was Satan, complete with contracts and fiery hells. He liked the old man, but Rook didn’t need his mother around to figure Archie out. The more threads and obligations the old man could wrap around someone, the better he liked it, and Rook was at his own breaking point. One more favor called in, and Rook was going to ask the cops to just throw him into a prison cell and lock the door behind them when they left.
    “Rather go to prison than dance for anyone .” He dug his keys out of his pocket, eyeing the wall of blue uniforms standing near his SUV. “Fuck, that’s not a coffee table. Don’t put your damned cups on the hood of my car. Assholes.”
    The lot behind the shop was definitely off-limits. Even with the clearance to go into the shop so he could assess the damage done to the front room, Rook’s skin itched when he spotted the sea of people combing the parking lot behind his building. From what he could make out, investigating a crime scene mostly involved wandering around and talking up a bullshit storm while a couple of people crawled about on their hands and knees looking for needles in a haystack.
    Working his key into his shop’s back door lock, Rook breathed a sigh of relief when the tumblers clicked apart. “Now to get out of this mess and see what kind of shit hole they’ve left me in here.”
    Potter’s Field was silent. Too silent for Rook’s liking. Even from the back of the building, the eerie quiet of the front salesroom reached through to halls and seeped into the storage areas near the rear door. The main storage area seemed untouched except for a few large boxes someone’d taken down and left open. Most of the toys had been moved around, shuffled about on shelves and tables, but for the most part, it was a disorder he could deal with.
    The front would be a different matter altogether, especially after Dani’s life was left drying on the floor. The hallway to the front seemed like a long walk to a fate Rook wanted to avoid but couldn’t. His Converses made squeaking noises with every stride he took, and he paused to take a