Pellini flicked his hand toward the Amaryllis article. “Tim Daniels is the hero on that one. He got the vic back alive and almost caught the perp.”
“That’s damn good,” I said with undisguised relief. Tim was the all-around good guy and decent cop who I’d once sent on a wild goose chase to search for a nonexistent cat—which was how Eilahn ended up with Fuzzykins. “She’s okay then?”
Pellini’s expression darkened. “Got the dogsnot beat out of her and was raped several times.” He paused. “She’ll recover, though. Physically, at least.”
And a lifetime of recovery for the rest. I dropped my hands to my lap and clenched them together. This attack on Amaryllis was no coincidence. “Is there a description of the perp?”
“Hold on.” Pellini pulled out his phone and flipped through items. “I was following the reports because it reminded me of the Amber Gavin murder.” He stopped scrolling and clicked a link. “Got it. Inch or two taller than six feet. Brown hair. Possibly a black van. That’s from Tim. Not much from the victim yet.” He turned the phone around to show me a computer sketch. It was a pretty crummy representation—not surprising if Tim didn’t get a solid look at him—but it was good enough for me.
Jerry Fucking Steiner. “Who has the case?” I asked.
“Boudreaux and Wetzer,” he said. “Why? What’s up?”
I leaned back and studied him. “I’d like to tell you one bit of info that will fill in a few gaps without putting you in an untenable position.”
Pellini gave me a slow, considered nod.
“We had intel that Idris was being held at the Farouche Plantation,” I said. “We also learned that Farouche was having people kidnapped to be sent with Rhyzkahl to the demon realm. We found out the identity of the next target, and I took her place as a means to infiltrate the security at the plantation. The name of that target was Amaryllis Castlebrook.”
His eyes widened in surprise before narrowing. “Fuuuuuuuck.”
“It’s not too late to remain uninformed,” I said.
A shimmer of uncertainty lingered on his face. “I don’t know the details of what went down at the plantation that night,” he said. “But I can guess the grand finale, whether you fill in the gaps or not.”
“True,” I said then shrugged. “However, you know as well as I do that guessing and knowing are two different things.”
His hand tightened into a fist on the table, and he seemed poised to get up and leave the room. But then he blew out a heavy breath. “It’s too late to dick around with semantics,” he said with no trace of doubt. “There are no laws that cover this shit, and I have a feeling you know what happened to this Castlebrook woman.”
“Pretty sure I do,” I said then, with a wry smile, added, “Welcome to the madhouse.” With that, I launched into the story, doing my best to hit the high points and the pertinent details. Idris’s captivity with the Mraztur and his transfer to Earth with Katashi. My first encounter with Bryce and Paul at the warehouse that held a valve node. Bryce taking a bullet for Paul, and Mzatal saving his life. Farouche’s ability to make people do his bidding through implanted fear or adoration. His involvement with Katashi, the Mraztur, and Rhyzkahl. Human trafficking.
And, finally, the big fight at the plantation, where I stood by and watched while Bryce Thatcher executed James Macklin Farouche.
Pellini listened with quiet reserve. When I finished, he tipped his head back to examine a spot high on the wall behind me. “If you’d turned Farouche over to the legal system,” he said after a moment, “he would’ve used that fear-love ability of his to get all the charges dropped and walk free.” He dropped his eyes to mine again. “The only other option would’ve been to take him captive. That wasn’t feasible from a logistics standpoint or with the risk of Farouche influencing you in the process.”
“You nailed it,” I said. “Bryce made a choice—the right one, in my opinion—and executed Farouche. Soon after that, Bryce Thatcher disappeared forever.” Pellini opened his mouth to speak, but I forged ahead. “He had a brief stay in the demon realm that included facial reconstruction and new fingerprints,” I paused for dramatic effect, “and returned yesterday as Bryce Taggart.”
To my surprise Pellini let out a harsh, humorless laugh. “That’s fucking hysterical.”
Not exactly the reaction I’d expected. “Um. Why?”
He shoved out of the chair with a grunt and retreated to the counter. “Bryce isn’t really a common name, and after I met him the night of the barbeque, I got suspicious. Witnesses had him at the plantation that night, and Boudreaux had that police sketch of you. I put two and two together, y’know? So I did a quick check on my phone of police photos of Bryce Thatcher.” He snorted. “Didn’t look a fucking thing like the man who gave me a hamburger, and I let it go.”
“You have good instincts,” I said, honestly impressed that he’d made the connection and followed up on it.