“Think she’ll leave them alone in there?” He tried not to think about Damien and Miki, but a niggling suspicion that Brigid would crash their reunion remained. As much as he loved his aunt, he had to agree with Kane. She never was one to let things lie.
“Probably. Dad’ll keep her out of it, but no sense borrowing trouble.” Kane stood and held his hand out to Sionn. “Come on, cuz. Let’s call a cab if we have to and move this party over to Miki’s place. Unless you think we can wait long enough for me to shake off what I’ve had.”
“A cab? He can’t drive? We’re drunk as shit, okay, I am. You, boyo, are a shit drinking partner, but yeah, we can’t stay here. Your mum won’t give us a moment’s peace.” Sionn had a bit of trouble finding his feet, but a hand against the roof slope proved helpful. “Damie’s out. He doesn’t have a license.”
“Oh, Miki can mostly drive.” Kane winced slightly as he opened the door. “He used to have a very nice GTO.”
“Used to?” Sionn drew up short. “Damie remembered giving him that GTO. Told me all about it. Don’t know who I was more jealous of… Miki or the car.”
“Oh, he’s still got the GTO.” Sionn caught Kane’s pained grimace. “It’s just going to be a little bit longer before it’s nice again.”
PARKER stepped back, critically regarding his work.
He’d found a spool of copper wire in the kitchen, and the thick strands went a long way in keeping the woman’s flabby legs upright on Murphy’s treadmill. The bright wire was strong enough to wrap around the sawed-off trunks, although he had to cut deep into the thighs’ meat to stabilize the limbs. It was as good as anything he’d seen in that stupid modern art museum. Maybe even better, if he took into account the splatter of old blood seeping from the gashes in the torn skin.
Parker didn’t think he had much time. Not until he’d checked the blinking answering machine, where someone left a message for Murphy to hurry up and get to dinner. With a dinner in the offing, that gave Parker more than enough time to engrave an invitation to Murphy’s downfall.
Everything he used on the woman’s corpse he’d found in Murphy’s apartment. He’d been careful to keep his gloves on, not risking leaving a print on anything he touched. The hacksaw had been a great find. It’d been sharp enough to take care of most of the woman’s joints, cleanly slicing through the tendons and ligaments holding her bones together.
He’d left her head on the bedroom pillows, spreading out her brittle hair into a fan around her shock-white face. Disgusted at the smell of sex lingering in the linens, he’d rubbed the urine-soiled trash bags on the sheets, smearing the flaking mess he’d found there.
“Probably the first time that faggot had a woman in his bed,” Parker muttered as he checked the loft one last time.
The dining room table held her arms, her garishly painted fingers wrapped around wineglasses he’d found in the kitchen. He’d wanted to fill them with her blood, but she’d been too far gone to get more than a few dribbles into one of the bowls. Other parts of the blonde were scattered about the apartment. Her torso lay on the coffee table, lengths of intestines trailing from her sliced-open abdomen to the sofa cushions.
“That’s fine. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just enough for them to keep him under wraps for a while,” Parker reassured himself as he removed the poncho, balled it up, and shoved it into the trash bag he’d brought in with him. He’d dump all of it into the bay, weighting it down with rocks so nothing floated up to the surface. “Okay, Murphy, fun time’s over. Let’s drop a dime and get someone knocking on your door.”
Chapter 12
I hate you for teaching me how to fly
And then you burnt my wings
There’s nothing left of me
But wax, feathers and grief
I can’t put myself together
And I can’t see the fucking sky
—Burning Sky
“THIS is a sick fucking son of a bitch.” Kel Sanchez shook his head, scanning the apartment crawling with forensics techs.
His partner’s younger brother, Riley, nodded once and checked his phone again, then pressed his mouth into a thin line. The disgust on Riley’s face was clear. They’d both called Kane in, and other than a promise to be there soon, there’d been no further contact, and forensics was making quick work of the mess.
The apartment stank of blood and smoke, a hazy, ashen cloud lingering from the kindling fire set on the hearth. The flames had scorched the living room floor, hindered by the wet towels placed around an area rug, but the damage was extensive. Several of the curtains were wispy charred threads, and the plaster walls were blackened, crumbling when touched.
Peering out at the busy Chinatown street below, Kel asked, “Where’d Murphy get the money for this place?”