Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
The windows are tinted, so I can’t even see her face as they drive away.
“She’ll be fine, hon.” Steph pats my back like a school nurse trying to reassure a kid with scraped knees. “This kind of thing happens all the time.”
Chapter Five
Caleb
Russell King stares me down from across his cherry-wood desk. “You’ve made a grave mistake, Detective Larkin. I think it’s fair to say that you are far outside your jurisdiction tonight.”
The leather chair I’m sitting in groans with the slightest shift of my weight. King’s home office is a lot like the man himself: shiny, wooden, and full of secrets. There’s a safe on the wall amidst locked bookcases containing what appear to be ledgers. His laptop is off, but I’d bet he’s got it locked down like Fort Knox. He’d be foolish not to, considering the sort of clientele he covets.
“You’re assuming I’m here in an official capacity,” I tell him. “Like the rest of your guests, I’m just here to have a good time.”
“Except you’re not a guest. This is a private function, and you are trespassing.”
“Oh, I’m sure my invitation just got lost in the mail.” I keep my face a mask of callous indifference, but on the inside I’m a frog who’s just realized he’s been swimming in a kettle.
I can’t stand the thought of Holly being out there unprotected. I came here to root out a devil in a serpent’s den; I didn’t count on getting blindsided by an angel. The moment she dropped into my lap, my heart stopped dead. I was done for. Finished. Then reborn a second later with a burning desire to draw her tight to me and never let go.
If King’s goons hadn’t quietly summoned me in here, using my real name, I’d still be out there, keeping an eye on my girl.
My girl. A premature notion, but one I very much like the sound of.
However, just as pressing is the fact that King apparently knows who I am. It’s possible his assistant tipped him off, but if that’s the case, I doubt I would’ve made it past the front door. I’ve seen things here that could spell a lot of trouble for a lot of very important people in this state.
“You’ve crossed a line by coming here,” Russell says.
“You want to talk lines and crossing ‘em,” I say. “How about all those underaged girls you’ve got working your living room?”
“It’s not illegal to host a multi-generational party, detective.”
“No, but it’s illegal to traffic teenagers out to your mansion for sex.” I lean forward, prompting his two oversized goons to take a step closer. “Let’s cut the bullshit, Russell. You and I both know what this party’s really about.”
“Sure, detective. And while we’re cutting the bullshit, let’s talk about why you’re really here.”
“Busting up your illegal sex ring ain’t reason enough?”
“Not quite.
” Russell sneers. “Nothing happens in this house that I don’t know about. And it may surprise you to learn that I’ve known about your investigation for some time. Unconnected homicides. Missing persons. Your obsession with the reverend, regardless of the fact that all your evidence is circumstantial.”
My composure falters for half a second, but it’s enough to broaden his smile. As much as I hate to give this smug bastard any credit, he’s technically right about that last bit. Most of the evidence we currently have against Reverend Davis is circumstantial.
We know he’s held events in towns and cities where girls went missing, or where their bodies were later found, strangled and bound in the killer’s signature style. We know King’s parties tend to pop up near megachurches where the reverend is scheduled to hold service, and that the four victims found within Knoxville city limits had previously attended King’s sex parties right there at King’s mansion.
“Mind telling me how you came to know about all that?” I ask, though I don’t expect an honest answer.
“We’ve known about you for a while, Detective Larkin. Every time you show up to one of the reverend’s sermons, we get an even better look at you.”
I’ve been quietly attending Reverend Davis’s events ever since he became a person of interest. Apparently not quietly enough, however.
The last event I sat in on took place about a month ago at the Bridgestone Arena in Nashville. The reverend played to a packed house. At just over a hundred bucks a ticket, I venture to say he did damn well for himself that afternoon.
I can still picture him on stage in his silver suit and tie. See the sheen from the product in his salt-and-pepper hair under the spotlights—almost as bright as the light reflecting off his platinum cufflinks. I stuck around after the service and introduced myself as a high school history teacher with a drinking problem. He shook my hand. I can still feel the impression his chunky gold ring made against my little finger.