“You didn’t tell me that.” Elise crossed her arms and perched on the arm of the couch.
“Didn’t think I had to. We knew her murder was connected to your assailant.”
The next shot featured Lopez stationed in front of the Speakeasy, and Elise’s grip on her upper arms tightened.
“In the attack in front of this club, the killer pretended to be injured with a cast on his arm, and then used the plaster cast to viciously hit the victim over the head. This incapacitated her, and he was able to stuff her into the trunk of his vehicle.”
Lopez went on to describe the vehicle and show Elise’s composite sketch.
“We can turn this off.” Sean reached for the remote, but Elise snatched it up first.
“Wait. I want to watch the rest.”
As the half-hour show drew to a close, Lopez was back in the studio. “The interesting thing about these murders is that this city has seen something like this before.”
Sean’s eye twitched and he tightened his jaw. He wanted to punch his fist through the TV as Lopez continued blabbing.
“Almost twenty years ago, another serial killer in the city used the same M.O. He feigned an injury to lure in his victims, knocked them out and then cut them to ribbons.”
Elise murmured something that Sean couldn’t hear over the pounding in his head.
“That serial killer murdered five women but was never caught. And the strangest thing about that old case and this new one?” He paused for dramatic effect. “The killer twenty years ago was communicating with SFPD Homicide Detective Joseph Brody, and the current killer is communicating with Brody’s son, SFPD Homicide Detective Sean Brody.”
Elise gasped. “Sean?”
And then there it was. A picture of a young officer with dark hair and brooding eyes.
Not satisfied, Lopez continued in his awed voice. “The story gets even more bizarre. Detective Joseph Brody was actually suspected of being the murderer, and the killings stopped after Brody threw himself from the Golden Gate Bridge.”
The remote fell from Elise’s hands, and she flinched as it hit the table. “Sean?”
Without turning to face her, he leaned sideways and grabbed the remote control, the muscles in his forearm corded and tense.
The TV went silent although Ray Lopez was still moving his lips.
“I-is all that true, what he said about your father?” She licked her lips, and her gaze dropped to his tattoo. What else had he been keeping from her?
He placed the remote on the coffee table with a click, put his hands on his knees and pushed up from the couch. He took one turn around the room and then stopped in front of her.
“It’s not true.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “It is true.”
She searched his face, the muscle ticking in his jaw, the deep grooves on each side of his mouth. “Just tell me the truth, Sean. I want to know the truth.”
“My father was a homicide detective, and there was a string of murders—similar to Katie Duncan’s but not exactly.”
“Like Lopez said, the M.O. was the same? The killer used some fake infirmity to trick his victims?”
“Yes.” He ran the back of his hand across his mouth. “Faked an injury to catch the victims off guard.”
“The killer communicated with your father?”
“He did, but I told you before, that’s not so uncommon.”
She folded her hands in front of her, twisting her fingers. “What about the other part? Was your father really suspected of being the killer?”
Sean slammed his fist into his palm. “That’s a lie. My father never killed anyone.”
“Except himself.”
Sean’s face blanched, and his lips tightened. “At the height of the investigation, someone witnessed a man jumping from the bridge and items belonging to my father were found there. The Coast Guard never found his body.”
“I’m sorry.” The words bubbled to her lips. How could she be angry with him for withholding the truth from her when such pain filled his eyes?
Squeezing those eyes shut, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Because of his suicide and because the killing stopped afterward, the department suspected him, but nobody was ever able to prove anything—not even that he committed suicide.”
“You don’t believe he killed himself even though his stuff was left on the bridge?”
“I don’t think he would’ve done that to us. We got nothing. His life insurance wouldn’t pay out and neither would the department.”
“Sean.” She reached out and trailed her fingers down his arm. When they skimmed over his tattoo, she snatched her hand back.
“What about the rest of it? Was there any proof that he was the killer?”
Sean plowed a hand through his hair again. “There was plaster of Paris in his patrol car. But would he really be stupid enough to leave that in his patrol car? Someone planted it.”
“You think someone was setting him up for the murders?”
“Absolutely. There’s no way...my father could never be capable of anything like that.”
Of course he’d say that about his father. He’d been a boy. How could he know for sure?
“Why would someone set him up? Who?”
“You don’t think I’ve gone through this in my mind a million times? I can only guess, but I think it was probably the real killer. He taunted my father and then set him up so he could get away with murder.”
“The murders stopped when your father...killed himself?”
“Exactly.” Sean smacked a hand on the counter. “That was the whole point. It got the killer off the hook.”
“And then he just stopped killing? Isn’t it unusual for a serial killer to stop on his own?”
“It’s not typical, but it does happen. Besides, how do we know he didn’t move to some other big city to continue his spree?”
She held out her hand. “Wait a minute. So you think a serial killer made contact with your dad and when your dad starting closing in, the killer started planting evidence implicating your father? When your father jumped, the killer packed up and started plying his trade somewhere else to escape?”
Sean nodded as he clenched his hands into fists.
“Why would your father commit suicide? Was the evidence against him that strong?”
“I don’t know. That’s the hardest piece of this puzzle for me to figure out. My dad—he wasn’t one to run from a fight. If he was innocent, and I know he was, he would’ve stood up to his accusers. He would’ve proved his innocence.”
Elise edged through the space between them, vibrating with tension, with a slow, cautious gait. She placed her hand on Sean’s tight arm. “But he didn’t do that, Sean.”
Raw emotion flashed across his face, twisting his features into a mask of pain.
Trailing her fingers across his tense jawline, she whispered, “I’m sorry.”
His chest heaved and he caught her hand in his warm grip. “I can’t figure out why he did it, Elise. I know he’s no