Surgeon – Chapter Fourteen

NOT EDITED

Chapter Fourteen

Wednesday: January 8, 2020

6:00 AM; MINNESOTA, THE SURGEON’S HOUSE, BASEMENT

The older man, the one that had taken Cleo from the bar, came down the stairs, a plate in each hand. He slid one under Cleo’s door and the second under Natalie’s door. “This is your last meal today, Brooke.”

Natalie’s eyes widened in panic. “Wh–what? What do you mean last meal?”

“Honey, calm down,” he said, his voice unreasonably soft and calm. He reached through the bars, placing a hand on the young girl’s shoulder. “You’re going into surgery tonight. You can’t eat or drink anything for twelve hours, that’s all.” Natalie swallowed roughly, but she didn’t respond. “Honey, don’t be scared. I won’t hurt you. I would never hurt you. The surgery is for your own good, to make you complete again.” He squeezed her shoulder and rose to his feet.

“Hey, hey!” Cleo exclaimed, sticking an arm through the cell bars.

He grabbed her hand as he squatted down in front of her. “What is it, darling?”

“What surgery?” Her green eyes searched his blue ones as he reached through the bars, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “What surgery?” she asked again.

“Just a surgery, darling. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“She’s a child,” Cleo whispered.

“It’s for her own good, Lauren,” he said, his voice much sterner than before. Cleo leaned away from his touch, fear coursing through her veins. “I’m sorry, darling,” he whispered. “I don’t mean to scare you. She’ll be okay. It’s just a surgery. I do them all the time. Four, five hours tops. I won’t hurt her. She’s our baby.”

“She’ll… she’ll be okay?” He nodded. “I will kill you if she doesn’t come back,” she said through her teeth.

He seemed amused that she would speak to him in such a manner. “If I hurt her, you have every right to kill me. I’ll even give you the gun. That’s my promise to you, darling.” He pushed himself to his feet and smiled faintly at both women. “Eat. I’ll see you both tonight.” He tapped a hand against the bars of Natalie’s cell door. “After breakfast, get some rest. You’re going to need it, love.”

8:14 AM; CLINSTONE, CLEO MARSHALL’S APARTMENT

Bo stepped into Cleo Marshall’s apartment, and Jacob followed shortly thereafter. Bo’s attention was immediately drawn to the dark pink pad of sticky notes sitting on a small table by the door. A landline phone was set up on the table, a pencil set down between the phone and the sticky notes. Bo pulled the strap of his camera over his head and carefully lowered the camera to the carpeted floor.

He could feel Jacob’s eyes on him, could feel the questioning look he was receiving, but he didn’t mind it. Jacob’s questioning stare was much different than the questioning stares of other people. Jacob wasn’t wondering what kind of freak Bo was, what kind of killer he could be. Jacob was simply curious, and Bo could easily respect that. Genuine, innocent curiosity was intelligence.

With gloved fingers, Bo picked up the pencil and used the graphite to neatly scribble over the sticky note. The words transferred from the previous sticky note showed up clearly among the scribbled sea of graphite on the small surface. “ ‘Date with Victor L.’ There’s a phone number, and then a time and a place,” Bo said. “Eleven forty-five PM at Ivory Hill.”

“That’s a bar in town.”

“It’s likely the bar Cleo Marshall was taken from, assuming she made it there before she was grabbed. I want to go there, and I want to go to Victor Law’s place.” Bo picked up his camera, draping the strap back over his neck.

“Sure, we can head out now and—”

“After I take pictures,” Bo interrupted. He offered a smile. “Pictures are important, Detective Mason, even if this isn’t where she was taken from or killed.”

Jacob smiled. “Of course. Sorry, man, just got ahead of myself. Take all the pictures you want, Bo. I’ve got all day.” Bo raised an eyebrow as he glanced up at the detective. “Well, not all day. I’ve gotta get back to Al and the kids at some point.”

Bo chuckled as he pulled an evidence bag from his shirt pocket. “Of course,” he said softly. He picked up the pad of sticky notes and dropped it into the bag. He handed it back to Jacob. “Somebody pulled off the top sticky note, and I’m doubting it was Cleo Marshall.” Bo tapped a finger against the back. “That might get us somewhere.”

“You just turn every damn stone, don’tcha?” Jacob asked.

One corner of Bo’s mouth lifted slightly. “Just living by Kathy’s motto, Detective.” He cleared his throat. “You can’t explore a case until you’ve turned all the stones that line the path to the resolution. Th–that’s what Kathy used to tell people.”

Jacob’s expression softened. “I’m real sorry about her, Bo.”

“Don’t be,” Bo murmured. He turned away from the detective, powering on his camera. “She made her bed, and she’s lying in it now. That’s all.”

Jacob laid a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “I meant that you were forced to testify against her. And Dallas. From the bits and pieces you’ve let spill, you were really close to him. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” Bo’s brow furrowed. No one had ever apologized to him for that specific reason. Sure, he hadn’t wanted to. Sure, it was against the law when Jamal fired him just to make him testify against one of the only people he had ever cared about, but no one had ever felt sorry for Bo, certainly not for that reason. “Well, thanks,” Bo said quietly. He shrugged Jacob’s hand off his shoulder. “Can we just… not talk about it? About them?”

“You betcha, kid. I’ll just be here then. You take your pictures, and… I’ll be here.”

9:02 AM; CLINSTONE, VICTOR LAW’S HOUSE, FOYER

Bo’s eyes took in everything around him as he stood in the foyer of Victor Law’s house. He pointed in the direction of the living room and glanced back at Jacob. “See the depression area in the carpet here?” he asked, circling a finger in the air.

Jacob raised an eyebrow. “Not from here, I don’t.” He walked around Bo and made his way into the living room. “Okay, here? This… area?”

Bo nodded. “That’s very likely where Victor Law died. And, by the looks of it, he stayed there for several hours, probably a day, before he was moved. I couldn’t tell you where they put him before throwing him in that dumpster, though.”

“Hmm.”

“Anyway, umm…” Bo cleared his throat. “I’ll get pictures taken, dust for prints… and then we’ll head out to Ivory Hill. If that works for you, that is?”

“You betcha.” Every time Jacob said ‘you betcha’, it took a fair share of Bo’s self-control to not smile. It was a rather stereotypical Minnesotan thing to do, and Jacob always walked right into the statement. Jacob lifted his right hand, checked his watch. “I mean, if you’re willing to stop for food beforehand, I mean. I’m starving.”

Bo forced himself to nod. “Sure, Detective. Food first.”

10:15 AM; CLINSTONE, LITTLE DELIGHTS DINER

Bo slid into one side of the booth, a frown set on his face. He looked around the diner, blue eyes narrowed. There were too many people there, too many smells, too many—

“You hungry?” Jacob asked, placing a hand on the table.

Slowly, Bo shook his head. “I ate breakfast, Detective.”

Jacob chuckled. “So did I. Doesn’t stop me from wanting to eat again.”

“I’m fine.”

“Do you want a coffee?” Jacob asked.

Bo felt like it was his job to throw the poor detective a bone. Anything else seemed cruel. “Sure,” he said finally.

Jacob smiled. “Awesome. What kind?”

Bo lifted his gaze to the menu board hanging on the back wall, behind the counter. “The Delight Caramel. Iced,” he said.

“Oh, I knew you were a caramel kind of guy. Just like Allie,” Jacob said. “Size?”

“I… suppose that depends. How long are we going to be here?” Bo asked.

“Well, longer than, like, two seconds. Man’s gotta eat.”

“A medium.”

Jacob slapped his palm against the table. “You betcha. Back in a sec.”

11:35 AM; CLINSTONE, IVORY HILL

“Hey, Will,” Jacob greeted as he and Bo walked up to the counter in the bar. 

William Foreman smiled. “Hey, Jake.” He saluted the detective with two fingers before going back to wiping out a glass with the cloth in his hand. “Alice managed to domesticate you yet?”

Jacob chuckled, nodding. “Little bit.” He crossed his arms over the top of the bar, leaning forward ever so slightly. “That’s a lie. Totally whipped. No ‘little bit’ about it.”

William laughed. “Nothing wrong with that, Jake.” He nodded to Bo. “Who’s your friend?”

“Oh! Bo Austen, forensic analyst,” Jacob said. Bo nodded once in greeting. “We’re here to ask a few questions, if that’s all right?”

“Go for it,” William said. Jacob looked over at Bo, a faint smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“Me?” Bo asked, touching a hand to his chest. “You’re the detective.”

“You’re the genius. I can Google too. I know you liked asking questions in LA.” Jacob waved a hand in his direction. “Ask away.”

Bo cleared his throat, slowly dragging his gaze away from Jacob’s face. “Were you working on New Year’s Eve?”

William nodded. “Yeah. I was behind the counter and two coworkers were out and about with drinks,” he said, gesturing to the rest of the bar with an open palm.

Bo nodded and pulled a picture—folded into perfect fourths—from his pocket. He unfolded it and handed it over to William. “Do you know this woman?”

Again, William nodded. “Yeah, that’s Cleo. She’s a regular. Light drinker, but a regular,” he said. “She was in here for the New Year’s party. I assume that’s what you wanted to know, right?”

“Was she with anyone?”

“She came in alone,” William said. He handed the picture back to Bo, scratching at his jaw. “Some guy bought her a drink. She left soon after.”

“Did she leave with him?” Jacob asked.

“Shit, Jake, I don’t know. It was hectic. It was New Year’s Eve. I think so,” William said. 

“Do you remember anything about the guy?”

William offered a shrug. “I don’t know, Jake. He was a man,” he said, opting for the obvious. “He was wearing some expensive-ass suit, though, if that helps.”

“Do you know the brand?” Bo asked, lifting his gaze to William’s face.

William chuckled. “Nah. Way out of my budget,” he said. A pause. “Mm,” he declared, holding up a hand, index finger extended toward the ceiling. “You know that expensive cologne they spritz you with when you walk into Hazel’s Bath & Body?”

Jacob nodded. “Shit almost makes me sick to my stomach,” he muttered.

“Right? Anyway, that’s what the dude smelled like. So, you know, if you’re looking for him, look for super hoity-toity dudes.” He cleared his throat. “So… is, uh, Cleo dead? I guess you wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t, right?”

“No,” Bo answered immediately. “She’s missing, but it’s very likely she’s alive.”

“How can you know that?” Bo tilted his head to the side for a moment, one side of his mouth scrunching up as his mind worked through the question and the answer. “Humans live by patterns. Ever since we started living in houses instead of scouring the land for temporary places of safety, we’ve developed patterns, and we’ve become comfortable with them, and we live by them. They define us. If Cleo Marshall has already been killed, if she’s dead and we haven’t found her, he’s not living by his pattern, and it would drive him insane.”

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