Page 66 of Den of Iniquity

“Four other cases?” Felicity repeated. “Really? Does that mean Xavier was murdered by a serial killer?”

As a general rule, it takes three victims for someone to graduate to serial killer status. Xavier Delgado’s death meant we were now two over that grim milestone.

“Yes,” I agreed. “I believe your husband was quite possibly the victim of a serial killer.”

The next words out of Felicity’s mouth took me aback. “Thank you,” she whispered brokenly. “Thank you so much!”

I was truly mystified. “Why would you thank me?”

“Because of my mother-in-law,” she said, “my kids’ nana. She’s a good Catholic. She believes that suicide is a mortal sin and that anyone who commits a mortal sin without repentance goes to hell. She’s convinced that Xavier committed suicide because I had filed for a divorce. The last time she spoke to me was at his funeral.”

I heard the genuine relief in her voice, but I needed to put the brakes on what she might say to anyone else.

“Please, Ms. Delgado,” I pleaded, “I can tell how important this is to you, but whatever you do, don’t discuss any of what I’ve told you with anyone else, including your mother-in-law. As far as law enforcement is concerned, your husband’s case is closed, and so far so are the others. I’m doing my best to get them reopened, but if word of what I’m doing gets back to the killer, that person might be able to get away.”

“Will you call me when you know for sure?” Felicity asked. “You promise?”

“Cross my heart,” I replied. “You may not be the first person I call, but I promise I’ll be in touch.”

“Thank you,” Felicity breathed. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome,” I told her.

After ending the call, what do you think I did next? I fired off a group email to Ben Weston, Sandra Sechrest, Yolanda’s hardworking intern, and Yolanda herself.

Hey, guys, when I’m wrong, I’m wrong. Please disregard my previous message. I’ve just now located another possibly related case. Number five is an overdose death designated suicide that originated in Kent, which is well outside the Seattle city limits.

I’m a great believer in the idea that where there’s smoke there’s fire. With five cases that I’m now reasonably sure are connected, I suspect there are probably more—no telling how many. So let’s not take our foot off the gas pedal. I want to get whoever did this and hold them accountable.

As I pressed send, a thought occurred to me about pressing gas pedals. My aging Mercedes has a gas pedal, but what about all those electric cars out on the road these days? If they don’t have gas pedals, what do they have? Accelerators maybe? Will gas pedals end up going the way of the buggy whip, right along with standard transmissions?

Yes, indeed, I told myself.J.P., old boy, you really are getting up there!

Chapter 30

Bellingham, Washington

Friday, March 6, 2020

With the gas pedal analogy still front and center in my brain, I tried calling the nonemergency number for Kent PD. Good luck with that. I soon found myself wandering in that vale of tears known as “Your Call Is Very Important to Us.” Sure it is! Once there I was advised to press number one for this, number two for that, and numbers three, four, and five for something else. Since none of the suggested options included investigations, I pressed zero for the operator only to be told that no one was available to take my call at this time. “If this is an emergency, please hang up and dial 911. Otherwise, leave a message, and we’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

Right! I already knew that a return call on a message wasn’t bloody likely, either, so I didn’t bother. Instead, I asked Siri to dial 911 in Kent, Washington.

When the operator came on the line and wanted to know the nature of my emergency, I got straight to the point.

“My name’s J. P. Beaumont. I’m working a homicide out of Liberty Lake, Washington, and I need to speak to someone in the Investigations unit at the Kent Police Department.”

“Sir,” the operator replied, “for nonemergency calls, you should call the nonemergency number.”

The way I was feeling by then, it was about to turn into an emergency because I was close to smashing my cell phone to pieces.

“I already tried that,” I growled back at him. “When it comes to pressing buttons, Investigations isn’t on the list. Could you please either connect me or give me their direct number so I can dial it myself?”

I hadn’t exactly claimed to be a police officer as opposed to a PI, but I was indeed working a homicide case from Liberty Lake, and I must have sounded legit enough because he gave me the number. Playing faux cop may have worked with the 911 operator, but I had no intention of pulling that same stunt with a full-fledged detective. As for who would be on the other end of my call? No idea. I had certainly lucked out with Detective Byrd in Liberty Lake, but I figured my chances of getting a good detective as opposed to a dud were about fifty/fifty.

A male voice answered the call. “Detective Boyce Miller here.”

“My name is J. P. Beaumont,” I told him, “formerly with the AG’s Special Homicide Investigation Team.”

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