The Pain Scale Read Free

do you mean?”
    “When’s the last time you met a rich guy who didn’t make you want to puke?”
    “Funny,” I said. “We have any idea where he is?”
    “Yeah,” Ruiz said. “He’s on an airplane flying in from DC. His old man’s coming, too.”
    “Does he know?” I asked.
    “His attorney does. I imagine he’s spread the word.”
    “You made the notification to the lawyer?”
    “That’s the play they dealt. Told Benton’s chief of staff I was a cop; he put me straight through to the mouthpiece. He hemmed and hawed so much I just gave up and spit it out.”
    “This is going to be a peach,” Jen said.
    Ruiz’s cell rang. He checked the caller ID display and took it out of the room.
    I went back to the photos on the wall. In one of the few that didn’t include Benton, Sara was standing on a playground between two swings. On her left was Bailey, on her right, Jacob. Her arms were open, and she had one hand on each child’s back and was just beginning to push. The family resemblance shone in their smiles, and the three of them seemed to share some deep and secret happiness.

    An hour and a half later, we reconvened in the den. The lieutenant had called in the rest of the Homicide Detail to back us up. Marty Locklin and David Zepeda were the old hands, with almost fifty years on the job between them. Patrick Glenn was the newest addition to the squad. He’d been on loan from Computer Crimes while I was out on medical leave, and Ruiz was trying to make the reassignment permanent. We’d all torn the house apart on the assumption that the Bentons’ attorneys would get in the way once they arrived. We assumed Bradley probably had a whole host of things he’d rather not have the police looking at. The house’s status as a crime scene gave us quite a bit of latitude. Until someone protested, we were allowed to search just about anything. And we wanted to find out as much as we could before we had to start justifying our actions.
    Ruiz eyeballed us. “Impressions?”
    “It’s a mess,” I said. “The first thought is home invasion. The back door’s been forced. Looks like a safe’s been ripped out of one of the master bedroom closets with pry bars and a sledgehammer. But if you go with that, why torture Sara?”
    Jen spoke next. “The combination to the safe?”
    “Maybe,” I said. “But it was pretty hard core for that. Looks like these guys enjoyed what they did to her.”
    Marty took a turn. “Coincidence? A couple of pervs who take scores see the chance to combine work with pleasure?”
    Jen shook her head. “Crossover like that’s pretty rare. Usually the deviants aren’t big on multitasking. Too much of a distraction from the real business.” She’d spent three years in Sex Crimes before transferring to Homicide.
    “And what about the kids?” Ruiz asked.
    “Looks like a mob hit,” Dave said. “No wits.”
    “It does,” I said. “But that doesn’t fit, either. They don’t usually kill kids. Too much heat—the percentages don’t add up.”
    “Well,” Ruiz said, “nothing adds up here.” He looked down at his shoes. I thought a speech might be in the offing, but I was wrong. He went for terse. “Figure it out. There’s a storm coming, and it’s moving fast.” Well, terse and clichéd.
    “Marty?” I asked.
    He hooked a thumb at Dave and said, “We’ll get started on the canvass.”
    Patrick held up an external hard drive. “Two computers. I copied both. Going to take them back to the squad and start digging.”
    “Should you do that?” I asked.
    “Well,” he said, “I
can
do it.” He shrugged.
    I let it go.
    After everyone else made their way out of the room, Jen and I were left alone.
    My gaze drifted back over the photos of Benton. Twenty-two of them. Benton himself in twenty. What kind of man, Iwondered, had more pictures of himself than of his children? What kind of ego did that indicate? What kind of narcissism? I moved my eyes down the rows and studied