Chapter Nine
Several hours into their "investigation," Chloe and Lucifer had learned a lot more about the case. The only problem was, very little of it was helpful to their current cause. The green box still only contained the one item about Martin's DNA, and even that was more of a gut feeling on Chloe's part than anything else.
Sadly, most of what they'd read pointed to the exact same conclusion that the police had originally come to: that Martin Collins bashed his girlfriend's head in with a beer stein, presumably in a drunken rage after he found out she was cheating on him.
Numerous witnesses put him at Brimstone, alone, drinking heavily. No one remembered exactly when he'd left the pub, but it was definitely before 9pm because that was when the establishment's weekly Friday night trivia game started. A video of the event had been streamed to Brimstone's Facebook page, and Martin appeared nowhere in the footage. Martin himself admittedly didn't recall anything between 8pm that night and the next morning, when he awoke in his car, covered in Rose's blood.
The victim, Rose, had been off work on the night of her murder. Keith Ferguson, the man she'd been sleeping with on the side, had tended bar until just before 9pm on the evening in question, then taken off to see a special anniversary screening of the first Weaponizer movie with one of the other bartenders. The two men hadn't gotten out of the packed theatre until well after 1am. Ticket stubs, surveillance footage, and eyewitness accounts all backed up this claim.
Given that the movie ran from 10pm-12:30am, and Rose's TOD was estimated to be between 10-11pm, that put Keith in the clear for her murder. Which was bad, because he was the best potential suspect outside of Martin. Not to mention the prosecution's most damning witness.
"We knew cheating was wrong, but we were in love," Keith had said on the stand. "Rose was working up the courage to leave Martin so we could be together. She knew it was the right thing to do, but she was nervous about how he would react. Like, scared. I guess she had a reason to be. I…I should've been there to protect her when she confronted Martin. Instead, I went to a fucking movie. And now she's gone. My future is gone."
There wasn't an actual video of the trial, but Chloe could easily imagine Keith's spiky red-gold hair slicked down neatly as he took the witness stand, his vivid green Luck-of-the-Irish eyes shining with tears and sincerity as he said the words. A damning witness, indeed.
Almost equally damning were Martin's lack of alibi, his memory gap, his drinking, his terrible, horrible, very bad day at work—he ran a small construction company and had just lost not one but two big contracts to a rival bidder—and his freakishly massive biceps, which left no doubt about his physical capability to carry out the murder.
Martin's behavior following his conviction wasn't doing him any favors, either. He'd torpedoed most of his lawyer's attempts at appeals, effectively speeding up the timeline of his own execution. It was as if he actually wanted to die.
Putting it all together, the picture did not look good.
Of course, there were a few factoids in the case that didn't point directly to Martin. Unfortunately, they didn't really lead anywhere else helpful, either.
Rose, according to the autopsy report, had been six weeks pregnant at the time of her death. DNA testing had confirmed Martin as the father. Which should have been a point in his favor, since he'd always talked passionately to friends and family about his desire to be a dad one day. It was also a possible reason Rose might have changed her mind about leaving Martin and decided to stay in the relationship.
Except…there was not one spec of evidence suggesting she even knew she was pregnant, much less who the father was. No visit to her OBGYN, no appointments scheduled, no home pregnancy tests purchased with Rose's credit card, no mentions of the baby even to her closest friends.
In addition to the pregnancy, Chloe was surprised to learn that Rose had been on the payroll as a confidential informant for the FBI. Apparently, her cousin was an active member of the 18th Street Gang, and Rose occasionally leaked info to the feds based on overheard phone conversations when her cousin was in town visiting. Rose's intel had resulted in a few low-level busts, but nothing too major. Still, the gang was a very powerful—and very dangerous—organization to be making enemies with and Chloe thought they might've finally caught a break in Martin's case.
However, as Lucifer correctly pointed out, La 18 had their own distinctive style of punishment. Snitches very literally ended up in ditches…usually with their heads disconnected from their bodies. When the gang killed someone, they wanted everybody and their mother to know it. The intent was to send a clear message to other potential informants: Shut up, or else. Bludgeoning someone to death and framing the person's boyfriend didn't fit with that agenda.
In the end, both Rose's pregnancy and her status as federal employee had only served to help the prosecution in their pursuit of the death penalty.
Which brought the whole thing back to Martin, and the clock currently ticking away beside the computer. 19:54. Nineteen hours, fifty-four minutes left before he was strapped down on a table and injected with a lethal cocktail of drugs like a dog being put to sleep. Nineteen hours, fifty-four minutes left before Lucifer suffered an equally gruesome fate.
Chloe sighed and rubbed her temples. Beside her, Lucifer coughed into his now very bedraggled pocket square. She remembered the afternoon a few years back when Trixie had arrived home from school announcing that eight kids in her class were out with the flu.
While Lucifer stood over in the corner, giving "the child" an even wider berth than usual, Chloe had taken the opportunity to reiterate some good hygiene practices with her daughter. Remembering to wash hands, especially before eating. Not sharing a bottle of Coke with her friend Eliza at lunchtime. And, if Trixie did get sick, coughing and sneezing into a tissue or her sleeve. That would at least help keep the illness from spreading to others.
During the discussion, Lucifer had been busy playing that sex words game with Maze on his phone. As usual, not paying the slightest attention to something so non-relevant to him. Or so Chloe thought.
And yet, a week later, when Trixie inevitably came down with the flu—despite getting her vaccine—Chloe had spotted Lucifer bravely crossing the room to shove a box of tissues at the little girl when she started to cough.
Cover that up, child—we don't want your mum to get sick.
Chloe should've known, even back then, that when it came to issues of "his Detective's" safety and well-being, Lucifer was always paying attention.
Chloe blinked, realizing she'd been staring blankly at Martin's picture on the whiteboard for several minutes. She'd chosen to print the photo from his driver's license, rather than his mug shot, figuring it would help them to view him as an innocent person. So far, it was working. Chloe found it very difficult indeed to reconcile the image of the handsome, smiling young African American man in front of her with someone capable of bashing his girlfriend's skull in with a beer stein.
Lucifer cleared his throat, breaking the stillness of the room. Aside from some brief animation at the mention of his and Dan's favorite movie franchise, Lucifer had grown quiet in the last hour or so. Now he was staring at the computer with dull eyes, not seeming to take in a word of the report on the screen.
Chloe knew her own eyes were probably just as glazed. This intense, unrelenting focus on the case was getting to both of them, and she had enough experience as a detective to know that pushing nonstop didn't yield results—just more problems. That was how they'd ended up in this mess to begin with. Instead of taking a break to go home and recharge, they'd kept digging at Fernando Ruiz's murder case. Then, tired and frustrated, they'd ignored their better judgment and walked right into a trap.
They'd have to be smarter than that, if they wanted to get out of this alive.
She would have to be smarter.
"Okay, that's enough," Chloe declared, snapping the gloomy reverie that had descended over them. She leaned forward and put the Chromebook in sleep mode. Lucifer blinked sluggishly, as if trying to figure out why the screen had suddenly gone dark.
He turned to her. "Detective?"
"We need a break. Just five minutes to refuel and clear our heads. Then we can come back with fresh eyes, okay?"
Lucifer nodded.
Chloe pulled the snack box from under the bench and grabbed a handful of protein bars and a can of Red Bull. She almost grabbed two cans, but decided against it. Lucifer might be touchy about the slogan on the side:
Red Bull gives you wiiings!
"Here," Chloe said, thrusting a granola bar at Lucifer as she bit into one herself.
He held up a hand in polite refusal. "No thank you, Detective."
"Have some of your cool ranch thingies, then," she said, tossing the rejected bar back in the box. "You need something to keep your strength up."
Lucifer glanced down at the bag on the bench beside him. A faint look of distaste crossed his features. "I think I'll save those for later."
Chloe frowned. She had never known him to turn down Earl's Cool Ranch Puffs. Or food, in general. She set aside her half-eaten Nature Valley bar and pressed a hand to his forehead. Her frown deepened.
"Lucifer, you're hot."
A ghost of a leer touched his lips as his gaze slid down her body. "As are you, Detective."
"No, I mean you've got a fever."
Chloe pulled the first aid kit onto her lap and rummaged through it until she found the thermometer. Lucifer barely even reacted when she thrust the device into his ear canal. The fact that he didn't make a single joke about penetration had her more than a little concerned. As soon as the thermometer beeped, Chloe pulled it out and winced at the number on the display. 104.1.
Damn it. That was bordering on dangerous. At least for a human. But maybe Lucifer ran a little hot to begin with? He was the Devil, after all.
"Do you know what your normal body temperature is?" Chloe asked.
Lucifer shook his head.
She sighed. Of course he didn't.
"I'm sorry, Detective…I'm afraid the only time I used a thermometer, it was definitely not for the purposes of science."
"It's okay, don't worry about it." She should've taken his temperature when she first opened the kit. That way, they'd have a baseline. Too late now.
Chloe struggled to rip open a little travel pack of Tylenol and dropped the two tablets in his hand. "Swallow these," she instructed. "And drink some Gatorade."
His nose wrinkled. "You mean one of those wretched sports beverages?"
"Yes, one of those. You need the fluids. And the electrolytes."
Lucifer sighed. "Very well. Which color?"
Chloe smiled sweetly at him as she activated a cold pack from the first aid kit. "Whichever one makes you feel pretty."
Lucifer reluctantly dug through the snack box, muttering about "picking a bottle of poison." Chloe waited while he took the Tylenol and downed a few sips of some bright red off-brand liquid called "Quench." The drink smelled like cherry cough syrup and she could tell by his expression that it probably tasted just as bad. At least it brought a little color to his lips.
"Okay," she said, "now unbutton your vest."
"Ooh, I like where this is going…" He flinched when she shoved the ice pack against his chest between his vest and his shirt. "Bloody hell! That's cold!"
"It's ice, Lucifer. That's kind of the point."
Already starting to shiver, Lucifer looked at her with startled, wounded-puppy eyes. "Are you very sure you're not trying to kill me?"
"Just hold that pack in place. I'll be right back."
Chloe headed for the bathroom to get something else to help cool him down, but immediately returned empty-handed. Lucifer watched as she scanned the warehouse, biting her lip.
"Something wrong, Detective? Other than me freezing to death, that is?"
"I need some water and the faucet's jammed."
"Ah. Well, at least that's something I can fix." He coughed and started to rise off the bench.
Chloe quickly pushed him back down. "Lucifer, sit. Stay." And then she added, because she had to, "Good Devil."
Despite chattering teeth, he rewarded her with a small smile. "Quintessential D-Deckerstar."
"You know it." Chloe spied a loose hunk of concrete from their earlier escape efforts and moved toward it. "Just rest," she told him, picking up the cement and weighing it in her hand. "I got this."
She carried her improvised plumbing tool to the bathroom and this time returned with a handful of cold, sopping wet paper towels, which she unceremoniously slapped onto the back of Lucifer's neck.
He yelped in protest. "You do realize this suit is Prada?"
"Yep." Chloe pressed the towels down harder, causing more droplets to run down over his precious shirt and vest.
"Have I done something to offend you?" Lucifer asked, in between shivers of misery.
"You promised to tell me if you were getting worse," she said, sitting down beside him and taking out the thermometer again. "And then you didn't. Withholding symptoms is the same as lying, Lucifer. If you're not going to be honest about how you're feeling, then how am I supposed to help you?" She stuck the thermometer back in his ear, waited for the beep.
102.9.
Going in the right direction, at least. Chloe didn't want to think about how high his fever might've gotten if she hadn't noticed it. She sighed and returned the thermometer to the kit.
"You're doing better now," she informed him. "Of course, you could've been doing better an hour ago if you'd just let me know what was going on."
Chloe looked over to find Lucifer watching her with an expression that was part confusion, part regret.
"I'm sorry, Detective…t-truly." He sounded like he really meant it. "I never intended to deceive you. I didn't realize I had a fever. I can feel something is wrong—" He gestured vaguely at his chest "—but…it's difficult to describe."
Chloe instantly felt like the words on Maze's favorite coffee mug: #1 BITCH. Because of course he didn't know what a fever felt like. How would he? He had no experience to compare it to. She would never have asked a sick Trixie, at age three, to self-report all of her symptoms. And Lucifer was, in many ways, just as much of a child—if not more.
"Can you try to describe it?" Chloe asked gently.
Lucifer looked thoughtful for a moment. "Static," he said finally.
"Static?"
"In here." He motioned at his chest again. "Wet static."
Chloe swallowed. Fluid in the lungs.
"Okay," she said, trying to keep her voice even. "Anything else?"
"Yes," he said firmly.
She tilted her head, waiting.
"I am very, very cold right now."
Chloe rolled her eyes and gave his knee a reassuring squeeze. "You'll live."
Over their heads, the speakers crackled.
"You two are wasting time," said the kidnapper. "You should be focusing on the case."
"We're getting back to it right now, Bethany," Chloe said, deliberately using the woman's name, now that they'd learned it from the files. Anything to build a connection.
Lucifer coughed and wrapped his arms around himself, shivering. "Great, now I'm having flashbacks to my childhood."
Chloe raised her eyebrows.
He pointed at the ceiling. "A booming, judge-y voice from above."
Chloe smiled at his joke and leaned over to wake up the computer. The next image in the file was one of the crime scene photos, a close-up of a blood-splatter pattern on the wall beside Rose's bookshelf. From the label on the picture, this version had been used as an exhibit in the trial. And, although Chloe had seen the photo before, this time something new caught her eye. She sat forward on the bench.
"Hey Lucifer—look at this."