“Yeah, in the head. Did one of my crazy aunts finally have her committed?” Cyrus wore a relieved look.
“No, your mother isn’t in a psychiatric facility.” Christ, Cope didn’t envy doctors and cops who had to deliver death notices every day. He was flailing badly here and supposed the onlything left to do was rip off the Band-Aid and come right out and say it. “She has pancreatic cancer, Cyrus. The docs say she’s got only a few months left.”
“Jesus,” Cyrus said, sounding like the wind had been let out of his sails. “You’re serious? Do you have proof?”
“Yes, I’m serious. No, I don’t have physical proof, but I read it in her. She really is dying.” Cope shivered in the warm room. He wasn’t a doctor, but according to what he’d been able to sense, Alexandria had only a matter of weeks left, not months.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Cyrus sounded sincere. “We might not have always been close, but I love her. I’ve missed her these last fifteen years. Does she know you spoke with me?”
“No.” Cope paused, watching Cyrus’s reaction. He simply nodded. “She asked us to find your killer before she died.”
“Ah, I get it. You’re reaching out now to help my mother fulfill her dying wish.” Anger flashed in Cyrus’s eyes as he spoke.
“Cyrus, it’s not that,” Cope began.
“What is it, then?” Cyrus sounded as if he were on the verge of melting down completely, which Cope wanted desperately to avoid.
“I’ve been speaking to dead people for nearly thirty years now. In that time, you’re the only murder victim I’ve ever met who doesn’t want justice. Most victims don’t remember who killed them. The trauma of the moment blocks the memory of what happened. Is that the situation with you, and you’re too proud to admit it?”
Cyrus shook his head. “No. I know who killed me. I remember every single moment, from the knock on the motel room door, tothe knife plunging into my chest, to the hot blood gushing from my body, and finally, my sight dimming and going dark.”
Cope was impressed with Cyrus’s ability to remember his death. “Do you think that your murder was an act of karma? That you got what you had coming?”
“Something like that,” Cyrus admitted. “Naming my killer will help no one. It will only cause more pain. If my mother is truly dying, like you say, then she’ll be with me soon enough, and I’ll be able to tell her all about that night. More than anything else, my mother is a control freak. She wants the reins to everything in her hands. I’ve been off leash for twenty years now. It’s the reason we were estranged in the first place. She wanted me to marry a New York society girl. Have a big, splashy wedding that would make national news. I didn’t want that. I wanted to sow my wild oats until my balls ran dry. She said I was a disgrace to the Longfellow name. Maybe she was right, but until the moment that knife pierced my heart, I was happy. My mother didn’t care about happiness, mine, hers, my father’s. All she cared about was how we were perceived. Having a bisexual son with the most famous black book in New York wasn’t the kind of notoriety she wanted.”
“It’s not like having a war hero in the family,” Cope said. His father had been constantly disappointed by Cope. He’d been upset his son was gay, didn’t want to follow him into the family business or go to college. He never went out of his way to purposely make things worse, but he hadn’t done anything to make them better either. In hindsight, Cope should have tried to make amends with his father before he’d died.
“I should have reconciled with her. I mean, she was right. Being known for my dick must have been embarrassing for her, like it would be for any mother. Maybe if I’d reached out to her, thingswouldn’t have ended the way they did.” Cyrus looked like he was about to cry.
“I’m sorry, Cyrus. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt you. I was hoping that hearing about your mother’s condition and her final wish would be the thing that might get you to share the name of your killer.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Cope. I’ve got to run. If I don’t see you before you leave in the morning, it was nice being able to speak with someone who could hear me. Just know that my killer will never strike again.” Cyrus paused. “If you speak to my mother, tell her I’m sorry and that I’ll see her soon.” With those words, Cyrus vanished.
“Fuck a duck,” Cope muttered when he was gone.
“I’m guessing Cyrus didn’t tell you who killed him.” Jude wrapped an arm around Cope’s shoulder.
Cope shook his head. “He’s sorry he died with him and his mother not speaking, but he won’t tell us who killed him.”
“Damn.” Jude got off the bed and paced around the room. “What do we do now? Do we get Everly on the case?”
“No. Let’s not do that. Cyrus made his wishes known. Unless someone confesses to the crime, I’m done trying to solve it.”
Jude’s eyes narrowed on his husband, as if he were trying to figure out if Cope was serious or speaking out of frustration. “I get what you’re saying, but think about this. Are you going to regret this decision when we’re back home living our lives?”
Under any other circumstance, Cope would have most certainly regretted his stance, but not now. “If someone doesn’t want help, you can’t force it on them. If Cyrus decides in the future that he wants to reveal the name, he’ll be able to find me.”
“I don’t like the idea of leaving a killer out there with no punishment, even if the victim thinks his death was karma biting him in the ass.” Jude shook his head.
“I’m not fond of that either,” Cope said, getting off the bed and wrapping his arms around Jude. “Sometimes the guys in white hats lose. All you can do is learn from this moment and take this lesson with you into the next case you work.”
“Okay,” Jude whispered.
Cope had done everything in his power to make Cyrus Longfellow reveal his killer’s name. He’d also used every ounce of his gift to try and read the name for himself. Both attempts failed. The only option left open was to ask Everly to help, but if the murder victim didn’t want help, Cope wouldn’t force it on him. He had to trust Cyrus when he said his killer wasn’t going to take another victim.
17
Jude
