Free The Dead Soul by M. William Phelps

taking it.
    Bringing an investigation out into a gated community near Cambridge Square gave Jake pause to despise the ultra-rich. The townhouses they passed on the way were straight out of Architectural Digest magazine and the cars in driveways cost more than what most cops made in a year. A nun from India visiting Father John last year astutely observed, after Jake asked how she liked living in America, “You Americans, you like every-ting veddy large. Big home. Big car. Big stomach.”
    Jake looked over at his partner as they parked at the corner end of the Taylor’s horseshoe driveway. Dickie’s gut protruded tightly over the seat belt around him.
    Who could argue with the woman?
    “So how we playin’ this?” Dickie wanted to know.
    “You take the lead. I’ll sit back and watch the old man. At least until we figure them out.”
    “Spoke to a friend from the FBI last night. Incestual relationships that have gone on for years often involve extremely rare and extremely violent crimes. ‘Member that dude in California a few years back who fathered ten of his children’s children, then killed each one of them, one by one, posed their bodies in the house … left them for weeks. Several of them were dismembered. How ‘bout that sicko in Austria? Locked his daughter in the basement for—”
    Jake stopped him. “Yeah, okay. I get it, Dickie. We’ll see.” They walked up the pathway to the house. There was a line of strange looking flowers planted in beds of mulch so clean and weed-free the landscaping looked fake. “Let’s focus on what we need to do here. Nobody expects death to knock at the door.” They approached the archway of the front porch. Jake took a glance around the yard. “They expect their lives—because they have money—to be carefree.” He paused for a beat as Dickie rolled his eyes.
    “Ring the bell, Jake. Your resentment is obvious. Let it go.”
    “You’d buy incest?” Jake shook his head in disagreement. “You get anyone on that Rookie lead yet?”
    “Sure thing, Jake. Ring the damn bell already.”
    “That’s some car, huh.” Jake pointed toward the garage with his head.
    “Gotta special-order those.” Dickie stared at the red Ferrari. It was parked in front of the garage. They admired the car. But wondered why it wasn’t in the garage. Expensive car like that just sitting out in the elements.
    “Get a load of that, Dickie.”
    “What?”
    “You see the way the worker cleans out those gutters?” The guy was about twenty yards away, standing on a ladder, spraying the gutters with a power-washer. He wore dark blue khakis, a white shirt, his name, Manuel, embroidered in cursive on the front pocket. When he noticed Jake staring, he stopped, winked, then went back to work.
    Why was Jake so concerned with such trivial matters when they were here to tell Lisa Marie’s parents their baby girl was not missing, as the Taylors had been led to believe, but dismembered? The Taylor family was on the opposite side of the door going about a normal day, thinking their daughter had simply run away again. In a few seconds their lives would never be the same.
    “Hey, we leave out the details, got it?” Jake said. “A dead child is a dead child. The path to that end meaningless right now.” They were in search of information, Jake implied. Less the Taylors knew at this point, the better.
    “And why is it,” Dickie asked, “two hotshot detectives such as ourselves are out here telling these good people about their kid? Why not send a few blues last night?”
    Telling Lisa Marie’s affluent parents their daughter had been murdered was not something Jake had wanted to do himself. But reaction was everything. If the Taylors knew—or had dealings with someone who could have swiped the girl—it would show on their faces. Jake knew people hid things. Sometimes out of guilt. Other times because they didn’t know better. Wealthy people had a lot to protect.
    “The element of surprise, Dick.