Page 21 of The Birthday Girl

V ega's fingers had gone numb ten minutes ago, but he kept them jammed in his pockets anyway, shoulders hunched against the chill that would linger in his marrow until his third scotch later that night.

Above them, a fluorescent tube flickered, casting Dr. Patel's face in a sickly hue as he peeled latex gloves from his wrists and dropped a manila folder onto the steel table between them.

“Three victims. Time of death is between twenty-four and thirty hours before discovery,” he said.

“Female first. Mercedes Johnson, thirty-three. The primary cause of death is blunt force trauma to the skull. Linear and depressed fractures across the parietal region. She died within minutes of impact.”

Vega glanced down at the photo.

“The chest opening and removal of organs were postmortem,” Patel continued.

“Clean midline incision, deliberate sternal spread, viscera removed and displayed. The cash was stuffed postmortem into the orbits, nasal passages, and oral cavity. There is thread residue and uniform knotting across the thoracic sutures. Someone took their time.”

Vega shook his head in disbelief. “And the men?”

“Male number one is Jimmy Johson. AFIS hit within the hour.” Patel slid the next photo free.

“Multiple deep incised wounds to the anterior neck. The pattern shows repeated slicing with a short, notched edge. He aspirated blood. The ligature furrow is present but shallow, with minimal petechiae. He was hung after he was already dying.”

Vega wrote that down without looking at the page.

“Male number two is still a John Doe,” Patel said.

“No prints in the system yet. The cause of death is a penetrating wound at the junction of the skull and cervical spine. The entry point is behind the right ear. The blade entered the foramen magnum and became twisted. There is catastrophic cord transection. He also presents with perimortem dislocation of the left shoulder and a separate penetrating injury through the supraclavicular fossa consistent with joint separation. The broken maxillary incisor is perimortem, consistent with facial compression to the floor.”

Vega let out a slow breath. “Three methods. Same hands.”

“It reads that way,” Patel said. “One weapon type for the woman’s postmortem work. A short, damaged edge for the throat. A narrow, rigid blade for the spinal entry. Whoever did this understands anatomy well enough to be efficient when they want to be.”

“IDs to next of kin.”

“Mercedes is confirmed, and Jimmy is confirmed by prints and by familial association. John Doe is pending.”

Vega closed the folder and glanced at Patel. “I’ll ride with the notification team,” he said. “Then I’ll come back for the rest.”

Patel gave a short nod. “I should have ID on the John Doe, the tox panels, and toolmark impressions to you as soon as they are ready.”

“Thanks, Patel,” Vega replied and turned for the door.

By the time Vega’s sedan rolled up to the narrow duplex on Keating Street, the sky had turned a bruised purple, streetlights flickering awake one by one. A patrol car was already parked out front, and two uniforms stood stiff on the curb.

“You ready, Detective?” one asked, though his tone carried none of the confidence the words required.

“No,” Vega replied flatly as he buttoned his coat.

Of all the duties his badge demanded, Vega hated this one the most. Crime scenes were brutal, but they were evidence.

They could be measured, photographed, and logged.

Even death on a slab was something he could catalog and control.

However, knocking on a door and watching a mother’s world collapse in real time, that was the part that gutted him.

There was no procedure for grief, and no chain of custody for a broken heart. He could only stand there, bearing witness, and each time it took a piece of him that he knew he would never get back.

“But let’s do it anyway, boys,” Vega added and started up the path.

The porch light snapped on before they could knock.

The door creaked open three inches, then wider, revealing a woman with silver-streaked hair pulled back in a loose bun.

Her fingers twisted a damp dish towel into a rope as she scanned their faces.

Her gaze stopped at Vega's chest, where his badge caught the yellow porch light.

“What’s this about?” Her pupils contracted to pinpoints, and the thin skin around her mouth went slack as her eyes bounced from officer to officer.

Her words cracked midstream, and her shoulders sagged as if someone had cut invisible strings.

She swayed slightly, one hand rising to her throat, fingers splayed against her collarbone where a pulse visibly hammered beneath thin skin.

She knew, like most mothers did, that a visit from them didn’t come with good news.

“Mrs. Johnson,” Vega began, his voice low and filled with empathy, “I’m Detective Marcus Vega with Dallas PD. I need to speak with you inside.”

She staggered back a step, her heart racing faster than a champion steed at the Kentucky Derby. “No. Tell me here. Just tell me—”

The younger officer's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, his eyes darting to Vega like a rookie quarterback seeking direction from the sidelines.

Vega inhaled through his nose, held it for three seconds, the same count he used before pulling a trigger, then squared his shoulders to the threshold where the woman trembled.

“Mrs. Johnson, there's no easy way to say this. We found Mercedes and Jimmy early this morning, and I regret to inform you that they're deceased.”

The towel hit the floor, and her hands flew to her mouth, a muffled wail bursting out as she folded into herself. A man appeared behind her, graying and weary, eyes red-rimmed like he hadn’t slept in weeks. He caught her before she hit the floor, his gaze darting between the detectives.

“No!!! You got it wrong! Those aren’t my kids! You’re wrong!” The woman howled.

Vega forced himself to hold the father’s stare. “Their identities have been confirmed. I wish I could tell you otherwise.”

The mother's nails caught on her husband's shirt buttons as she crumpled against him, each sob punching through the hallway with physical force.

Vega's throat tightened, acid rising from his stomach.

He locked his knees to keep from swaying, bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper, and kept his face as smooth and cold as the morgue tables he'd left behind.

When the sobbing dulled to tremors, Vega cleared his throat.

“Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, I wish I could give you time to grieve, but every hour matters now.

Not right at this minute, but soon, I'll need to know who Mercedes and Jimmy saw regularly. Their routines. Anyone who might have...” He paused, watching the father's hand tighten on his wife's shoulder.

“We want whoever did this caught before sundown tomorrow.”

Vega shifted his weight, his voice low but direct as he addressed the parents again. “Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, I need you to look at a photograph.”

He pulled a still from the folder Patel had given him and laid it flat against the doorframe, careful to keep the worst of the gore out of view. “This man was found with your children. Do you recognize him?”

The father squinted, leaning closer. His brows drew tight, then his lips thinned. “That’s Tremaine. Tremaine Washington. He moved in with Mercedes a few months ago.”

Vega made a note, his pen biting into the page. “Boyfriend?”

The father gave a reluctant nod. “Yes.”

“Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt them?”

Before either parent could respond, the rattle of tires on gravel drew Vega’s attention behind him. A white sedan pulled up at the curb, headlights cutting across the porch. A few moments later, a young woman climbed out, balancing a car seat on her arm.

Danielle.

Vega didn’t know her name yet, but he recognized her body language immediately: the quick stride, the weary posture of someone who dropped children off here often.

She adjusted the child’s carrier and mounted the steps, smiling faintly until she saw the uniforms, the badges, and the mother collapsed in her husband’s arms. Her smile vanished.

“Hey, Mrs. Johnson,” Danielle sang, her tone weary. “What’s going on?”

Mrs. Johnson raised her head to look at her, her eyes bloodshot, lips trembling. “Mercedes… Jimmy…” The words broke apart in her throat.

Danielle froze. “No,” she whispered. Her knees buckled, and she staggered into the doorframe, steadying herself with one hand. “Not Cedes. Not Jimmy.”

Vega stepped closer, his gaze narrowing. “Who are you?”

“Danielle Banks.” The words barely made it over her tongue. “Mercedes and I are best friends.”

“So, it’s safe to say you know her well?”

Danielle swallowed hard, her eyes darting between the parents and the detective. “She was my family. Mercedes was my girl.” Her voice cracked. “Jimmy looked out for me. For my baby. They didn’t deserve this.”

Her grief was raw, but there was something else behind her eyes that captured Vega’s attention. He’d seen that look too many times before.

“Did you see them last night?” Vega pressed.

Danielle shook her head quickly. “No. Not last night.”

“But you saw them recently.”

“Yes,” she replied, her eyes darting from the Johnsons to Vega.

Vega caught it, that flicker of panic, and he cut in before she could bury it. “What aren’t you saying? Speak plainly.”

“Tremaine was always with her. If Mercedes was making moves, he was in it too.”

Vega’s head snapped toward her. “What kind of moves would those two be making?”

Danielle hesitated, her eyes darting between Vega and the grieving mother. “I shouldn’t—”

“Yes, you should,” Vega cut her off. “If the information you have can get us closer to whoever killed them, you should tell me everything.”

Danielle exhaled shakily. “Mercedes caught my sister on video, smashing a champagne bottle against Tyriq Lawson’s skull.”

“Who is your sister?”

“Tahlia Banks, you know, the real estate billionaire?”

Vega nodded. “I’ve heard of her. What does she have to do with Mercedes?”

“Last time I saw Mercedes, she couldn't stop flashing her phone around, saying The Tea Room was buying her video. Thirty seconds of Tahlia Banks losing control was worth more than anything Mercedes had ever touched."

Vega’s pen stopped mid-stroke. “And you’re certain she sold it?”

“Yes,” Danielle whispered. “But I don’t believe the deal with The Tea Room went through. She told me someone from my sister’s team got to her first, and they paid her even more than what The Tea Room offered.”

Vega flipped to a fresh page in his notebook, the paper crisp beneath his fingertips. The Johnsons' grief was genuine. No parent could fake that kind of devastation. But this new detail about Tahlia Banks and the incriminating footage changed everything about his mental timeline of events.

There were two options, Vega thought: Tahlia had paid them to bury it, or someone else paid to keep it from the light. Either way, it gave motive and means. Now Mercedes, Jimmy, and Tremaine were corpses at the center of a story that someone, maybe Tahlia, maybe not, desperately wanted erased.

Danielle rocked the baby carrier at her feet, almost absentminded, and tried to swallow her grief so she could be helpful. “She called me after she left Jimmy’s place a few days ago,” she said. “Said she was scared because someone followed her home.”

“Describe,” Vega said.

“She said it was an SUV, black. Texas plates. No one she’d ever seen before. She cut through a gas station, trying to lose it. After that, she stayed at home with Tremaine. Wouldn’t even open the door for her own mother unless it was FaceTime.”

Vega jotted that down. “The black SUV, how long had Mercedes been seeing it?”

Danielle squeezed her thumb around the car seat handle, her little baby dead to the world, and gave it a little shake. “Just the once. She called me right after it happened, maybe ten that night. I have the text.”

Vega’s pen hovered midair. “Show me.”

Danielle blinked. “Now?”

“Now,” Vega said, harsher than before.

Her eyes darted to the left before meeting his, a flash of calculation replacing the tears that had been there moments before.

Something in her expression hardened, then smoothed over too quickly, like a card player who'd glimpsed her winning hand. Vega had seen people like Danielle too many times before. She’d dropped Tahlia’s name too easily, almost as if she wanted him to have it, and that made him wonder why she was throwing her under the bus.

Either way, it reeked of disloyalty and connivance.

Danielle fumbled for her phone, her hands trembling so hard that the screen tilted in and out of focus. Vega watched every second of her struggle, his eyes narrowing as he kept his pen unmoving.

“Give me a moment. It’s in my messages, I swear—”

Vega’s pen hovered, but his eyes stayed on her, not the page. “You gave me your sister’s name awfully fast, Danielle. Why?”

Her throat bobbed. “Because it’s the truth. Mercedes told me—”

“Maybe she did,” Vega cut in, voice sharp enough to strip her words bare. “Or maybe you just don’t mind pointing the finger at someone else to keep it off yourself. People don’t usually burn family unless they’re hiding something worse.”

Danielle’s lips parted, then snapped shut again. She looked down at the car seat, stroking the handle with her thumb like she could rub an answer out of the plastic.

Vega stepped closer, dropping his voice to that dangerous calm he saved for suspects on the edge. “So let me ask again, why your sister? Why not anybody else? You’d better think hard before you answer, because once you put her in this, there’s no pulling her out.”

Danielle’s lips trembled. “I-I just thought you should know.”

Vega snapped his notebook shut, the sound ricocheting off the narrow porch. Both parents flinched, and Danielle did too, clutching the carrier handle so tight it might break.

Vega snapped his notebook shut, the sound cracking against the porch. “You’ll bring me those texts by morning,” he said, eyes locked on hers. “If you don’t, I’ll come find you. And when I do, Danielle, I won’t be nice.”

She nodded nervously but said nothing.

Vega slid the notebook back into his coat and turned for the steps, coat flaring in the night wind. Behind him, the Johnsons’ grief filled the silence, and Danielle stood in the doorway, trembling with her phone pressed to her chest, her sister’s name now hanging in the air like a loaded weapon.