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The familiar roads of Hayeston quickly approached and fed off into the various sections of town. The industrial park was two miles to the right. The school and hospital three and a half miles to the left. The police station, city hall and county court were seven miles to the south.

Main Street was directly ahead, less than a mile away, where Rocco’s Italian Restaurante was located. The restaurant had been around as long as Damien could remember and was a mainstay of local cuisine. Known for their outstanding meatballs, calzones, and pizza, they had outlasted the few national chains that had tried and failed to make a go of it in town.

Rocco’s menu was cheap, it’s interior, classy, and it’s lighting, dim. It was the home of nearly everyone’s first date, which made Mark’s claim as easy to fake as it was to be legitimate.

Sanders was slowly joining the living. The lost gaze had become focused and his posture in the car seat had straightened.

Tobin was right about his father. Once he had caught the scent of an investigation, he had to see it to the end, no matter the cost. His career was littered with the carcasses of broken trust, lost friends and a family that abandoned him. All except his son, the one who thought the best way to honor his father was to become a serial killer.

When Damien first met Sanders, he wanted him to suffer as Ted’s father had suffered. Now, he couldn’t imagine a more devastating way to pay for the sins of his past than with his son’s murders and suicide.

Sometimes, when the scales of justice swung, it left bodies in its path.

Ted was waiting outside the restaurant, dressed in his cadet light blue polo, dark blue pants and wearing his holster, gun, taser and cuffs. He recognized Damien behind the wheel of Sanders’ car and approached them as they parked.

Damien rolled down the window.

Ted glanced at Sanders, but kept his focus on Damien. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“Following a lead,” Damien said.

Sanders eyed Ted, then leaned down and spoke to him through Damien’s open window.

“Do I know you?” Sanders asked. “You look familiar.”

“No,” Ted said, the word layered in condemnation.

“You’re probably thinking of Ted’s father,” Damien said. “You falsely arrested him, kept him from calling a lawyer, wouldn’t let him sleep and denied him his civil rights, then freed him when the real killer was caught.”

“Sherman?” Sanders asked. “Your father’s Terry Sherman.”

“He was.”

“I remember him.”

“And he remembered you,” Ted said.

Sanders looked away and unbuckled his seat belt.

“I’d say I’m sorry, but you wouldn’t believe me,” Sanders said.

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“Then what’s the point?”

The old detective grunted as he exited and tapped the roof of his car.

“Let’s go, Hill,” he said. “We’ve got a girl to save.”

Damien and Ted shared a glance, but Damien couldn’t meet his friend’s exasperation this time. Not after all he’d experienced with Sanders. It didn’t matter how much of his pain was his own doing. Sanders’ world had become a steaming pile of refuse and Damien couldn’t add to his misery. Even those unworthy of forgiveness deserved a respite every once in a while.

Damien followed Sanders into the restaurant and Ted followed behind them.

“Why are we looking for Charity in Rocco’s?” Ted asked.

“It’s a lead,” Damien said. “The only one we have right now.”

“A lead? From who?”

“Sanders’ son. The serial killer.”

Ted stopped in his tracks, tugging Damien’s shirt. “The what?”

“It’s a Shakespearean tragedy,” Damien said. “I’ll explain it later. Right now, we have to go where the evidence takes us.”

Inside the restaurant, the walls were covered with textured stucco painted a dark tan and stained to look old world. Every doorway was arched and dark red tablecloths covered the square and round tables. It was in between lunch and dinner and most of the restaurant was empty. The alluring scents of freshly chopped garlic and tomato sauce filled the air, reminding Damien how long it had been since he last ate.

“This is the police,” Sanders shouted. “Where the hell is the manager?”

From the kitchen, a young man in his late teens rushed out, dressed in a black pants and suit vest with a white shirt, Rocco’s uniform.

“Hello?” the young man said. “I’m Sergio. How may I help you?”

“Serg, you keeping dead bodies around here?” Sanders asked.

“What? No. Dead bodies? Who died?” “We need to search the premises.”

“Well, I think I’ll need to speak with my manager-” “Tell him we said hi. Now get your numb nuts out of our way.”

“Don’t you need a warrant?” Sergio asked.

“Probably,” Sanders said and headed toward the kitchen.

“Hey, you can’t go back there. We’re prepping for the dinner rush.”

Sanders was gruff and loathsome at times, but he knew how to generate a response. It was something Damien would have to remember. The bigger the scene, the greater the reaction. A shortcut to get a read on whether someone was lying or not.

Sergio was nervous, but not a threat. He appeared more worried about his job than hiding a terrified blonde girl. They didn’t have time for pleasantries and Sanders knew how to cut to the chase better than anyone Damien had met.

They followed Sanders through the kitchen and past the confused staff.

“I think they’d know if a missing girl was being held behind the cans of tomatoes,” Ted said.

“Excuse me!” Sergio said. “We would never use canned tomatoes.”

“Some of these old building have tunnels,” Sanders said. “Not sure if they were for helping runaway slaves or moving contraband during Prohibition. Could’ve been one, then the other. Either way, they’d be a perfect place to hide a body.”

“You think Charity’s dead?” Damien asked.

“I always assume the worst. Most times, I’m right.”

Damien could hear Sanders’ wheezing with each breath and noticed him weave as he walked. He hadn’t met anyone dying of cancer before, but Damien assumed they would look a lot worse than Sanders. If he was terminal, it appeared he was closer to his diagnosis than his death. Then again, the old detective was a fighter. No doubt he’d be sparring with the dark angel until the very end.

Beyond the stainless steel grills, deep pots with simmering sauces and empty hot friers was a doorway into a short hall which lead into the restaurant store room.

Inside were metal shelves stacked with cans and dry goods. The room itself was rather large, the original walls of brick untouched by the stucco that covered the rest of the interior. Sanders disappeared down one aisle and Ted the next. Damien walked to the back of the store room. There was no place to hide anyone and no portions of the wall exposed an entry into an old tunnel system.

“Nothing,” Damien said. “We’re wasting our time.”

Sanders peered around the shelving unit. “You sure this was where your parents had their first date?”

“Yes.”

“Are you positive?”

“Yes. That’s what my mother told us. She’d act out the story like it was one of her romance novels, with my father as the handsome young stranger and my mother, the naive, but attractive ingenue. It was always the same. The dance, the dinner, the dating, the proposal and the marriage. It never changed.”

“What if she spun that tale the way she wanted it to have happened? A Prince Charming coming to her rescue. You know, fairy tales didn’t always have happy endings. They were originally horror stories used to scare children in order to keep them from making bad decisions. Maybe behind your mother’s romantic escapades with your father hides a truth she’s been keeping from her sons.”

Damien felt tension rise up his shoulders and into his neck. His parent’s courtship was the lone light in a dark life. Taking that story away from this childhood would leave him with nothing but emptiness.

“Ted and I will keep looking here,” Sanders continued. “Why don’t you go talk to your mother and find out if she kept anything out of her story.”

“That’s not as easy as you think,” Damien said.

“Easy or not, make it happen.”

“You don’t understand. My mother’s in a nursing home with dementia. She doesn’t even know who I am.”

“Doesn’t matter, Hill. Find a way to tap into her memories and uncover the truth or Charity is dead.”