The Advocate’s Reflection

Chapter 1

Tuesday morning

JP Torn was oiling his favorite pair of leather boots when his cell phone buzzed. He frowned at the interruption, then recognized the name, Vinny DuBois, as it flashed on the screen.

“McCloud,” a gruff voice barked before JP could say hello. Only his old friend, Detective DuBois, called him by that nickname. “I need you downtown. Now.”

The terse clip of words set off alarm bells for JP. “Vinny?” JP’s confusion was quickly replaced by concern as he straightened up, the boots forgotten. “What’s happened?”

“Can’t talk over the phone,” Vinny said. “Is Sabre with you?”

“She just left for court, with a big trial starting today. Tell me what’s going on.”

“You have to see this. Just get here, and fast.” Vinny gave him the address, then hung up.

The detective’s urgency made JP’s heart thump against his ribcage, a sense of dread creeping into his gut. The call had been brief, but Vinny’s tone spoke volumes. Something was wrong—terribly wrong.

JP grabbed his black Stetson off the hook by the door and settled it atop his head.

“Uncle Johnny?” Morgan’s voice floated from the hallway, tinged with the curiosity that only a ten-year-old could muster at the prospect of a sudden disruption.

“It’s okay, Munchkin. I’ve just got to handle some grown-up stuff.” He forced a reassuring smile, although using his niece’s nickname didn’t have its usual ability to lighten his mood.

“Am I walking to school by myself?”

“No. Conner will take you.” JP turned and called out to his nephew, who was in the kitchen eating cereal. “Can you see that Morgan gets to school? I’ve gotta step out.”

“Got it, Uncle Johnny,” came the muffled response from a mouth full of food.

“Be careful,” Morgan said.

“Always am.” JP snatched his truck keys from the bowl by the door, the jangle sounding unusually loud.

“And don’t forget, Dad is coming home from the hospital today.”

“I’ll be back in time to get him,” JP said. “See you after school.”

With one last glance at the peaceful home he’d built with Sabre, JP stepped outside, the bright San Diego sun doing little to ease the chill that had settled over him. His brother had been badly hurt in the earthquake and prison riot. They had all agreed that Gene could stay with them until he mended. JP wasn’t certain it was the right decision. Gene had been making poor choices all his life, so his promise to go straight was difficult to swallow.

JP’s mind returned to Vinny’s problem, racing faster than his truck could carry him, turning over possibilities like cards in a high-stakes poker game.

“Whatever you’ve gotten into this time, Vinny,” JP muttered to himself, “it better be good.”

Twenty minutes later, JP rumbled to a stop near the corner of Third Ave and J. He killed the engine and sat for a moment, surveying the chaos with a practiced eye. The alley was a hive of activity, with patrol cars parked haphazardly, their red and blue lights strobing against the foggy sky. JP stepped out of his truck, the vibrant crime-scene tape snapping in the cool breeze.

“McCloud.” A voice cut through the din, and DuBois emerged from the crowd, notebook in hand, his grizzled features softened by a wry smile. Despite the grim backdrop, his eyes twinkled with the same mischievous spark JP remembered from their days pounding the beat. But he had a strained expression this time.

“Vinny,” JP greeted him, tipping his hat back slightly.

“I’m glad you’re here, JP. Before you look, you need to brace yourself.”

This was serious. His friend never called him JP. “Now you’re making me nervous. Just tell me what it is.”

“Come with me.”

As they navigated the labyrinth of cruisers and crime-scene tape, the clatter of camera shutters and the low murmur of hushed conversations filled the air.

With each step closer to the heart of the scene, JP felt an odd sensation curling in his gut—a mix of professional anticipation and a personal dread that didn’t quite make sense yet.

“Right over here,” DuBois said, his voice low as they approached a covered form on the ground. JP moved toward the body. The closer he got, the sharper the chill slicing down his spine.

He turned to DuBois. “Is it someone I know?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Pull the sheet back.” JP’s voice was steady, despite the turmoil brewing inside him.

DuBois obliged, peeling the fabric away, revealing the victim. JP’s eyes locked onto the figure lying motionless before him. A jolt of recognition surged through his veins and seized his breath.

“Damn.” JP exhaled, the word slipping out like a prayer or a curse. It might as well have been both. The victim wore a blouse eerily similar to one he’d seen Sabre wear countless times, a favorite teal color that complemented her brown hair. The skirt, the cut, even the little scuff marks on the heels of the shoes—it was like staring at a twisted reflection of Sabre herself, right down to her favorite Jerry Garcia tie.

“JP?” DuBois’ voice prodded gently, laced with concern.

“It looks like her,” JP muttered, his drawl thickening with emotion. “But it’s not.” The relief was instantaneous but fleeting. He crouched beside the body, taking in the victim’s features. The woman’s face, although bearing a resemblance, was not the one that greeted him every morning across the breakfast table. Yet, the clothes she wore were familiar enough to leave a lingering unease. And her wig was Sabre’s color and hairstyle.

She was laid out deliberately—not slumped, not dumped, but arranged. The woman lay on her back atop a folded, neatly pressed piece of cardboard, like it had been placed there to protect her from the grime. Her arms rested at her sides, her legs straight, ankles crossed. A small, cheap bouquet of grocery store daisies had been set just above her hands. Almost reverently.

“There are no visible wounds, no sign of struggle, fingernails clean,” DuBois said. “Her makeup is subtle but precise, foundation smoothed carefully, and her mascara is intact. A perfectionist has done this, and it’s no coincidence.”

JP knew it wasn’t. “Not likely, since she’s wearing the same clothes Sabre had on when she left for work this morning.”

“Her eyes are closed with a light trace of clear adhesive along the lashes, keeping them shut,” DuBois said.

“Who found her?” JP asked.

“A delivery guy from the bakery. He came to drop bread off next door. He said she looked ‘too peaceful to be alive.’ He called it in without touching anything.”

“Someone is playing a sick game.”

“But the body has been here about five hours. How could they possibly know what Sabre was going to wear today?” DuBois looked at the victim again and shook his head, as if maybe he had made a mistake. “It’s definitely not Sabre.”

“No.” JP stood, feeling a strange kinship with the deceased. Whoever she was, this woman deserved justice, and JP felt a surge of determination to ensure she got it. If someone was targeting women who looked like Sabre, the stakes had risen to an unbearable height. “Sabre started a big trial today. She always wears her black suit and teal blouse the first day of a tough trial.”

“Then it has to be someone who knows that.”

“You’re right,” JP said. He took another look at the body. “It’s a dang altar.”

DuBois didn’t respond. Just nodded once.

JP’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I swear to God, if you come for her…” He couldn’t even finish the sentence, but he didn’t need to. Because if the killer was after Sabre—they were going to have to go through him first.

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