Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 47187 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 189(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47187 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 189(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
I snort, shoving my notebook back into my jacket pocket. Sleep is a luxury I can’t afford, not with a twisted psychopath leaving a trail of bodies across my city. But I appreciate the sentiment.
“I’ll sleep when I’m dead, Doc. Or when this freak is behind bars. Whichever comes first.”
The doors swing open with a resounding thud and Jay saunters in, looking more haggard than he did in the middle of the night. The shit-eating grin plastered on his face tells me he deliberately arrived late to dodge the gory details of the autopsy. Typical.
“Did you decide to sleep in on your first day in homicide, old man?” I jab, arching an eyebrow at him.
Jay’s eyes narrow into slits. “Watch it, kid. I’ll show you old man.” He raises a fist like a cartoon character itching for a fight. “So, what did I miss while you were playing teacher’s pet with the doc?”
I give him the Cliffs Notes version of my chat with the doctor as we exit the morgue. “You still not convinced it’s the same psycho behind all this?”
“I never said I didn’t think it was the same guy,” Jay says. “I’m just not ready to bet the farm on it being a solo act like you are. But the glue? That’s another check in the Frankie’s right again column.” He strokes his stubbled chin, pondering over my theory.
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that you were right about the M.O. being the same even with the kill method isn’t.”
“So, you’re on board?” Jay is a damn fine detective with one of the highest close rates in the department, which is why it’s so important to have him on my side.
“But I’m also thinking that this could still be the work of two killers. We need to at least consider it while we figure out what makes him—or them—tick.”
“I’m driving,” I growl, annoyed that he’s still doubting me. We’ve been partners for enough years that he should trust my instincts the way I trust his.
Jay simply shrugs before folding his tall frame into the passenger seat. “Where are we going?”
I smile as I pull out into traffic. “We have a dick to find.” Heading toward the crime scene, my mind is on the killer and his victims. “What do you think makes a guy like this tick?”
“Fucked in the head would be my guess,” Jay answers easily. He’s a black and white kind of guy when it comes to the psychological stuff, and while he relies it on to find his killer, he doesn’t care for it all that much.
I sigh. “I’m serious, Jay. This feels like a vendetta.”
“Maybe, but we can’t say that if we can’t link the crimes, DeMarco.” He sighs and turns to me. “Look, I’m not doubting you, Frankie. I’m just saying that we need more. Find a link between the victims and the crimes and I’m on board. I’ll be the first to let the city know we have a serial killer on the loose.”
“I hear you, Jay. But my gut is screaming at me that this is one sick son-of-a-bitch with a twisted agenda. The staging, the signatures…it’s too goddamn specific to be a coincidence.”
I take a sharp turn, tires screeching against the asphalt and park. “I’ve been doing this job long enough to know when something doesn’t smell right. And this case? It reeks like a dumpster full of day-old fish.”
Jay holds up his hands in mock surrender. “All right, all right. I’m not saying you’re wrong, Frankie. Hell, you’ve got the best instincts in the department. I’m just playing devil’s advocate here.”
I take a deep breath, reminding myself that Jay’s always been on my side. He’s had my back from the start. “I know, Jay. I really do appreciate it. But we’re up against a grade-A psychopath here. The kind that gets off on playing God and watching us scramble like ants.”
I step out of the car, my eyes sweeping the park. Crime scene tape still flutters in the breeze, and the uniforms keep the onlookers at bay.
“We’ll find the link, Jay. And when we do, I swear, I’m gonna be the one to slap the cuffs on this bastard and watch him rot in a cell for the rest of his miserable life.”
I mentally run through the case details again, searching for that elusive thread connecting these victims. All men, all seemingly healthy. Late 20s to early 30s. All in L.A., though in different neighborhoods and social circles. Nothing obvious tying them together.
“He’s smart, Jay. Meticulous. This has been in the works for a while,” I say, scanning the busy street. My eyes flick from face to face—couples lost in their own worlds, a jogger bouncing on his toes at the crosswalk, the usual scene. “But everyone slips up, eventually. And when he does, we’ll nail the son of a bitch.”