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)
“None on the side door either, which probably indicates that’s how he got in and out.” He flashes that charming smile, probably thinking of all the times we did this same dance at a crime scene and answers a question before I even ask it.
And that pisses me off.
Jay takes a step closer. “What makes you say that, Robinson?”
“Because everything got wiped clean. We’re getting the wife’s prints and DNA to rule her out, but Vera is one of the best agents on fingerprints, and she can’t find anything.” Nate turns his gaze back to me, a little softer and more patient. “There’s also a substance on the forehead and the chest. Could be the perps, but I won’t know until we get it back to the lab.”
“Really? That’s new.” Maybe this killer isn’t the same guy. First time he’s left biologicals behind.
“Who knows?” Jay scribbles on his notepad. “Usually, he dumps the bodies in public places, so for all we know, he’s been blowing his load all over the crime scenes.”
“Good point.” I turn back to Nate. “Rush results on those fluids?”
“Yeah, when I get done here. But it doesn’t look like semen. I’d be surprised if it is.”
“Okay.” This is too weird. But it might be a lead. “It’s too messy, disorganized. Not his style.”
“The scene?”
“Everything. The scene, biologicals, the mess.” It gnaws at me. Now, I’m second guessing if this is the same killer, or just another murder on the books?
Maybe I’m just upset that I haven’t heard from the gorgeous billionaire who rocked my world since he sent me flowers, my sarcastic subconscious adds. Truth is his absence nags at me. I haven’t heard from him since the flowers a few days ago.
Why did I call him? I’m sure the stupid voice mail I left made me seem like a fan girl, not a grown woman.
I berate myself again. A quick, no-strings night, I tell myself, and then I reach out. Foolish. The ideal one-night stand is satisfaction without strings. The mildly hurt, pissed off woman in me says fuck him and the horse he rode in on because I have enough on my plate with a serial killer along with all the other crimes that take place every day. I don’t need to focus on Damien or his motives.
But, it still kinda hurts.
I shake those thoughts free and let out a cleansing breath. The only man I’m interested in right now is the one leaving all these bodies around my city.
“Hey, Frankie, are you all right?” Nate reaches out to grip my shoulder.
“Fine,” I snap, unnecessarily. “Just thinking about a few things,” I add, softening my earlier tone. “Thanks for rushing those fluids.”
I walk away, grounding myself in the task at hand—not the handsome billionaire.
My thoughts shift back to Nolan Petrovic.
The psycho disemboweled this man in his own home. His story demands my full attention.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Frankie
“It’s a bust on Petrovic,” I growl, pushing my chair back hard enough to almost tip it over. I feel the tension in my neck spasm as I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the tightness settling in. “These guys are like fucking ghosts. There has to be a connection.” There’s always one—some thread that weaves their lives together, even if it’s as mundane as a shared gym membership or the fact that they’re all cheating on their spouses.
Jay slams his pencil down, the sound echoing through the cluttered office. It’s the telltale sign that he’s reached his limit, too. “Yeah, I was hoping for more on those biologicals left on his forehead. Vitreous fluid,” he mutters, shaking his head. “This guy’s a monster.”
“Tell me about it,” I reply, the words coming out sharper than intended. “Squashing someone’s eyeballs is peak demented. How far gone do you have to be?”
Jay exhales, a weary sound filled with disgust. “Maybe he’s only hunting men? Just an opportunistic killer like Gacy, picking off what’s available.”
“Yeah, but Gacy still targeted young boys. This guy? He’s all over the place—different ages, different backgrounds—just a bunch of men.”
“Then that’s your answer,” he says, frustration creeping into his voice. “Maybe he’s just a scrawny loser wishing he could be strong and virile like these guys. They’re fit and attractive enough, right?”
I stare at the wall, my mind racing. It’s easy to throw theory after theory, but it all feels like grasping at straws in the dark. This isn’t just about profiling; it’s about stopping a monster before he claims another life.
It’s a good point, and I nod my agreement at Jay’s explanation, but it doesn’t feel right. As a detective, I rely on the evidence to make arrests and ultimately get convictions, but to get there, I rely heavily on my gut. Any cop who denies that is lying—or a terrible cop.
“You don’t like it.”
“No, I don’t. The crime is too violent, too personal. He knows these men, or they’re proxies for who he really wants to kill.” It’s the only thing that fits.