Copycat Killer

by Hermione Stark

  His eyes narrow. “Did you see the killer?” he asks.

  I shake my head.

  “What useful information can you give me?” he says.

  I fiddle with my fingers on my lap, stalling. I need to choose my next words carefully. They will determine whether he gives me my job back or not. “I saw a man with brown hair in his thirties being bashed in the back of his skull with a cat sculpture. I saw the woman, Lynesse Jones, standing at the top of the stairs screaming. But it’s not about what I already saw. It’s about what more I can see if you let me investigate–”

  His phone rings, interrupting me.

  He answers straight away and barks a greeting. He listens intently to whoever is speaking on the other end. I cannot hear the words but the cadence of the caller’s voice is immediately familiar. It is Storm. My heart skips a beat.

  “Keep me updated,” says Chief Santagar and hangs up the phone.

  He turns to me. “What work have you been doing these past couple of years?”

  “Nothing relevant,” I say shortly.

  “Have you pursued any training to refine your psychic skills?”

  “No,” I admit, feeling embarrassed.

  He frowns. “Have you sought any psychiatric help following your experiences at Wintersdeep Castle?”

  “I don’t want to talk about that,” I say tersely.

  He sighs. “It would benefit you to take steps to process the grief from your mother’s death—”

  “I’ve processed my grief!” I cry out.

  He gives me a stern look, and continues, “If you truly want to work for the Agency I recommend that you train to become a registered Oracle and spend some time learning to work with your gift. Come back to me in a few years.”

  He leaves it unsaid that this is what I should have been doing with my time these past couple of years. It does not make me feel better.

  “I don’t have years!” I snap. “This Agency hasn’t caught DCK in years. I don’t want to read in the newspapers about dozens more of his murders. He needs to be caught now.”

  “And you think you alone can do what the entire international Agency of Otherkind Investigations hasn’t yet been able to achieve?” he says tartly.

  “Yes!” I snap, sounding more confident than I truly feel.

  He gets to his feet abruptly and goes over to his office door. “If you’ve got no new information, then you’re wasting my time. My secretary will show you out.”

  “Please!” I say softly, hating how weak I sound, knowing the little voice will berate me for it later.

  He shakes his head.

  Challenge him, says the little voice. Ask him what he’ll give you if we solve the case faster than his people.

  He’s not stupid, I tell her.

  But he’s a man. And men’s egos are so fragile. I bet he’ll offer a reward. Let him underestimate us.

  I listen to her out of desperation. “I could just go ahead and start investigating without you,” I tell him.

  “I wouldn’t recommend that,” he says sternly.

  “And what if I can solve this case faster than the Agency, will you admit you’re wrong?” I demand.

  He laughs. It is not a mean sound. More like he is appreciating my nerve.

  “Even you have to admit that I would deserve my job back if I could do that,” I persist.

  “Perhaps,” he says. A small smile quirks the corners of his lips. “I’d like to see anyone outwit Constantine Storm.”

  I stand up from my chair, elated, ready to dash out and begin right away.

  He holds up his hand to halt me. “You are not to interfere with the crime scene or witnesses or do anything illegal.”

  I scowl at him, refusing to agree. I won’t make any progress at all under those terms.

  “If you do,” he continues, “I will hold you accountable for your actions. You will be locked up, young lady, and I don’t want to see that happen.”

  “Neither do I,” I acknowledge. “But if I’m successful you’ll give me a consultancy fee for solving the case and let me have my job back.”

  He sits back down on his desk and he steeples his fingers and places them under his chin thoughtfully. After what seems like a long time a little smile comes onto his face.

  “Very well,” he says. “Proceed.”

  Chapter 7

  STORM

  By the time he gets off the plane in London, Storm’s blood is boiling. He hates the idleness of travel. He hates that the jet is in use by another team in Europe, and that his team had to fly on a commercial plane that had been delayed by an hour. He hates that he has been feeling riled up ever since Magda’s funeral.

  Seeing Diana had brought back the anger and frustration he had felt two years ago. DCK had murdered a woman at Wintersdeep Castle right under Storm’s own nose and gotten away with it. Two years they had kept Magda’s body before the Mystics department had admitted defeat.

  That case had been personal. That victim had been Diana Bellona’s mother. Diana who deceptively looked like a playful breeze might knock her over, and whose eyes had been far too sad even after two years. He’d seen those eyes full of mischievous laughter once. If only the darn woman didn’t look so tragic all the time.

  Just half a day ago Storm had been looking forward to a well-deserved break. He’d closed off his Paris case last night and been about to give his team a couple of days off when he got the message from the chief early this morning. Two fresh murders in London.

  The only upside of a new DCK case is the hope that the bastard might have left behind some evidence this time which would lead to his capture. There had been nothing at Wintersdeep Castle. Not a fingerprint, not a hair filament, no magical traces and not a single lead on why the killer had chosen the woman, Magda.

  Since Wintersdeep Castle DCK had killed several more times all over the world, but never within Storm’s jurisdiction. The savagery of Magda’s murder had made that case seem personal for DCK. Storm doesn’t even want to admit this line of thought to himself, but part of the reason he had offered Diana a job had been to keep an eye on her. And then he’d allowed her to mess that job up so spectacularly.

  He’d hated firing her, but she’d caused a Hollywood mogul’s head to be blown off, no less. If the guy hadn’t turned out to be a Hollywood villain, Storm would have lost his job too. The Agency hated bad press. Seeing Diana again had brought back feelings that Storm would prefer not to stir up.

  As Storm finally leaves behind the long queue crawling towards border control and passport checks he curses the delayed flight. He should have been at the murder scene by now, assessing whether this escalating pattern was something to worry about, not dodging the crowd at terminal five.

  He sets an impatient pace through arrivals, with Leo and Remi trotting just behind. He heads towards the train terminal. Even at the tail-end of morning rush hour the tube will be faster than getting a taxi into North London.

  This new case could be the one that finally leads to DCK. And it has not escaped anyone’s notice that these fresh murders could be the key to solving the Wintersdeep Castle case. The chief has received a call from Buckingham Palace already. The Agency is not happy about having the British Royal Family breathing down its neck again.

  Storm is so focused on getting to the Heathrow Express that he does not at first notice the kid ricocheting through the crowd ahead of him like a football being kicked back and forth. Then the placard the kid is waving catches his eye. It says ‘C. STORM’ in big black letters. The kid comes to a stop in front of Storm, looking utterly relieved to have found him.

  “Can I help you?” says Storm bluntly.

  “S-sir, ahem, I mean Agent Storm,” says the kid, now beaming. The kid sticks out his hand for Storm to shake. Storm gives it a scathing look.

  The kid straightens his suit jacket and nervously pats his extremely straight tie. Despite his best efforts to look grown up, the suit is clearly brand new and it is the first time the kid is wearin
g it. He looks fresh out of university.

  “I have your car,” the kid says, pointing vaguely in the direction of short stay parking.

  “I didn’t book a car.”

  “I-I’m Aiden Monroe,” the kid says hopefully, as if this is supposed to mean something.

  Storm glowers at him.

  “Agent Monroe,” says Remi helpfully. “New guy, right? Congratulations. I remember your CV.”

  She is sucking on a strawberry lace that is dangling out of her mouth and eyeing Monroe with great interest. Monroe does a slight double take before recovering admirably. He looks away, apparently keen to not let Remi’s scarlet-haired good looks distract him.

  The news that the kid is a new recruit does nothing to improve Storm’s mood. Storm remembers the CV now, which he himself had short-listed. The chief had been nagging him for months to get a new addition for the team. Since Diana there had been a string of failed hires, each one more irritating than the last, though none had managed to go out in Diana’s spectacular style. Storm had been in no mood to fill the spot again.

  Now it looks like the chief has gone ahead and made a choice without him. The last thing Storm wants right now is a fresh-faced newbie who is going to spew at the sight of a corpse. The kid looks like he might be more used to looking in a mirror than at a crime scene.

  “You drove here to get us?” says Storm acidly, thinking the act an unforgivable waste of time.

  The kid’s cheeks turn ever so slightly pink, but to his credit he manages not to look completely mortified.

  “I thought you might have luggage,” the kid explains. He is eyeing up their minimal hand-luggage with some degree of embarrassment.

  “We travel light,” says Remi with a grin.

  The kid looks grateful, but not for long as Storm shoves his suitcase towards the kid.

  “Take the luggage back to the office and stay there. Send me a file on the victims and any connection to the Wintersdeep case. Make sure the coroner is expecting to see me asap, and chase forensics for their report.”

  The kid’s face falls. He was probably hoping to tag along to the crime scene. “Yes, sir,” he says, struggling to get a hold of all three suitcases. “It won’t happen again, sir.”

  Storm leaves him to it. He sees Remi shoot the kid an apologetic look. Storm sighs. Monroe is what he’s got, and he had better get used to it.

  Chapter 8

  DIANA

  Number 23, the house from my dreams, is surrounded by a ten foot tall security railing tipped in vicious-looking spikes. Even if I had been physically capable of scaling that thing, I would have to be invisible to do it unseen by the numerous press vans and reporters loitering outside, not to mention the Agency officers posted at the front gate.

  The little voice had sniggered when I’d come here with the idea of somehow sneaking in.

  I told you so, she’d said. But you had to go seeking permission first.

  “He never gave permission,” I mutter.

  She is also right that I should have waited until night, but my money situation is crappy enough already without letting Luca down this evening. Especially after all he does to help me out.

  Loitering halfway down the street, I eye the scene with disappointment. I knew I wouldn’t be able to get in. I had been stupid to make that wager with the chief. Goaded on by the little voice I had felt so bombastic and certain at the time, but now I feel kinda silly. The chief must’ve known this all along. Talk about embarrassing.

  I bet it would be easier to get in from the back, says the little voice.

  “If it was that easy those reporters would have done it by now.”

  They’ll get sick of waiting and start figuring it out soon enough, says the little voice. See the way these properties are back-to-back with the properties on the adjoining road? You could get in from their back neighbor’s garden.

  “I am not going to trespass into their neighbor’s garden!”

  I can practically feel the little voice rolling her eyes. Why did you even bother coming? she gripes. Dragging me out here. Getting my hopes up. It looks like you don’t care much about Magda after all.

  That bothers me. Magda is half the reason I came to London. The other half being Storm, but I won’t think about that.

  I bet the neighbors won’t even be in at this time of day, she says slyly. They’re probably at work.

  Feeling in a huff, I trudge down the street and then up the neighboring street that runs parallel to it until I get to the house I think must back onto Jared Everett’s mansion. Compared to the luxuriant mansion, this one is rather ordinary. It doesn’t even have a perimeter fence.

  And the little voice was right. There are no cars in the driveway.

  I can feel her crowing inside my mind. Feeling annoyed, I walk down the driveway trying to look as if I have every right to be here. I follow the path at the side of the house that leads to a wooden gate. I stand there looking at it for a moment, almost expecting a dog to bark. I check for a security camera that might be capturing my every move. I see and hear nothing.

  I scramble over the gate and land in the neighbor’s back garden. I immediately see that the little voice may have been right again. At the back of the garden is an unsightly and poorly maintained wooden fence. Beyond that is a tightly packed row of tall evergreen trees which the Everett’s estate agent must have planted to cover the unsightly fence. I am able to easily climb the broken fence and tumble down into Jared Everett’s garden.

  I land behind the trees. I crouch down amongst the dense foliage and peer out. I have no doubt that Jared Everett does have security cameras. Then again, I have no doubt that the inside of his house is currently crawling with crime scene technicians, who I am going to have to avoid somehow. There is no point chickening out now. And Storm is still in Paris, after all. This is my chance for a head start.

  I check that my hood is pulled low over my head, covering half of my face. If the cameras do pick me up, hopefully whoever sees the footage will think I am a nosy reporter.

  I lope over to the house. I’m rather surprised to see that the sliding back door is a few inches open. Beyond the glass is a lounge. It is empty. Feeling uncertain about whether this luck is really luck, I slip inside and return the door to its original position.

  The lounge is furnished in a minimal style. It’s a large open space with marble flooring. At its focal point is a couple of sleek sofas and a glass coffee table on which is an angular vase containing a single sculptural flower. There are precious few places to hide.

  Feeling horribly exposed I quickly make my way to the base of the stairs where I saw the man in my dream being killed. His body is gone, but where he had been is a patch of dried up blood on the wooden flooring. The area is marked with a little paper cone and taped off to prevent anyone stepping on it.

  I edge around it and hastily make my way up the stairs, eager to see the focal point of the crime. Clearly Lynesse Jones was DCK’s intended victim. A beautiful succubus is just his type. The man was unlucky to be here when he came for her. Lynesse’s room is more likely to give me an insight into what happened here.

  There are a few splatters of blood on the white carpet outside Lynesse’s bedroom. I cannot tell if they belong to Lynesse or the man. I touch one hesitantly, knowing that I shouldn’t, but no miraculous vision comes into my mind. The bedroom door is only slightly ajar. Suddenly realizing that I shouldn’t touch it with my fingertips, I push it open with my knuckle. I should have brought gloves. I should have thought about fingerprints while I was downstairs.

  I step into the bedroom. The first thing I see is the king-sized bed with its cream silk sheets and the horrible browned mottling of bloodstains all over them. I swallow hard, looking for DCK’s mark. I find it on the wall beside the door. The outline of a massive clawed pawprint made of blood is clearly visible. I stare at it, shaken.

  I have seen DCK’s mark before. It was on Magda’s door, right before I saw her body. Like this it was a mas
sive pawprint dripping in blood. It had been so horrifically real and menacing, even though my logical mind keeps insisting that a print this big cannot belong to a real creature. On Magda’s door those monstrous claws had gouged deep furrows into the wood. There are no gouges on the plaster of Lynesse’s wall.

  Someone clears their voice behind me. Startled, I whirl around. A man is in the doorway. I rapidly step away from him, wanting distance between us. I bump into the bed, almost toppling back onto it. I save myself by catching hold of the soiled mattress. It is dry now, and yet at the touch of my fingers on it a powerful stench of iron and fear fills my nose and mouth.