Mason & Morgan- The Serial Killer Collection

by Adam Nicholls

  It was the knowledge he wanted.

  The sun was inching over the horizon when Jimmy turned up in a car that looked like something from The Fast and the Furious. The engine roared like an angry god while the lime-green car that Morgan couldn’t identify rolled into a spot beside the shop. Music blared from the speakers, but it died with the engine. Morgan slid out of his own car and locked up fast, hurrying toward his old acquaintance.

  “Jimmy, I need your help.”

  Spinning around, Jimmy’s eyes lit up when they caught sight of Morgan. He was a gangly kind of man with short, dark hair. There was a long tattoo of a snake that covered one cheek and trailed down to his chest where it hid behind his tank top. It made him look threatening. Morgan knew better than that—the many conversations they’d had over the years were proof that he was a nice guy.

  “It’s real early,” he said, locking his car with a quick press of the key fob and then wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “I got a busy day ahead of me too. Can it wait?”

  “Not really.”

  Jimmy sighed. “Come on, then.”

  Morgan went with him into the shop. It was a large, dank mechanic’s garage where tires lined the walls on multiple shelves for as far as the eye could see. He leaned against the counter, watching while Jimmy yanked the chain to open the shutter, orange morning light flooding in to light up the long, wooden bench that separated the desk from the customer entrance. When he was done, Jimmy slipped into the desk chair and tapped rapidly on the keyboard, opening up the system and then turning. “Right, I’m all set. You want coffee?”

  “Can I get it to-go?”

  “Sure.” Jimmy pointed to a small machine on the corner of the bench. It was covered in dust, and the small paper cups had dirt smeared around the rims. “But between you and me, I haven’t changed the supplies in there since 2004.”

  “Then I’ll pass.”

  “Good choice. Anyway, what can I do for you?”

  Morgan slipped the cell phone out of his pocket and opened up the photos from last night. It felt like days ago that he’d investigated the boatyard, and how time was dragging. Tiredness was catching up to him, leaving an awful taste in his mouth as he swiped through the photos and held them out for easy viewing. “These tracks were found at a crime scene. If you can, I’d really like help identifying the type of vehicle that made them.”

  “Could be tough. Let’s see.” Jimmy slid a pair of cheap glasses from an alcove in the desk and made a show of putting them on. He leaned over the counter, cupping the phone in both hands and looking down his nose at the screen. “Squigglies.”

  Morgan cocked his head. “Excuse me?”

  “The tires. They’re called squigglies.” Jimmy fell back into his chair and hit some keys on the keyboard. The screen flickered as bright images flashed at the speed of his navigation, not stopping until an image of a tire appeared. “See here? The lines zigzag and cross over like an audio wave. They don’t have any special perks, but they look cool.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Because I designed them.”

  Morgan recoiled, astounded. “You designed these particular tires?” He raised his cell phone, pointing a finger at the screen where the photographs still showed the tracks from the boatyard.

  “Did I stutter?”

  “Damn, that’s lucky. So, can you tell me who they were made for?”

  “Yep. I made them for stock.”

  “Meaning…?”

  Jimmy snickered. “Meaning I’ve had over six thousand sets of them made, and I keep them on hand for over-the-counter purchases. If you’re looking for the owner of that car, it could be any one of them, and I wouldn’t necessarily have the name of the person who bought them.”

  Morgan’s heart dropped into his stomach. How could he feel so lucky and disappointed at the same time? Sure, the tracks could’ve belonged to anyone—even the yard owner, for all he knew—but that detail was lost on him now. This was nothing but dead end.

  “The good news,” Jimmy said, taking off his glasses and folding them before placing them to one side, “is that I only make them for one car model: the 2004 Nissan Maxima. Pretty average car. A lot of people own them.”

  “Which is no good to me.”

  Jimmy shrugged. “Sorry.”

  “Forget it. Thanks for your help.” Morgan watched Jimmy’s arm extend over the counter, his fist closed. He pounded it and left the shop. While he trudged through the dirty gravel track back to his car, he wondered if the killer had arrived at the boatyard in that Maxima, studying his surroundings before he killed Dusty Young.

  He hoped so—because otherwise he was dealing with a spontaneous maniac.

  And that would make it impossible to catch him.

  Chapter Seven

  The next couple of days dragged by. Morgan spent them at home, cleaning up around the house to help Rachel while she focused on the setup of a new fundraiser she was hosting at the zoo. The charity she’d set up to help children in need was called HUCINS, and in the few years since its birth she’d worked hard to earn every donation they’d received. What Morgan loved most about her was that she wouldn’t accept gratitude. She even put up a fight on the numerous occasions he tried to compliment her, but she’d always insisted it was down to the efforts of her volunteers. Even tonight, when she’d been spending all day making sure the jobs got ticked off the list, Morgan’s help had been refused.

  But that was okay.

  He had other things to think about.

  The evening had crawled over before he noticed. One moment he’d been on his knees scrubbing the kitchen floor, and the next he was taking a break in his favorite armchair, the sun going down behind the buildings across the street. It wasn’t until a set of high beams shone through his window that he snapped out of his hard trance, shooting to his feet and rushing to the front door where Gary’s ugly, beat-up car slowed to a stop.

  The car’s lights died, and Gary climbed out, shooting hard looks up and down Morgan’s body. He huffed a short laugh and locked the car, then stepped up onto the porch. “What the hell happened to you? You look like death.”

  Morgan stared into his eyes, tiredness still lingering over him. Did he really look that bad? He sure felt it—his eyes were heavy, and his throat was itchy and dry. It was as if he’d just woken up from a long nap and not come around yet, but really he’d only been thinking about Dusty and his inability to help solve the case. “I haven’t been sleeping much.”

  “Something on your mind?”

  “You know there is.”

  “I meant is there something else?”

  “Yeah, I know what you meant.” Morgan sighed and hiked a thumb over his shoulder, a shiver creeping down his spine. It was colder out here than he’d realized. “Are you coming in? I can get some coffee brewing.”

  Gary grinned. “Well, aren’t you a good little housemaid?”

  “Is that a yes or a no?”

  “I’ll pass.” Gary glanced up and down the street before stepping onto the porch and becoming level with Morgan. “I just wanted to swing by and let you know we found an abandoned car not far from the murder site. It was completely wiped of prints, which makes us think it’s connected.”

  Morgan’s ears pricked. “Let me guess. It was a Nissan Maxima?”

  The smile vanished from Gary’s face in an instant. “How did you know?”

  “It matches the tire tracks at the yard. Call whatever hotshot detective is working the case, and tell them to talk to Jimmy Dinsmore.” Morgan almost explained who Jimmy was but then recalled introducing the two of them once upon a time. They’d gotten along, but not well enough to become friends. It was a shame—they looked and talked different, but they had the same interest in sports and crappy TV shows.

  “That’s something else I was going to tell you.” Gary shivered and crossed his arms. “Bray assigned me to the case.”

  Concern flowed through Morgan, but he wasn’t completely surpr
ised. He knew somebody was bound to be handed the investigation, so why not Gary? The captain had always had a problem with Morgan, and although it was starting to ease off lately, he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d done this to cause some kind of issue between him and Gary. Another possibility, although unlikely, was that he was making sure Dusty’s case was in good hands.

  The truth was, they’d never know.

  “Tell me something.” Morgan buttoned up his shirt and shook like a leaf in the wind. “If I were to keep doing research and tried to find some dirt on this killer, would you stand in my way?”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Just answer the question.”

  Gary turned his head and reached his arm back to scratch his neck. He rotated his body a little, glancing around at his surroundings before he paid any more attention to the question. He was definitely hiding something… or holding back. “Look, the captain made me promise I wouldn’t help you, and I had no choice but to obey. I can’t feed you information, and I can’t grant you access to evidence, but I can be here for you if you need to talk.”

  Morgan recoiled. After all the trouble he’d gone to a few weeks ago, tracking down the DC Carver after he’d murdered one of Gary’s ex-girlfriends, the last thing he’d expected was resistance. Anger boiled his blood, but he kept his arms folded and took a step back. “I don’t need to talk. You know that. What I really need is to be pointed in the right direction.”

  “There is no direction. We have nothing. Not that it matters.”

  “Because you won’t share with me, right?”

  “Because I can’t share with you.”

  “That’s bullshit, and you know it.”

  Gary shook his head, pointing his finger. “Don’t be a jerk, buddy. I’d go to the depths of Hell to give you a hand, but that doesn’t mean I have to risk my sorry ass to get you a step ahead of the game.”

  “Sure. So then what are you good for?”

  “That’s unfair.” Gary took a step back, apparently cooling off in the night breeze. “I’ll give you little pieces, but you can’t use them too obviously. Just… be careful with it, okay?”

  Morgan watched him. He’d seen all this before: the outward aggression, the nervous tic. “You know something.”

  “It’s nothing major.”

  “Then spill the beans.”

  Gary smirked, shaking his head. “Handcuffs. An officer found them in the back seat of the Nissan. It might mean everything or it might mean nothing, but we’re looking into it. The big question is, if the handcuffs belonged to the killer, then why did he use duct tape on your cousin?”

  “Because…” Morgan hesitated. He knew exactly why, but that didn’t mean he wanted to accept it as a certainty. Although in his profession he had no choice but to lay it down as a possible reason. “I don’t know. Maybe he plans on taking a second victim.”

  “You think so?”

  “Could be,” Morgan said, misery raining on him. “Unfortunately, it’s the only logical explanation. Which means whoever’s next is probably not going to have a pleasant death. We just have to pray we get to him first.”

  Chapter Eight

  The killer sat in the safety of a rental car, keeping a keen eye on his prey across the street. She looked so infuriatingly fake that his anger trebled, causing his fist to shake. It was an awful, cruel irony that she should get to continue her life, but he would soon put a stop to that.

  And then some.

  It was a direct view to her place of work—a crappy burger joint that tried way too hard to copy Jack in the Box. It had everything from Jack in the name to a creepy-looking, white-headed mascot guaranteed to scare children. Although it seemed the kids’ desire for junk food overrode their fear of ghostly characters. Whatever suited them, he guessed.

  The girl was what interested him.

  How fascinating she was to watch, too. She moved with such a springless step that she seemed to almost glide across the shop floor. The killer couldn’t see her legs, which built on that illusion, and frankly, he found it hilarious that she soon would be a ghost. If ghosts existed, that was. He didn’t much care what happened after death, as long as hers came soon.

  He had a plan for that too.

  The girl passed by a colleague who also wore the ridiculous red-and-yellow apron, and she laughed at whatever words were exchanged. Her head fell back, and her eyes rolled up to the ceiling, and the killer’s imagination convinced him he could hear her dry, witchlike cackle. Had she used that laugh much since the incident, he wondered? How long had it taken her to get back on her feet, giggling like a child and giving no thought to her destructive actions?

  Pure rage stole over him as he pondered this, but he didn’t let it stop him. He was here to do some research, and if his feelings got in the way, he’d be caught before finishing what he’d set out to do. Bearing this in mind, he scribbled a note into his notebook and continued looking.

  His prey walked on now, wiping a table and returning to the counter as a single customer approached to place their order. Her smile had faded, as if returning to work was a mere chore to be completed without effort. It was typical, he thought, that a girl in her late twenties wouldn’t give a shit about her job. Unlike him—who’d given 100 percent effort to every one of his ten or so jobs—the girl clearly wanted to take her paycheck and go blow it on whatever.

  Fine by him.

  He wasn’t here to judge.

  He was here to study.

  There was no chance he would screw this one up. The last one had satisfied him at least a little, and although he first thought it was guilt that had kept him from the full immersion of his enjoyment, he’d later realized it was only fear—fear of being caught. It hardly seemed fair, but that was why he’d vowed to be particularly cautious from now on, and if that meant following the girl for a time, then so be it.

  As long as he got to watch her die.

  And he was almost ready.

  Chapter Nine

  During the days that passed, Morgan spent a lot of time at home. It gave him an opportunity to perform a wide variety of household tasks, including staying on top of the laundry and finally fixing that leak in the garage roof. He’d never been much of a handyman and barely felt equipped to deal with the latter, but a trip to the hardware store and a few hours on the internet gave him everything he needed to succeed. By the time he was done, it looked like a good enough fix. They’d have to wait for their next downpour to find out for sure.

  There were other things to be done, and while he was out of work and Rachel was keeping busy with her latest charity campaign, it only felt right to tend to them. There was something about feeling useful that appealed to him, which made it worse that he was unable to help his extended family find peace by avenging Dusty. It wasn’t as if he had no faith in Gary putting the culprit behind bars, but just like a flipped version of the DC Carver case, Morgan wanted a hand in how this came to an end. It was all the closure he’d need.

  There were other issues too—money among them. Rachel’s work brought in little money, and Morgan had been struggling for work as a private investigator for some time now. The clients used to roll through the doors, but now? Not so much. Since he’d closed the lease on the office due to affordability issues, the clientele had ceased completely.

  The problem only got worse from there.

  It’d been one thing after the other, with Rachel’s charity taking off in ways they could never have imagined. Morgan was so incredibly proud and would do anything to support her, but he often feared she didn’t understand the strain put on him. Although she’d frequently stressed that she was happy as long as the bills were paid, something as simple as paying the electricity bill was tougher than she probably knew.

  He’d have to address it at some point, and that was why he was glad she asked what he was thinking on that cold November Sunday while they finished off their chicken dinner in the dark, candlelit dining room. He’d been in distracted silence
until then.

  “If something’s on your mind, you better set down your fork and talk about it.” Rachel had already put hers down, leaving a couple of potatoes and pushing her plate a few inches forward. She dabbed her light-pink lips with her napkin and then dropped it into the shallow pool of gravy. “I’m waiting.”

  A smile tugged at Morgan’s lips. His wife’s ability to recognize when he was in distress was nothing short of magic. If only she was able to solve problems using a similar spell. “Truthfully?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m worried about cash.”

  Alarm set in her wide eyes. Rachel opened her mouth as if to speak but apparently thought better of it. She cleared her throat and leaned her mouth into clasped hands, a sign that she was listening closely.

  “Until now we’ve been surviving,” Morgan ventured on, slightly nervous about how she’d react. “But now we need work.”

  “Would you like me to find a job?”

  “No way,” he blurted out before he could stop himself. “You’re doing an amazing job.”

  “I’m just saying, I will if you need me to.”

  “If anyone’s going to get a job it’s me.”

  “What kind of work would interest you?”

  Morgan shrugged, pushing his plate away and replicating her napkin routine. “You know investigating is close to my heart. In an ideal world I wouldn’t want to do anything else, but if we want to keep a roof over our heads, we have no choice.”

  “Is it that bad? The money, I mean.”

  “Let’s just say I need a client fast.”

  Rachel crooked an eyebrow. “You’re good at finding those.”

  “Not without an office. Appearances are everything in this game. And then there’s—”

  “Dusty.” Rachel nodded and gave a thin smile before standing. She reached for her plate and led the way while Morgan took his and followed. As ever, she was leading him, and he knew it. But that was fine. “It would make me a pretty bad person—no, a terrible wife—if I didn’t let you continue your research on Dusty’s case. So here’s an idea…”