Brown and de Luca Collection, Volume 1

by Maggie Shayne

  He furrowed his brows, a flash of genuine worry. About me, for once, not his deep dark secrets. “They’re failing? Are you rejecting them?”

  “No. Just thinking of sending them back. Get me outta here before a cop comes along, will you?”

  “I am a cop.”

  “Well, yeah, but you’re not gonna bust me and take my new license away for this. This was your fault.”

  He shrugged his big shoulders and walked up his driveway, where his boat-sized black car sat with a U-Haul trailer attached to its rear bumper. “I’ll let you explain how it’s my fault after you’re out of the ditch,” he said. He opened a shed near the back of his driveway, and when he came out again he had a heavy, rust-colored chain over his shoulder, messing up the flannel shirt he was wearing with smears of rust and dirt. He spent a few minutes under the back end of the T-Bird, then headed up his driveway again for his car—that big black beast that I knew intimately. Quick as a minute he had the trailer unhooked. He pulled his car into the road, then quickly backed it up close to the rear of mine, blocking traffic, should any come along, though none did. He got out and hooked the chain underneath his, then told me to shift into Neutral. And then he just pulled me out, easy as pie. When he finished and unchained me—shut up!—I drove up into his driveway. He backed in neat as a pin beside me.

  I parked, then hurried to the front end to inspect the damage to my precious. There was some sod and mud wedged under her bumper, but not a scuff or a scratch to the paint that I could see.

  “Doesn’t look like you did any damage,” he said, coming to join me in my inspection. “Sweet ride, by the way.”

  “Thanks. I like bright colors.” I was finding out I liked a lot of things I hadn’t known about before. Lots of them because I could see now, but some that seemed completely unrelated. Like the aforementioned hot sauce. And reggae. When the hell did I ever like reggae?

  I was still crouched and pulling weeds from my grille. He was still standing behind me. And finally he said, “What are you doing here, Rachel?”

  I stood up straight and brushed off my hands, but I kept my gaze on them, not on him. I was feeling him.

  His voice had the slightest tremble underneath it. He kept shifting position; I could hear him moving. And he smelled good enough to eat. I made him nervous. And he made me horny. But I wasn’t getting a thing beyond that.

  “Look, I want to know what you’ve found out about my brother.”

  “It’s only been a week since you told me about him.”

  “And you’ve given me nothing. So I figured I’d take the initiative. I’ve been doing a little digging myself, and I thought we could compare notes.” I went around to the passenger side and reached in for the paisley print binder on the gorgeous black-and-yellow leather seat, then faced him again, holding it to my chest. “So? You gonna invite me in?”

  “I don’t exactly live here anymore. I’m in the middle of moving.”

  “You’re not in the middle. You’re just starting.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “You moved that trailer too easily for it to be full. Your tow chain was still in the shed.” I pointed. “Your trash can is still out back. Your mountain bike is still on the porch. There are curtains in the windows.”

  “You don’t miss much.”

  “No, I don’t. Where are you moving to?”

  “If I tell you, are you going to come and run over my new mailbox?”

  “No, but if you don’t tell me, I’ll find out, anyway.”

  He sighed, lowered his head. “An old farmhouse in Castle Creek.”

  “Sounds like quite a change from an apartment in the city.” Why, I wondered?

  “Yeah, well, I need some peace and quiet.”

  “I’m with you there. I’m all about the peace and quiet. My place is practically on a desert island. So is it the upstairs apartment, then?”

  I knew by his look of defeat that it was, so I headed up the exterior covered stairway and waited at his door. He sighed heavily, and his steps were slow and deliberate as he came up behind me. He was not eager. Reaching past me, he turned the knob, swung the door open, waved a hand.

  I went inside, took two steps and felt a fucking wrecking ball slam into the right side of my head. It came with a flash of blinding white light, and I was on my knees holding my head in my hands just that fast.

  “Jesus, Rachel, what the hell?” Mason crouched in front of me, bending over me, hands on my shoulders.

  I was like jelly. Just quivering as I lifted my head, lowered my arms, peered up at him and blinked like a mole in daylight. “Damn. What the hell was that?”

  “That’s what I’m asking you.”

  “Bomb went off inside my head. Hurt so much I should be dead.” An ironic smile pulled at my lips on one side. “Hell, that rhymes.”

  He rose and took a single backward step. When I looked up he was staring down at me as if I’d just sprouted antlers or something. “What are you trying to pull, Rachel?” His voice was softly furious and oozing with accusation.

  “I don’t particularly like your tone, Mason.” I got myself upright, though I had to call a nearby wall into service, because my knees were still watery. He reached out to help me, but I dodged his hand. “Just one more bizarre side effect from your brother’s fucking crazy-ass eyes, I guess. I’ll call Doc Fenway tomorrow. Meanwhile…” I looked around the room. No sofa. No carpet. Nothing on the walls. The living room was barren. “You weren’t lying about moving out, I see.” Oddly though, the kitchen still had a table and chairs, and there were a coffeemaker and toaster on the counter. Also, I could see an unmade bed through an open door. Those rooms still looked lived in, more or less.

  I looked at him and frowned.

  “This is where my brother died.”

  My attitude disintegrated as fast as my hand moved to the side of my head again.

  “Yeah. Shot himself in the head. Right side.”

  “No fucking way.”

  “Like you didn’t already know? Then what was that little performance all about just now?”

  I held his eyes for about two heartbeats. The son of a bitch thought I was putting on a show. Acting. Faking him out. “Fuck this.” Then I just walked. Out the door, down the stairs, straight to my car. I was backing out of the driveway within ten seconds of his parting shot, and I laid rubber when I left.

  I didn’t know I knew how to do that.

  CHAPTER 7

  She’d left her binder.

  He would have it sent to her. Sure as hell couldn’t risk going there himself. She was sharp, that was for sure. Hot, too. If she’d been anyone other than who she was, he might have thought about— Nah.

  Freaking famous people. You just never knew what the hell they were up to. Some kind of PR thing, probably. Pretending she could feel his brother’s final moment. Maybe she claimed to have some kind of ESP in those books of hers, or planned to start claiming it to capitalize on the transplant. He would have to ask Rosie if that was part of her gig. He knew for sure she must have come here already knowing how Eric had died. There was no other explanation. The rest had been a very dramatic act.

  She’d been pretty pissed off that he hadn’t bought into it. Well, it served her right.

  He carried the binder into the kitchen, sat down at the table and opened it up. And then he frowned at what he saw.

  Sister Mary Catherine at the St. Bart’s Shelter says Tommy was staying there for 4 days. He left on the morning of August 15th and didn’t come back. Wouldn’t be odd except he left his stuff there. Sister says she gave his belongings to the police when they came asking about him a week ago. (Ask Mason Brown about that.)

  Malcolm Rainbow (probably not his real name). Smells like a schizophrenic. Usually in the Catholic shelter. Saw Tommy on 8/1
5. Doesn’t know what time. Says it was dark outside. Sunset that night was at 8:04 so had to be later. Couldn’t remember what he was wearing, but was sure he had a light jacket on. Said he seemed okay to him. Wasn’t lying but was afraid of something. Probably something in his own mind, though.

  Kelly Summers—waitress at the Bullpen, sports bar, same block. Said he was there that same night from 9:30 until almost midnight, drinking beer with another guy who seemed to be doing all the buying. Didn’t know who the other guy was, didn’t think he’d been in before, but says he left an hour before Tommy did. Then Tommy left alone and pretty drunk. She thought he was wearing black jeans, a plain white T-shirt and a windbreaker. Jacket might have been maroon or red. Companion was an older guy, middle-aged, balding, dark hair. Had a uniform shirt with a logo patch over the pocket.

  “Shit,” Mason muttered. “That sounds like Eric.” He’d gone to every bar in the area, including the Bullpen, flashing her brother’s photo, but none of them had panned out. How she’d gotten anywhere when he hadn’t was beyond him.

  No, it wasn’t. He’d lost his touch. He’d been off his game ever since he’d watched his brother blow a hole in his skull.

  Kelly didn’t remember what the patch said. Bar manager says security cameras have been busted for 6 months. Kelly is a hottie, looks 10 years younger than she is, married and miserable, and had something going on with Tommy. Can’t tell how far it went. Need to dig deeper.

  Frowning, Mason flipped pages. She had conducted interviews with a dozen people who’d seen her brother on August 15. Every one of them was detailed and filled with little insights she hadn’t gotten from the individuals themselves but from her own intuition. She was an observant thing.

  Or maybe her ESP act wasn’t fake.

  Bullshit. No such thing.

  His cell phone chirped. He reached for it, still skimming entries. “Brown.”

  “You seen the Binghamton Press today, partner?”

  It was Rosie, and he sounded grim. Mason got up and went to the counter where the newspaper lay, still rolled, just as it had been when he’d picked it up in the driveway earlier. He unfolded it and looked at the headline.

  Binghamton’s First Serial Killer?

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Press has even given him a name. The Wraith.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No. It’s because of the way he doesn’t leave a trace.”

  “Well, it’s a stupid name.”

  “Maybe all the good ones have been taken. Better postpone your plans for the day, pal. Chief wants you to come in.”

  “On my way.”

  He took the binder with him, having no doubt he hadn’t seen the last of Rachel de Luca today. When she caught wind of what all the victims had in common, all hell was gonna break loose.

  * * *

  Chief Subrinsky’s office was stark, as if he didn’t expect to be there long. Then again, he’d only been in it for a month. Maybe he was taking his time about settling in. Nothing on the walls. Bookshelves collecting dust. The opposite of the paperwork swamp on his desk.

  He was a middle-aged man with a middle-aged look to him. Close-cropped hair, brown that had probably once been shot with gold and now was shot with gray. Small eyes a nondescript shade between blue and green that wound up looking like neither, square face. And right now wearing an angry scowl.

  “So who talked to the press?”

  He stood behind his desk instead of sitting, while Mason sat in front of it, beside his partner, who’d had to squeeze into the wooden chair. The seats were not designed for comfort, much less for guys the size of Rosie Jones.

  “It didn’t come from us,” Rosie said. “This is only gonna make our job harder. Why would we talk?”

  “Someone talked.” Subrinsky sighed.

  “Look, with this many missing men who all match the same descriptions, the press was bound to pick up on it sooner or later, Chief,” Mason said.

  “Well, thanks to the press putting the heat on, the mayor wants to ask the FBI for help.”

  That got Mason’s attention. He tried not to look startled or panicked, but if the Feds came in, he was probably toast. “That’s a leap, isn’t it? Aren’t we skipping a few steps?”

  “Such as?”

  Mason shrugged, shaking his head. “I don’t know. Special task force, maybe? That would buy us some time without the Feds charging in here and taking over.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I told the mayor.”

  “And?”

  Subrinsky nodded. “She agreed. You’re heading it up. But I need you on the ball, Brown. I need the Mason Brown you used to be, the guy whose gut instinct was damn near uncanny, not the guy you’ve been for the past few weeks. I don’t want to be a hard-ass, Mason, but you’re a cop, a good one, until lately….”

  “I know.”

  “It’s hard losing a brother, Chief,” Rosie said. “He’s coming back from it, but it takes time.”

  “Time is one thing we don’t have.”

  “I still don’t get why the press has jumped on this now,” Mason said. “There hasn’t been another missing person in almost two months. Maybe it’s over.”

  “It’s not over until we catch the guy,” Subrinsky said. Then he leaned over to press his fingertips to a manila folder and slide it across to them. “And as for why now, he’s not done. We’ve got another one.”

  That was the last thing Mason expected to hear. He shot his eyes to the chief’s, but Chief Sub didn’t look like he was kidding. So he leaned forward to take the folder, opened it, and started looking for what he knew he would find. Differences—marked differences—between his brother’s crimes and this new one.

  As he scanned the pages, the chief narrated as if reading over his shoulder. “Jack Patterson, twenty-seven, one-sixty, brown eyes, brown hair on the long side. Last seen at a coffee shop downtown, left alone around noon. Responding officers found a wallet on the sidewalk between the coffee shop and Patterson’s car. Nothing missing but the driver’s license.”

  The same. Exactly the same. And the bit about the licenses had never been released to the press. How could a copycat know that?

  “This isn’t possible.” Shit, he hadn’t meant to blurt that out loud.

  “Why the hell not? The last thirteen were.” The chief finally sank into his chair. “I’ll give you three men to start. If you need more, say so. Pick your team and meet me in the briefing room in an hour. And, Mason, I was serious before. I need you on your game here. You gotta get over this thing and get back to being the cop I know you are.”

  Mason nodded. “I hear you, Chief.” Then he looked at Rosie. “You with me on this?”

  “Always, pal.”

  Mason got up and went back out to the bull-pen, but he wasn’t really there. He was in his head, trying to figure out how he was going to prove that this was a copycat. He knew it wasn’t the same killer, because Eric was that killer…and Eric was dead.

  Dammit, he should have known covering up his brother’s crimes would come back to bite him in the ass. And now he had to ride the wave he’d created, follow it through to the end. And try his best to do it without compounding his guilt by telling more lies to cover up the ones he’d already told.

  * * *

  TV was freaking amazing. I had it on all the time whether I was watching it or not, because it just blew me away. I’d known, of course, of its evolution, and I’d listened to it over the years. But looking at it in high definition on a fifty-inch screen was beyond anything I’d imagined on my inner-eye-cam, lo these past couple of decades.

  Everything else in my living room was covered in drop cloths. I needed a project to distract me from the knowledge that my cornea donor had shot himself in the head in his hot detective brother’s living room. I hadn’t
been able to get that little image out of my head since I’d found out. I’d already scanned the internet for photos and any other tidbits about Eric Conroy Brown. I’d found very little. His obit had given me a little bit, but no details about his death. Obits never mentioned things like suicide or murder. It’s always either “died unexpectedly” or “died after a long illness.” Useless as far as causes. But great for vital stats. Eric had been married to Marie Rivette Brown. They had two sons, Jeremy, sixteen, and Joshua, eleven. His kids were online, but not him. Still, there were a couple of family photos on his older son’s social sites, and the guy had looked positively ordinary. Potbelly, receding hairline, no resemblance whatsoever to his brother. Nothing about what he did for a living.

  There was a lot more about Mason Brown. Yes, I’d looked. He was apparently some kind of super-cop with instincts bordering on eerie. Single, too, but I’d deduced that on my own.

  “Running over the mailbox wasn’t the worst of it,” I told Amy. She was standing on a ladder rolling saffron-colored paint, just this side of cinnamon, onto my walls, and I was trying to explain why I’d been in such a bitchy mood before she’d left last night. You know, as a part of my apology. Because she was a good assistant and I wanted to keep her.

  “Oh, come on. How can it get worse?” she teased.

  I was rolling paint, too, and loving the way the room was slowly being transformed from its former bland shade of off-white into a color so rich I could almost taste it. “Turns out my cornea donor was a suicide.”

  She didn’t answer, but I felt the ripple of her reaction from the other side of the room and turned to verify it with my eyes. Yep, she was freaked out, holding her roller in midair while it dripped slowly onto the plastic-covered floor. Her thick eyeliner made her worried stare even more penetrating.

  “Creepy, right?” I asked.

  “Way beyond creepy.”

  “You’re dripping.”

  She looked down, gave her head a shake, resumed her painting. “How did you find out?”

  Should I tell her? Hell, did it matter? I trusted her. She wouldn’t be working for me if I didn’t. “All right, this is where it gets really weird. And listen, Amy, this is between us. Don’t mention it to Sandra. She’d freak, probably have me in a mental ward before I knew what hit me.”