Brown and de Luca Collection, Volume 1

by Maggie Shayne

  “You’re up early,” I said, while bitching myself out for being such a girl.

  “Yeah, have to get to work. Important meeting this morning.”

  “Yeah? With who?”

  “Can’t say.”

  Well, that felt like a slap. “Oh. Sorry for asking. I guess I thought we were sort of…teaming up on this.”

  He lowered his head, like he felt a little guilty or mean or something. “I can’t really do that, Rachel. I mean, I admit you’re getting some valid stuff, but I’m still a cop and you’re still—”

  “Oh, come on, I can’t be a suspect. The Wraith is dead.”

  “Did I say suspect?”

  I shook my head. I was being petulant, and that wasn’t like me.

  “Civilian. I was going to say civilian.”

  I sighed heavily. “It doesn’t matter. It’s over now.” God, please let it be over now. “Besides, I have an important meeting this morning, too.”

  “Good. I’ll get out of here and let you get to it.”

  “Good.”

  He was shoving his wallet and phone into his jeans, then turning to look around the room to be sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. He’d even made the bed. Neat freak.

  I rolled my eyes, swallowed my pride. “Thanks for staying with me last night.”

  “You’re welcome.” He came to the doorway. “If you want me to come back and do it again, I will.”

  “You will?”

  “Sure. You’ve been through a lot. Besides, we still have to figure out where your brother is. I’m not going to give up on that.”

  Wow. He was actually being…nice to me.

  Yeah, what the hell is up with that?

  Before I could ask, he was cupping a hand around my nape and leaning in. His lips brushed over mine, and I damn near had a heart attack. Then he just backed off and moved on past me, trotting down the stairs and out the front door almost before I’d opened my eyes.

  What the fuck?

  * * *

  I had a breakfast date with my BBF, Mott, that morning. I’d phoned him last night—before the murder, the vision, the visit to the crime scene and Mason’s mind-warping goodbye kiss.

  That was no kiss—barely a peck, in fact—but it sure left me thinking about one.

  I needed my friend right now, and I had pretty much guilted him into getting together, but I’d be damned if I was going to let him ruin our friendship just because I could see and he couldn’t.

  He’d agreed to the meal, but got all huffy when we discussed a place. The conversation went something like this.

  Me: “So I’ll meet you at the Hollywood, then? Eight sound good?”

  Mott: “Oh, sure, because it’s easier for you to come to Cortland than for me to go to Whitney Point, you being sighted and all.”

  Me: “Yeah, Mott. Everything’s easier for me now that I’m sighted. Deal with it.”

  Mott: “So you think you’re more capable than I am now. You see why this isn’t going to work anymore?”

  Me: “Fine. You come here. The Country Kitchen. MapQuest it, fuckface.”

  I used to avoid the small, crowded diner. I loved it now. It had everything a small-town diner ought to have, right down to the mouthy waitress. I’d bantered with her a few times over coffee. She was almost as good at Sarcasm Ping Pong as I was.

  I waited outside for Mott, because the place wasn’t exactly blind-guy friendly. Before he arrived, I got the eeriest feeling I was being watched, and I hunched deeper into my coat while looking all around.

  Then his taxi pulled up, and he got out. I couldn’t help it. I ran over and hugged him. Damn, I’d missed him. “You’re an idiot to pay cab fare when I offered to come to Cortland.”

  He hugged me back, not as enthusiastically as I would have liked, but he wasn’t ice-cold, either. “You bought a car and I’m wasting money?”

  “I don’t care, I love her. She’s a classic. Come on, let’s eat. I’m starved.” I looked Mott up and down, loving seeing him clearly for the first time. I’d known he was a Brillo head, but the sheer depth of his brown curls amazed me. And his face was nicer than I’d pictured it, too. Close to my imaginary picture of him, but better. Small features, an elfin nose and narrow mouth. “I’ve missed the hell out of you, Mott.”

  He lowered his head. “I’ve missed you, too. But here I am, feeling self-conscious about how I look. I never felt like that with you before.”

  “You look great, and I don’t care about that anyway, and you know it.” I hooked my arm through his.

  He pulled it away. “Don’t do that to me.”

  “Do what? There are three steps, here, I was just—”

  “Then tell me there are three steps. Don’t guide me like I’m helpless.”

  “Wow, bite my head off, why don’t you?” I walked ahead of him. “Follow me and hope for the best, then. You’re at the steps now.” I walked up and let him follow behind, trying not to touch him or help in any way. “Door is on your right, I’m opening it and going through now. Stop when you’re two steps in.”

  He did fine, and continued to do fine, until we were sitting at a table, had placed our orders and were waiting for them to arrive. He’d chosen one of the specials the waitress—not my favorite sassy one, who must be off today—had rattled off. I knew that was to avoid asking me to read him the menu but didn’t point it out and ordered the same thing.

  So we ate. Western omelets, with toast on the side, three cups apiece of luscious coffee, and we each got a homemade cinnamon bun to take home.

  “I got a dog,” I told him while we ate. “You’ve got to meet her. She’s a fat little blind bulldog named Myrtle. You’re gonna love her.”

  He smiled, and it was genuine. He was starting to relax a little. “I can’t wait to meet her. Never figured you for a dog owner.”

  “Me, neither. This was all Amy’s doing. She wanted to adopt her, but her landlord put the kibosh on it, so…”

  “So you went soft.”

  “The minute I set eyes on her.” I bit my lip. Dammit, watch the eye references, you dumb ass.

  He stiffened a little. Not too much. And then I said, “Mott, I’m pretty sure Tommy’s dead.”

  He dropped his fork, and sat there real still and quiet behind his sunglasses. Then, “Only pretty sure? Does that mean there’s still hope?”

  “No, it just means we haven’t found his body. Looks like he was murdered.”

  “Murdered?” He’d been feeling the table for his fork again, and once he found it, he held on to it while gaping in shock.

  “It was that serial killer who’s been all over the news.”

  “The Wraith?”

  I rolled my eyes at the ridiculous name the press had given him. “Yeah. All the victims matched Tommy’s description.” I wanted to tell him more, about my nightmares, the vision, all of it, but not just then. Let’s mend the friendship first, I thought. “I need my best friend back, Mott. I don’t want to go through this without you.”

  He sighed, nodded. “I’ve been too hard on you, I guess.”

  “You’ve been a bastard to me. You can’t stop being friends with me just because I can see. I mean, who does that? What would you think of me if I ditched my blind friends just because I can see now?”

  He was quiet for a moment, and then he said, “That’s kind of what I expected you to do, actually. And being that I’m your only blind friend…”

  “You decided to beat me to the punch.”

  He nodded.

  “You’re an idiot, Mott. But I love you, anyway.”

  “You’re a bitch, Rachel, and I love you, too.”

  * * *

  Mason had read Dr. Vosberg’s book from cover to cover while lying awake in Rachel’s guest room an
d trying not to think about her just a few steps away down the hall. Now he was sitting in the man’s office, wondering if he ought to ask the shrink’s opinion on why he’d done something as stupid as kissing Rachel this morning.

  It was a dull office, walls on the brown side of tan, dark plush chairs, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on one wall and an aquarium on the other with colorful tropical fish swimming lazily back and forth. The man himself was a handsome fortysomething with a fake tan and blond hair with streaks of silver that looked a shade too perfect. Might have been a rug.

  “I appreciate you shuffling your schedule around for me this morning, Doctor.”

  Vosberg nodded, and his smile was genuine. “You said it was urgent.”

  “It is. And it’s confidential, as well. I’m here off the record.”

  Vosberg’s brows rose, and Mason noticed that they had a red tint to them and wondered if the guy was a naturally pale-skinned carrot top. “Now I’m even more curious.”

  Mason got that. He was taking a risk coming here, but he had to know. “Okay, here it is. I’m working a serial killer case, but the killer is dead.”

  “You’re talking about the Wraith,” Vosberg said, getting up from his chair and crossing the room to the large coffeepot in the corner. “I read that he killed himself after his latest murder.” He paused and looked inquiringly at Mason. “I’m having tea,” he said, pouring steaming water from the steel carafe into an earthenware mug. “Would you like some?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Vosberg took his time choosing a tea bag from an assortment in a fancy wooden box. “Please, go on.”

  “The man who killed himself the other night? He’s not the man I was chasing. That man died weeks ago.”

  “So you were wrong, then. The man you thought was the Wraith wasn’t.” Vosberg had finally unwrapped a tea bag, and was dipping it slowly and rhythmically in a way that was almost hypnotic.

  “No. There was no question that I had the right man and that he was dead. But he was an organ donor. And if I didn’t know better, I would have sworn he went on killing. Somehow. Maybe. I just want to believe he’s done now.”

  “This Wraith…you believe he went on hunting from beyond the grave?” The doc turned slowly and looked at him.

  “The man who committed the last murder was a recent transplant recipient. And another recipient seemed to see the crime as it happened. Having dreams, visions.”

  Vosberg stopped dipping his tea bag, and his eyes flashed excitedly. “Did they have the same donor? And was that donor your dead suspect?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Detective, you need to find out. If they did, this could be groundbreaking.”

  Mason blinked, not quite sure the doctor was saying what he thought he was saying. “So if their common donor was the original serial killer, then you think—”

  “That one person who got his organs continued his crimes, then killed himself, and another was able to see those crimes. What sorts of transplants were these? Corneas on the second one, I’d bet.”

  Mason lowered his eyes, because the doc was doing that same thing Rachel did, watching him and reading him like a neon sign. He could feel it. “I can’t divulge that.”

  The doctor was silent for a moment, pacing to his desk, retaking his seat. “Well, if I were you, I’d try to find out if there was a common donor. Somewhere there has to be a master list of, at the very least, the hospitals where each of the original donor’s organs were sent. You combine that with the date and you could compare with suspects’ health records.”

  “Medical records are confidential. And I don’t exactly know how to use this theory to justify a warrant,” Mason said, thinking out loud.

  Dr. Vosberg gave a short bark of laughter. “I guess you’re right. This would sound insane to a judge.”

  “Yeah.” Mason sighed. “Sounded insane to me, too, which is why I came to see you.”

  “So that I could tell you it’s not insane at all? That I believe it’s entirely possible, and, in this case, even probable?”

  Mason looked at him, waiting.

  The doctor nodded. “In my opinion, it is both possible and probable, Detective Brown, that a patient who received body parts from a killer became a killer himself. And I think that if it happened once, it could happen again to other recipients of organs from this same donor.”

  Mason was stunned. And scared. “A nurse told me one donor could be used to help over a hundred patients.”

  Vosberg nodded. “I understand your alarm, but no, I don’t believe every one of them would turn to killing. Your visionary hasn’t, after all.” He shrugged, then he looked down at his tea as if reading answers there. “No, I would expect most people would not be compatible with such urges. Most would drown them out with their own moral compass, bury them, reject them. This killer would have to find a host that was compatible.” He nodded as the thoughts seemed to gel in his mind. “The man who committed suicide, he must have been receptive to the notion of committing murder but afterward couldn’t live with what he’d done, so he took his own life and the killer inside him moved on.”

  “You say that like the killer’s a separate being.”

  “He’s the evil part of the original donor. The part that lived on beyond him. The part that didn’t die. Or, should I say, parts. In times past, he might have been seen as a demon.”

  Mason lowered his head, shaking it. “I don’t believe in demons, Doctor.”

  “Neither do I. No, my research is leaning toward the notion that our habits, tastes and tendencies are largely due to unique mutations in our DNA. Mutations that make each of us different from every other human being. But don’t you see, Detective Brown? The DNA lives in every single cell. It goes with the organs into their new bodies. This is why so many organ recipients experience cravings for the donor’s favorite foods, have flashes of the donor’s memories and so much more. It’s all in my boo—”

  “I know, I read it. Tell me, are any of your…colleagues on board with this theory of yours? About cellular consciousness?”

  “No. No, but I’m gathering more data all the time.”

  “I see.” So he was really nothing but a quack with a wild and unproven theory. Mason liked evidence, facts, proof. Until he had it, he would stick with the old adage that the simplest solution was usually the right one.

  The doctor sighed. “This must be quite upsetting to the person having the visions. I imagine it would help her immensely if you would let her know that you don’t think she’s crazy.”

  Mason nodded, started to get up, then stopped and turned. “How do you know it’s a she?”

  “I believe I met her last Wednesday.”

  What had Rachel said about last Wednesday? Right, that support group where she’d met Terry Cobb, or Terry Skullbones as she called him.

  “You run the support group?”

  Vosberg nodded. “Corneal grafts aren’t so common that there would likely be two in the same relatively small geographic area within such a narrow timeframe.”

  Mason had no doubt that Rachel had sought out the support group and Dr. Vosberg for the same reason he had. To ask questions. To try to figure out what was going on. She was a wannabe sleuth if he’d ever met one. And she was a natural at it, too. He wondered if she’d managed to get any further than he had.

  He got up from his chair, and the doc did likewise, extending his hand across the desk. Mason shook it. “Thank you very much for your time, Doctor. And again, this has to remain confidential.”

  “Of course,” Vosberg said. “It’s not as if anyone would believe it, anyway.”

  CHAPTER 12

  The Wraith lives on

  Though Cobb is gone.

  He’s entered Number Three.

  To find out more


  Best watch the whore.

  Was blind, but now she sees.

  The note was in Mason’s email when he arrived at the station later that morning, and it gave him chills right up his spine. There was no point in trying to delete or hide it. First, because Rosie came to his desk just as he opened the email and read it right over his shoulder, and secondly, because he was done covering things up or hiding the truth, however crazy it might sound. He was straight-up honest from here on.

  “Sounds like he’s talking about Rachel de Luca, doesn’t it?” Rosie asked.

  “It does.” Mason saw the chief’s office door open and waved him over to read the note.

  “Gotta mean the de Luca woman,” Subrinsky said. “So she’s connected to all this somehow?”

  Mason nodded. “Which we already knew. Her brother was one of the victims. She knew Terrence Cobb, though she’d only met him twice.”

  “I want her under surveillance tonight,” the chief said. “We have no way of knowing what this means, and I’m not having the Queen of Nice murdered on my watch. Not with a warning flashing like a neon sign.”

  “Queen of Nice?” Mason blinked in shock as the chief headed back into his office and slammed the door.

  Rosie shrugged. “All that positive living stuff she spouts.”

  “Trust me, she is not the Queen of Nice. She’s not even the Queen of Civil.”

  Rosie grinned. “Not with you, anyway, huh? Then again, you didn’t make the best first impression.”

  Mason took a deep breath and decided to withhold any further comment. “Let’s get the net guys to give us some help on this, see if it can be traced.”

  “I imagine he’s too smart for that, but yeah, I’ll get them on it.”

  * * *

  Unmarked units had been following Rachel de Luca without her knowledge all day, because Mason had thought it would look fishy if he’d insisted he be the only one keeping tabs on her.

  When he arrived to take his shift that evening, though, her house was dark and quiet, and apparently empty.