“Not at the time of the murders. Dad told me they didn’t tell anyone for fear of exactly this. A copycat.”
“But people know this now?” Perez’s gaze was intense, unwavering. She gave him the fucking creeps.
“I would say it’s highly likely. There have been letters from TBK uncovered since the murders that were sent to the victims pre-murder and to the families postmortem that were never given to the police.”
“Where are these documents now?” Brooks asked.
Jacob rubbed his fingertips together. Well shit.
“In a private collection,” he replied.
“What are the chances we can see those? To determine if they’re real?” Perez asked.
Fuck, but that was going to piss off Emma, and he couldn’t decide if that was a good or bad thing. He should want to push her away, make her angry enough to refuse to see him ever again.
He cleared his throat and pushed the uncomfortable knot of emotions aside. He had to focus.
“I think I can make that happen. Here are the originals.” Jacob laid the documents out on the table. He could almost recite these word for word.
Perez immediately bent over them, her nose almost pressed against the paper. “Can I see the new letters? Do we have the letter from Laura’s truck yet?”
“No, forensics hasn’t finished with it,” Jacob answered. They’d found it in the trash can at the station, wadded up with other fliers Laura might have picked up along her route.
Mullins shook his head and brought the documents over. The smothered smile spoke volumes. Perez was the kind of officer—agent—who only saw the case. Jacob could relate.
Mullins laid the print next to the first generation letters.
“Here, in the first set, they are signed as TBK. This signifies his MO, which was to torture his victims, take out their eyes and then kill them. It was assumed the removal of the eyes was to steal or preserve that experience for the killer. The eyeballs were his trophy—”
“Perez,” Brooks barked.
Jacob folded his arms tightly over his chest, gripping his arms with both hands. He’d heard all of the theories. Every damned one of them.
“The point?” Brooks prompted.
Perez blinked at him, clearly taken by surprise. “Oh. Right.” She glanced at him, her cheeks growing pink. “Sorry, the point. The original killer was TBK, the man your father arrested and the same one who died in prison. This one,” she gestured to the new letter, “he signs it as TBKiller. It’s both a copycat and a killer trying to find his own identity. There are probably more bodies out there we don’t know about. His learning victims, while he was trying to figure out how to reproduce the kills.”
“Mullins, call Lali and get her to look up bludgeoning and any murders to do with the orbital cavity. She might be able to find those. Let’s keep this piece to ourselves. I’d like to mitigate what the public knows. I want to control his public image. It will enrage the suspect to hopefully make a mistake.” Brooks leaned over the documents, examining the differences.
Jacob blew out a breath.
It was a copycat. He’d known it in his gut, but hearing the FBI confirm his suspicion was all the confirmation he needed.
TBK was dead. Who was the new person? Where had they come from? And when would they kill again? Was Emma in danger?
“Uh, Brooks?” The agent in charge of PR, Benjamin Johns, stared at his phone, gaze growing wide.
“Yes, Ben?”
“I think you should see this.” Ben grabbed the remote and clicked the power button on the TV mounted on the wall. The noon news flickered into view—with Lieutenant Miller on the PD steps.
Miller was decked out in his full uniform, giving the cameras his warmest trust me face. The lying bastard’s ability to spin stories was what got him the LT job in the first place.
“We want to settle our citizen’s fears,” Miller said. “These TBK-style murders are not the same person. We are dealing with an incompetent, lowlife copycat—”
“Damn it. Ben, get out there and fix this. Get him off that microphone,” Brooks snapped.
Ben hustled out of the room while Jacob grabbed his phone and dialed the chief’s cell.
“I turned the news on,” Stevenson snarled on the other end of the line. “Do the feds know?”
“They’re working on it now,” Jacob replied, his vision hazing red. He should have known Miller wouldn’t go without a fight. “Fucking cocksucker.”
“I’m going to have his head over this. Tell Brooks I’m dealing with it.” Stevenson hung up. Jacob hoped the chief tore him a new asshole.
“Mullins, Abraham.” Brooks turned toward the two men. “I want you two to work on our copycat. He’s going to react to this statement. I want to know how. Also, have Lali look into the mailman Detective Payton said the first victim’s neighbors saw. I don’t buy it for an instant he happened to be named Mitchell.” Brooks glanced at Jacob. “Go over the details of the old cases. Look for connections, a pattern we might not have considered before. TBK picked his victims out far in advance. Our copycat will mimic that, and we might be able to narrow down who the next target is.”
“Excuse me.” One of the mousy receptionists danced in the doorway with Mullins. The agent stepped back and allowed the woman into the room. She peered at Jacob.
“What’s up?” he asked, ambling toward her. She held a large pastry box.
“This was delivered for you, Detective.” She set it down on one of the empty tables.
Jacob frowned and flipped the lid open.
Inside was a dozen strawberry-frosted donuts with donut holes in the center of each, dipped in white frosting and painted to look like an eyeball. In the center of the box was a letter, and on top of the letter—a finger. A human finger.
A present, just for you, Detective.
Iron: I have new stuff uploading.
Mercy: Can’t wait to see what you got.
Iron: How are the others doing? Havent had time to check the logs.
Mercy: Good, as far as I can tell. Joker is having storage issues.
Iron: Hes a prick.
Mercy: That’s not very nice.
Joe: How do you get blood out of a white shirt?
Mercy: ...you don’t
Iron: Dude, burn it already. Remember the rule? No evidence left behind unless you mean to.
Private Window
Mercy: You have to be more careful about what you say in the group, Max.
Iron: I know I forget.
Mercy: You can’t fuck up. She’ll kick you out of the club, and you know what happens when people get kicked out.
Iron: I dont know, but I can guess.
Mercy: I’d hate for that to happen to you.
Iron: Yeah at least not until I get to meet you.
Mercy: Seriously?
Iron: Yeah I mean I was.
Mercy: Iron...
Mercy: I don’t think that’s a good idea.
Mercy: If we start meeting up, it’ll draw attention to us.
Iron: Yeah, I guess youre right. It was stupid.
Mercy: No, it’s not. I like you, I just think what we’re doing—it’s bigger than us, you know?
Iron: Yeah.
Iron: I think I can hear him.
Mercy: Who?
Iron: Mitchell Black.
Iron: I can hear him speaking to me.
Mercy: What does he say?
Iron: To kill the girl. Finish what was started.
Mercy: Are you sticking to your plan?
Iron: To the letter.
Mercy: Good. I always thought your plan was one of the best.
Mercy: Hey, got to go. Rounds are starting soon.
Iron: Me too. Want to try to do some scouting tonight.
Emma kept her gaze on the top of the hill. She revved the bike and it shot up, up—she hunched down and at the last possible second, kicked out of the seat—she soared over the last hill before the designated stop of the course. Adrenaline poun
ded in her veins, and her heart thundered in her chest. There was nothing like those brief few seconds she was airborne to really make her feel free. Like she could do anything.
She put the back wheel down first, then the front, and shot forward, not easing off the accelerator until she’d gone over the white chalk stripe. Or what was left of it. As soon as the guys hot on her tail had passed, she cut across from her inside position toward the boundary and her truck.
The light was fading, and she’d burned enough gas and energy for one day. She’d needed to drive some of her guilt away, and riding her bike always gave her a fresh perspective.
She might have screwed up with Jacob to the point where it couldn’t be fixed, but she would still figure out a way to apologize. He might hate her, might never trust her again, so all she could do was be honest with him. Tell him she was sorry, that she regretted it, that she missed his damn scowling face, and she barely knew him.
God, she had it bad for a cop.
A figure unfolded from the lengthening shadows near her truck and began ambling toward her. She pushed the face shield up and peered at him. The sense of being watched had never faded, and if anything, she was more on edge.
She knew that face.
Jacob.
She blew out a breath, torn between relief, joy, and dread at seeing him again.
Emma came to a stop near the tailgate of her truck and pulled off her helmet, half-afraid to look at him.
“That’s a nice look.” Though Jacob’s words were easy, his posture was tense, as if he were a coil about to snap.
“Thanks. Helmet hair is all the rage these days.” She leaned forward on the handlebars. Sweat trickled down her spine, her chest, everywhere really. This was not how she’d expected to see him. “How’d you find me?”
“Called the shop. Simon told me.”
“Ah.” Now that made sense. Simon was more than ready for Derrick to be out of her life, and if that meant throwing another man at her, Simon would do it. Wasn’t the first time.
Jacob stared, scrutinizing everything about her. Was this what it felt like to be a suspect? She didn’t like it.
“Too bad you didn’t get here earlier. We could have done the flat track. Ridden a bike before?”
“Yeah.”
“What kind?”
“Motorcycle.”
“A road bike, I’m guessing?”
“Yeah.”
Well this was like pulling teeth.
She swung her leg over the side of the bike and toed the kickstand into place. Whatever came next, it was bound to be the least fun she’d had all day. And here she’d thought it couldn’t get worse than standing in the Kelleys’ yard with Jacob angry at her.
God, she’d done that to him. Pushed him right to the edge of being that enraged—and she knew he had anger issues. It was so her fault. Could he forgive her? Not if he knew she’d followed him to the second scene, but she couldn’t keep secrets like that from him.
She crossed to the tailgate, took off her long-sleeved jersey, and started unzipping her impact rig. It was essentially a long-sleeved sports fabric shirt with crash pads for her upper body attached to it. She’d seen enough riders seriously injured on the track to never get on a bike without more than a helmet. Hell, she was kind of attached to breathing.
Prying the gear off was another matter altogether. She wiggled out of it, leaving her panting, her skin damp and her sports bra sticking to her. She peered out of the corner of her eye at Jacob and found him watching her still.
What did she say to him? How did she proceed?
He seemed willing to wait her out.
She grabbed a bottle of water from a cooler she’d stashed in the bed of the pick-up and faced him while she sucked down the chilled liquid, trying to come up with something else to say besides, I’m sorry.
“The FBI ever get here?” she asked for lack of anything else to say to him.
“Yeah, they’re working the case now.”
“Oh.” She bit her lip and sat on the tailgate. Fuck it. “I really am sorry about today.”
Jacob merely watched her. She wanted some reaction from him. A flicker of emotion. But all he gave her was a dead-pan stare.
“Why are you here, Jacob? You have every right to be pissed at me.” She didn’t have the energy to coax anything from him. If he was going to hate her, he might as well get on with it.
“You texted me.”
“And you never replied. I thought that was it.”
“I was busy all day.” He sighed and sat on the tailgate next to her. “Miller shit on us all. Then we got a letter in a fucking donut box with someone’s finger in it. The print was burned off, and it doesn’t match our last two victims. That means there’s a third out there. This guy is screwed up.”
She opened and closed her mouth, not sure how to respond to that. There was a third victim now? One they hadn’t found? That was unlike TBK, but they were dealing with someone new. She wanted to ask him questions, crawl into his brain and get him to tell her everything, but that wasn’t why he was here. If it was, he’d be asking her questions, telling her more.
Jacob needed a safe place to land. This case was fucking with him, probably more than her, and he’d come to her. Was there hope? Did she dare try to mend the bridge?
“The finger—are they looking for them?”
“Yeah.” Jacob nodded. “They told me to go home, get some rest.”
“Instead you showed up here, a track in the middle of nowhere?”
“I told you. Simon said you were here.”
“And you couldn’t call me?”
He didn’t say anything for a moment.
“I didn’t know if I would come,” he said finally.
Ouch.
“Because I betrayed your trust?” she asked.
“Something like that.”
She bit her lip, a little voice whispering, He knows.
“I followed you this morning,” she said. “After Harold’s house.”
Silence.
She wiggled her toes in her boots and took a long pull from her water bottle, waiting for him to yell at her, to rage or something. When he didn’t, she wasn’t sure what to do with herself.
“Are you going to say anything?” She turned toward him. Anger would be better than silence.
“I know you followed me. I saw you.” He twisted to face her as well. “Would you prefer if I yelled and screamed about it? Had you arrested?”
“I’m more used to the yelling, screaming, and hitting than the silence.” She tried to laugh, but it died on her lips. Her chest ached. This was some kind of twisted, goodbye-and-thanks-for-the-sex chat, wasn’t it? “I’d prefer to not be arrested, though I’m not against the use of handcuffs.”
Jacob’s lips were a thin, white line.
“Did he yell a lot?” he asked.
“Yeah.” She glanced away.
“Dad did sometimes. Not often. The silence was worse.”
“I can imagine.”
“They had a picture of you at the gas station. That’s how I knew you were there.”
“Am I in trouble?”
“No, it’s not a crime to go to a gas station, but it doesn’t look good. Did you leave at all last night, Em?”
She blinked at the shorted version of her name. “No. I went out to the truck to leave, but you followed me. You don’t think I did this?”
“No, but I have to ask.”
“Now you’ve asked.” She pushed off the tail gate.
She couldn’t even pretend to be angry, because he had every right to ask.
“Emma, there you are.”
Shit, couldn’t he leave her be?
“Derrick.” Her lips curled, and not in pleasure. “I thought I told you to fuck off.”
Derrick closed the distance between them and reached for her. She pushed his hands away and shoved at him.
“But, baby—” He’d left her voicemails all day.
“She said to f
uck off.” Jacob came out of nowhere, shouldering between them and planting Derrick firmly on his ass with a simple shove to his chest.
Emma would have laughed had she not been shocked. In a split second she wasn’t at the track anymore. She was in a dirt driveway, clinging to her daddy’s arm as she held him back from kicking ass.
“Jacob, no—don’t!” She grabbed his arm. “He’s not worth it. Derrick, get your ass out of here, now.”
She cupped Jacob’s face and stared into the depths of his eyes. He practically vibrated with rage. With all that was going on with the investigation, it was no wonder he’d have a short fuse.
“Jacob, look at me.” She heard Derrick stomp off, which was for the best, since he was out of his league here.
Jacob’s gaze flicked to her and back over her shoulder. “Who the hell is that?”
“My lying, cheating ex-boyfriend. He must need money right now or else he wouldn’t be bothering me.”
“You deserve better than that.” His gaze narrowed, glaring over her shoulder.
“Yeah, well, lonely is lonely, and for all of his faults, Derrick was okay company. But he’s out of the picture now.”
“Is he?” Jacob finally looked at her, those sky-blues focused on her, pinning her.
“Yeah.” She splayed her hands on his chest. “He’s out of my life.”
“Good.”
Jacob bent toward her, and she held her breath as he gathered her close. She expected a crushing, bruising kiss, but he treated her with care, his lips whispering over hers. Her heart felt as if it stuttered to a stop. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe for fear this was just a dream.
To: Black Widow
From: Mercy
Subject: Loose Cannon
I wouldn’t say anything, but I’m worried. Iron thinks he hears the voice of Mitchell Black speaking to him. I know Iron is one of our more eccentric members and he believes in reincarnation, but hearing him talk like that concerns me.
He also thinks that someday he and I will meet. I know you said to stay close to him and watch him, but I don’t think we should encourage this kind of a connection. I still think Iron is going to end up getting caught. The cat and mouse game he has planned with the police is too much. If he showed up here while the FBI is still looking for him, that could turn them on to what I’m doing.
Blind: Killer Instincts Page 10
