by Pat White
“Listen, Max—”
“Don’t act like we’re mates, you bloody hypocrite. All you wanted from me was my job. And you got it, didn’t you? You and Charles Edmonds were the end of me.”
“He was frustrated that we couldn’t find his son’s murderer.”
“He had me so bloody distracted about losing my job I couldn’t do it properly. Maybe if I had been a little more focused I would have seen something at King’s Cross and could have prevented that disaster.”
“You can’t possibly blame yourself for that.”
But he did. He blamed himself for not being at the top of his game and not noticing something out of place.
“The Blackwell Group needs you,” Jeremy said.
“Bugger off!”
Barnes stood. “Think about it. I’m leaving my mobile number on the counter.”
Max followed him to the door, adrenaline pumping through his veins.
“One last thing…” Barnes hesitated. “The killer we’re after? Chicago Police think it may be the Crimson Killer.”
Heat burned Max’s cheeks. More young men were dying because Max hadn’t caught a murderer. Barnes no doubt enjoyed seeing Max’s reaction to that bit of information.
He pulled open the door, shoved Barnes into the hallway and slammed it shut. Fisting his hands tighter than he thought possible, he pounded on the heavy oak. “Bloody hell.”
JEREMY GLANCED at Templeton’s door and smiled. Mission accomplished. He descended the stairs to the street front, popped open his mobile and called in.
“It’s Barnes.”
“How did it go?” the Patron asked.
“He’ll do it.” He glanced over his shoulder at the flat window. “He can’t help himself.”
“You believe he’s up to it?”
“Yes, sir,” Jeremy said without hesitation. He owed his former boss this opportunity.
“But his condition…”
“He’s managing.” At least Jeremy hoped he was.
“Fine, get on with it. You’ve got twenty-four hours to finish assembling your team.”
“Yes, sir.” He hung up.
He’d have to give Max a few hours to cool off. Jeremy had expected as much. Max not only resented Jeremy’s ambition, but also his upper-class background and Oxford education. Jeremy’s parents had planned on him becoming a solicitor, but he’d wanted to be a police detective. His family had never recovered from that one, their black-sheep son.
Jeremy’s ambition and the fact he’d taken Max’s job when he’d left SCI, had made Max dislike Jeremy even further. Max wouldn’t join the Blackwell Team willingly.
But with the possibility of the Crimson Killer on the loose, the seeds of frustration would grow wild until Max couldn’t stand it. He’d have to shelve the pride and cope with his PTSD in order to solve this case and make things right.
Making things right was Jeremy’s goal in offering this position to Max. He owed his surly ex-boss as much. If Jeremy hadn’t been stuck in traffic, Max wouldn’t have been at King’s Cross when the bomb went off. Instead, Jeremy would have been blown across the train station, his career would have been over, and he’d be hiding in a flat somewhere, unable to deal with the trauma.
He glanced at the flat window. How bad was it, he wondered? Max could use an ally, someone to stick by his side and help him cope. He sure as hell wouldn’t accept help from Jeremy.
Max was a brilliant investigator and knew the C.K. case better than anyone. Offering him this position felt justified, it felt good. Jeremy hadn’t felt good about much since the bombing. Guilt had been his unwelcome companion this past year.
He made some calls while he waited for the girl to return, calls to solidify his team. Time was against them, but with an expert group, Jeremy felt sure they could solve the case.
About twenty minutes later, Max’s assistant bounded up the sidewalk toward the flat. She had a lightness about her, an innocence. He sensed something between Max and the blond girl that even Max seemed oblivious to. The most important lesson Jeremy had learned from his boss: key clues are often right in front of you.
She approached Jeremy. “What happened? Did he kick you out?”
“Afraid so.”
“Too bad. He could use the company to practice his social skills.”
Yes, she was perfect.
“How long have you been with Max?” he asked.
“Started working for him about four months ago.”
“Doing?”
“Transcribing his book, picking up around the apartment, light cooking, errands. I guess you’d call me his Girl Friday.”
“He’s a demanding boss, I’ll bet.”
“Pretty much.”
“But you haven’t quit.”
“I need the money.”
And he needs you.
“Cassie, is it?”
“Yes.”
Jeremy shot her a charming smile. “How do you feel about travel?”
Chapter Two
Max fought back overwhelming panic and climbed out of the cab, leaning heavily on his cane. What the hell was he doing here? A mistake. He never should have come.
He stood on the Chicago sidewalk and studied the old brick building aged with charm. This would be the command center and his home for the next two weeks.
Only steps away from jumping back into the thick of it, he breathed, in and out. Take it easy, mate. Sounds of the city assaulted his senses: car horns, a bus spitting exhaust fumes, a siren wailing in the distance. It was a loud city to be sure.
“Having second thoughts?” Jeremy Barnes said, standing next to him.
“What, and miss the chance to chastise you at every turn?”
“Enough, already,” Cassie said, stepping next to Max.
He always knew when she was close by her scent: crisp and fresh, like mango.
“Could you help with the bags, Mr. Barnes?” Cassie said.
“My pleasure.”
Max started up the stairs, irritated that she didn’t ask him for help. No, Max was the broken one, the cripple. Then why the hell had they asked him to lead this project?
He stepped onto the landing and hesitated. “Is everyone here?”
“Mostly. You ready?” Barnes said.
“Why not?” He opened the door and stepped inside.
Cassie and Barnes shared a look behind him, he could feel it. Amazing how people thought since he was psychologically impaired that he missed things: awkward moments, tender moments. Since the bombing, Max had discovered that in some ways he could sense a lot more than the average man. Then again, maybe that was a symptom of going mad.
He made his way through the front hall while Barnes carried the bags up to the second floor. The thought of Barnes waiting on him gave Max perverse pleasure.
“Good morning,” he said, entering the main room, head up, back straight, trying to downplay his disability. He’d always had a presence. No reason to think he’d lost that along with his mind.
“How’s everyone?” He slipped off his leather jacket and tossed it to the desk. He turned to address the team.
“Hey, guv, bloody good to see you,” Art McDonald said with a firm handshake. He wore his usual burnt-orange suit and loud-patterned tie. The man lived for the seventies.
“Haven’t changed your style of dress, I see,” Max said.
“No, sir. You look fantastic. You’re on the mend, still on holiday in the U.S.?”
“You bet.”
That was his official line when he’d left SCI: after seventeen years of round-the-clock police work, Max was taking a long-deserved holiday in the U.S. He’d been too ashamed to admit the truth: he was running from his ghosts.
They shook hands and Art’s grip calmed Max’s racing heartbeat. Not nerves, he told himself, just the usual rush from starting a case.
“Bobby Finn’s here too, guv.”
“Hello, guv’nor,” Bobby said, entering from the hallway. “It’s an honor to be working with yo
u again.”
Ten years ago Max had convinced the angry teenager to trade his criminal ways for a career in law enforcement. Bobby would become a fine investigator one day, once he learned to rein in his emotions. Bobby shook Max’s hand, his eyes expressing respect, maybe even awe.
Most of the boys Max had worked with at SCI held him in high regard. Max had solved cases that had baffled other investigators by making sense of clues that had been casually dismissed.
Max had the uncanny ability to step into the criminal’s mind, to become the criminal and gain insight. Apparently he hadn’t stepped far enough into C.K.’s world. Ah, well, that cock-up hadn’t seemed to tarnish his rep with McDonald and Finn.
“You boys have come a long way,” Max said.
“Wouldn’t miss a chance like this, sir,” McDonald said.
“Who’s this, guv?” Bobby asked, nodding at Cassie.
“Cassie Clarke, Agents Finn and McDonald.”
Bobby Finn leaned forward to shake her hand, a little too far forward.
“You with the Chicago PD?” McDonald said.
“No, I’m Mr. Templeton’s assistant.”
“No kidding?” Bobby smiled, a twinkle in his eye.
Great, he could tell Cassie was going to be a distraction for the boys. Why not? She distracted the hell out of Max most days.
Her crisp scent and sunny personality would breeze into his flat each morning, taunting him with what could never be. He’d never be romantically involved again. He would never saddle a woman he cared about with his disabilities.
“Can you assist us as well?” Bobby had always been a flirt.
“Okay, let’s get to work.” Max leaned toward her and whispered into Cassie’s ear. “Maybe you should dress a little more conservatively tomorrow, yeah?”
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
He glanced at her outfit: black jeans and a short-sleeved shirt, tight enough to show the curve of her breast.
What’s wrong indeed. “Maybe you shouldn’t have come.”
Yet a part of him was relieved. She had a way of grounding him, calming him during his episodes. They never spoke of it. He couldn’t admit defeat to a senseless mental disorder. Yet here, in a strange city, working a gruesome murder case, he appreciated her presence.
Careful. She’s just an employee.
“I’m here to help you stay on track with the book, and assist you with the investigation,” she said.
“I’m not paying you for the latter.”
“No, Mr. Barnes is.”
Barnes? Had he hired Cassie to be his personal spy, to report back on whether Max was working the case or falling apart? If he had such little faith in Max, why had he asked him to lead the team?
Max suddenly understood Barnes’s motivation—guilt.
No matter. It would give Max the opportunity to redeem himself.
“I believe taking a paycheck from me and from Mr. Barnes is called double-dipping,” he said to Cassie.
“I’m sure I’ll earn every penny of it.” She glanced up at him. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said it that way.”
Why not? He deserved it. No doubt he was the nastiest boss she’d ever had.
“Look, you’re in foreign territory,” she said.
“I’m not completely helpless, Miss Clarke.”
“I didn’t say you were. It’s just, well, I’m here to help.”
And make a hefty sum off her regular salary plus Barnes’s donation. Somehow that cocky bloke would come out smelling like a rose. He always did.
“Okay, people! Let’s get started,” he ordered.
Chairs shuffled, voices hushed. They settled down, but the room hummed with anticipation.
“I’m Max Templeton, former team leader of the Special Crime Initiative of Scotland Yard. You all know Jeremy Barnes,” he said, trying to keep the distaste from his voice. “He’s second in command. We’ve got an excellent team assembled—from Scotland Yard, Agents Bobby Finn and Art McDonald. They worked on C.K. cases in London.”
“C.K.?” a female voice asked.
“Crimson Killer,” Max said. “More on that later. Let’s go around the room and get acquainted.”
The female, Ruth Kreegan, forensic specialist for the county, introduced herself. Kreegan had been instrumental in catching the Soda Serial Killer, a case that had gone cold for more than a decade. She’d started her career in the military, then had gone into civilian service as a forensic scientist. Her husband was with the Chicago PD bomb unit. Barnes had initially solicited another expert, who was sidelined by a car accident. They were lucky that Kreegan could fill in at the last minute.
Former Chicago Police detective, Joe Spinelli introduced himself. Spinelli, late thirties, had taken early retirement to start his own detective agency. He’d been hired by the family of the first victim to investigate the young man’s death. He had fifteen plus years with the Chicago PD, mostly in homicide. Spinelli’s detective skills and local contacts would be a great asset.
For the next fourteen days, Max, Barnes, Art McDonald, Bobby Finn, Ruth Kreegan and Joe Spinelli would be the Blackwell Group.
“Hey, guv, what about—”
“That’s another thing,” Max cut off Bobby Finn. “We’re all agents and will refer to each other as such. We work as a team, sharing any and all information, no matter how silly or insignificant. The team will only succeed if we work together. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” the group answered.
The door opened and closed with a crash. “Sorry I’m late.”
A young man, maybe twenty-five, raced into the room and slid behind a desk. He wore a black baseball cap with a dog on the front, a navy blue T-shirt and jeans, topped off by a corduroy blazer.
“And you are?” Max said.
“Eddie Malone, freelance computer geek at your service. I would have been here an hour ago but traffic on the Dan Ryan was a killer.”
A few of the boys chuckled.
“We don’t need the details,” Max said. “Be on time tomorrow. We’ve only got fourteen days.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Here’s the gist of it—the Crimson Killer targets male victims, eighteen to twenty-two years old, well off by most people’s standards.”
“We’re assuming C.K. is a man?” said forensics expert Kreegan.
“We are. The London victims were all healthy, strapping lads able to defend themselves,” Max said. “The Chicago murders are the same, yeah?”
“Yes, sir,” Barnes said. “Athletic young men, hardworking, both disappeared without notice.”
“Let’s review the London cases,” Max started. “Each victim is kidnapped and held for two days before the body is found. He’s been strangled with a crimson scarf, his lips painted with crimson lipstick, and a red tea bag is found on the body. We had a suspect, but not enough evidence to arrest him.”
“The suspect supposedly died in a car accident, but no body was ever found,” Barnes added. “The murders stopped. Until now.”
“Did the killer contact the Chicago Police?” Max said.
“Yes, sir,” Agent Spinelli answered. “A buddy of mine says they received a note before the first kid was kidnapped, but didn’t think anything of it. They thought it was some crackpot.”
“The note was poetry?”
“Yes, sir. After I got hired by the boy’s father, I did some research and found similarities with the SCI case in London—red scarf, painted lips, red tea bag.”
“Our killer likes leaving clues and stringing us along. That’s his game,” Max said. “Agent Barnes, you included information from the previous murders in everyone’s folder, yeah?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, this is how it goes—Agent Spinelli, follow up with local witnesses. Talk to anyone who saw the victims just before they disappeared. Talk to friends. Ask about daily routines, party habits, strange occurrences at work. Agent Kreegan, I need a rundown of everything found at the scene, even
if it seems insignificant. Late Eddie?”
“Sir?”
“I need you to get into the victims’ personal computers. Check their appointment calendars, e-mails, instant messages, that sort of thing.”
“Do you think they knew the killer?” Agent Kreegan said.
“It’s possible,” Max said. “We have to work all the angles.”
“Could it be a copycat?” Late Eddie asked.
“Unlikely. We kept the gory details out of the press and didn’t call it a serial case right off. On the other hand, if this is a copycat, that will work in our favor. This murderer should follow C.K.’s pattern so we’ll know what’s coming. Other questions?”
“No, sir,” was the collective answer.
“Good. I picked this building because of its central location. It’s easy to get to if you’re taking public transport from the suburbs, which I hear is very dependable.” He paused and glanced at Late Eddie. A couple of the boys chuckled at the hint.
“Also, there’s plenty of room for all of us. I know some of you have families and won’t be spending the night. Barnes and I will be here twenty-four/seven. I’m assuming Agents McDonald and Finn will be camping out?”
“Yes, sir,” McDonald said.
“And me,” Cassie added.
“My assistant, Cassie Clarke,” Max introduced. “She’ll be assisting me with paperwork and incidentals. All right, let’s get started. Agent Finn, tag along with Spinelli for interviews. Listen closely to witnesses and family. Something might set off a red flag, something you heard in the previous investigation that we didn’t think significant.”
“And me, guv?” Art McDonald said.
“Interview the parents of the second victim, ask about the boy’s mood lately, marks in school, new friends, you know the drill.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If C.K. follows the pattern, we’ll have exactly two days after we receive the next poem to stop him from killing again. Agent Barnes, I need you to walk through the latest crime scene with me.”
