by Pat White
Like the mystery of the missing driver’s license? If the killer had taken it, that meant they weren’t dealing with their old friend from London. Or it meant C.K. had changed his M.O. Not good. Being able to anticipate his next move would help keep the next victim alive. If C.K. had switched tactics it would be yet another challenge.
And Max’s brain was already struggling with its own set of challenges, madness topping the list.
He wrapped his hand around his beer glass and listened to the sounds of the lunch crowd: a baseball game on the telly, intermittent laughter and idle chatter.
This case, chasing after C.K., brought him back to life a bit. It felt good to be needed and respected, but it would all crumble at his feet if he couldn’t trust the people around him.
“Cassie?”
“Yes?”
“We need to get things on the table.”
“I’ve got the folders right here. Which do you need?”
“Not those things. I need to know why you’re really here.” There, he’d said it. There had to be something that had made her come all the way to Chicago besides a financial incentive from Barnes.
“It’s my job. Mr. Barnes made it worth my while,” she teased.
“There’s more to it.”
“Hey, I’m an employee, not your psych patient.”
“I don’t want you to bare your soul to me.” On the other hand, maybe he did. “But here it is.” He leaned back in the booth and crossed his arms over his chest, studying her petite form as she fidgeted across the table from him. “I’ve got plenty of puzzles filling my brain. Why has C.K. resurfaced in Chicago? Is it really C.K. or a copycat? Why did Barnes ask me to lead the team? The list goes on. You can’t be one of those puzzles. I need to trust you completely. I need to know that everything you do, you do with my best interest in mind. I can’t feel that kind of trust if you keep things from me.”
“What makes you think I’m keeping something from you?”
“I just know. You’re not yourself.”
“Right.” She chuckled. “Not my usual flaky self these days?”
“I never thought of you as flaky, but rather, energetic, cheerful.”
“And that must drive you nuts.”
“Stop avoiding the question,” he said. “What is it? Is the thought of a serial killer getting to you?”
She didn’t answer. He waited, listened to the man at the table next to them complain to his lunch companion about his job.
“I used to live here,” she admitted.
“Why did you move?”
“Bad marriage.”
He realized how little he knew about her. “How long ago?”
“I lived here most of my life,” she said. “I moved to Seattle a year and a half ago. I thought coming back would help me find completion.”
“I’m sorry,” he paused, “about the marriage.”
“Don’t be. It made me tough.”
“Maybe not as tough as you think.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He hesitated.
“What?” she pushed.
“I’m not sure I’m comfortable making you look at gruesome photographs and take notes about murder details.”
“You don’t think I can handle it? Listen, I’m here to help you with this investigation any way I can. Don’t coddle me, Mr. Templeton, or I’ll have to quit.”
He’d hit a nerve. She wanted everyone to think of her as strong and confident. Who was Max to challenge her wishes?
“It’s a deal. No coddling,” he said. “Is there anything else I need to know about you?”
“What, like my bra size?” she joked.
He guessed that was her way of telling him to back off. He had to respect her space. Deep down he knew she wasn’t a personal threat.
“Okay, here is how it will go,” he said. “In order to do my job, I must trust you completely. In order to do that, I need to know you won’t share information with Agent Barnes or anyone else on the team without my permission.”
“You don’t trust Jeremy?” she said, with an innocent blink of blue eyes.
“Jeremy?” he repeated. Barnes must have already charmed her if she was referring to him by his first name. She rarely called Max by his.
“I don’t trust Agent Barnes,” he continued. “We have a history. Can you respect my wishes?”
“Yes, sir.”
A waitress slid a plate in front of Max and the smell of fried food awakened his taste buds. They didn’t make fish and chips like back home, but he kept hoping he’d find a pub that came close.
“Thank you,” Cassie said to the waitress.
Max nodded his thanks, plucked a chip from the plate and popped it into his mouth.
“May I ask a question?” she said.
“Sure.” He reached for his knife and fork.
“What happened to you?”
“I’m sorry?” He stabbed a piece of fish with his fork.
“What happened that made you…like this?”
“You mean the bombing that ruined my life? Ah, that’s simple. It’s called payback.”
“Excuse me?”
“I was where I shouldn’t have been, in time to be the victim of a terrorist bombing. I didn’t get shot on duty, or crack up in a car thanks to one too many pints. I got struck down at random as punishment for being a selfish bastard.”
“I’m sure that isn’t the case.”
“You didn’t know me then. Wasn’t a charmer like I am now,” he said with a smile. “Even drove my fiancée away.”
“Your fiancée?” she said, amazement in her voice.
“Yep, the reason I moved to Seattle—Lydia Drake.”
Just before she’d abandoned him, Lydia claimed it was Max’s self-pity that had ruined their relationship. He knew the truth: she didn’t want to be saddled to a cripple whose terrifying nightmares haunted him day and night.
“She had this great career opportunity in Seattle and I wasn’t doing anything important other than having multiple surgeries on my hip, so she brought me along,” Max said. “Set me up with doctors, enrolled me in physical therapy.”
“Sounds like she loved you very much.”
“She brought me to the States to be her sex toy.”
Cassie choked on her drink.
“What, the truth shocks you?” He leaned forward and spoke low. “Lydia said, ‘Come to Seattle, we’ll spend weekends on the coast and tour Victoria Island. The perfect place for an extended holiday.’ Instead, she stuck me in the flat and worked ten-hour days, six days a week. I was expected to have dinner ready at seven and fulfill her sexual needs at nine-thirty. If that offends your sensibilities then you’re too fragile for this kind of work. I’ll buy you a plane ticket and send you back to Seattle tomorrow morning.”
“And you’ll be safe,” she said.
“Safe?” He sat back. “From what?”
“From being honest with yourself. If you hide out in your apartment you’ll be safe from learning to cope with your condition. I’ve got news for you—you can hide but it doesn’t go away. You want to send me back so you’ll be safe from the one person who won’t let you get away with this self-destructive garbage.”
“You think I’m afraid of you?”
“Desperately, because I want to help you. I can bring you back to life and the thought terrifies you.”
“Is that what you’re about? Saving lost causes?” He narrowed his eyes. “I’ve heard about women like you. Was your husband a lost cause? Needed a little shot of self-confidence and you were there shaking your pompoms and making it all better?” He tasted the bitter words on his tongue, but he couldn’t stop. “What happened, did he outgrow his little cheerleader? Send you packing because he’d found someone better?”
“Not exactly,” she said, her voice soft, but still firm. “He put me in the hospital.”
“Blast,” he muttered. He should be struck down by lightning for twisting that knife through this
sweet girl’s heart. “I’m sorry.”
“Be sorry for yourself, not me. I’ve healed. You haven’t.”
“I never will. It’s not like I’ll wake up one day and be my old self again.”
“You talk like you’re the only one who’s had to deal with serious crap,” she said in a raised voice. “My ex-husband broke my back, put me in the hospital for two months and tracked me down at my sister’s when I got out. I had to abandon my family and friends in Chicago so I could get away from him and not put them in danger. The first six months in Seattle were hell, and my body still aches some days, thanks to him, but I don’t go around moaning about it.”
Cassie saw the line, crossed it and kept on running. She couldn’t help herself. She’d developed a new kind of strength where self-pity was concerned. Strength she had used to encourage the girls at the shelter to leave abusive situations. She was their champion, their inspiration. It made her feel as though the years spent with Karl weren’t wasted.
Yet the investigator sitting across from her wasn’t an abused wife on the run. He was a man whose life had been stripped from him at random. He deserved a little compassion.
“I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that,” she said, clutching her locket. An old, comforting habit.
“Actually, it’s entirely refreshing to see another side of my little blond assistant.” He smiled.
He looked so handsome when he smiled, his green eyes lighting up, his face looking softer, more touchable than when he scowled. She suddenly realized it had been a very long time since she’d been attracted to a man, and even longer since she’d wanted to touch one.
“I was being an ass,” he said. “I deserved a good thrashing.” He chomped on a piece of fish.
“As long as we’re being honest,” she hesitated, “I’ve got a suggestion about your appearance.”
“What, did I spill?” He glanced at his shirt.
“No, but you could use a shave.”
He rubbed his full beard. “I think it suits me.”
“You look like a bum.”
“Appearances can be deceiving. First rule of investigative work.”
“Yeah, well, you wouldn’t have to worry about getting food caught in your beard if you shaved it off.”
A piece of fish breading clung to the corner of his mouth. She reached out with her napkin to brush it away.
He grabbed her wrist as if the physical contact wounded him. It was such a gentle touch for such a powerful man.
She waited, searching his green eyes. She read only pain.
He let go of her wrist and pulled back so quickly he knocked over his drink.
“Bollocks,” he muttered, slipping out from the booth to avoid the dripping beer. “Miss?” He motioned for the waitress.
His cell phone rang. He pulled it from his suit jacket and handed it to Cassie, while he continued to dab the beer from his pants.
“This is Cassie,” she said.
Max studied her expression.
“It’s Jeremy. We received a note. You’d better get back to the command center.”
“We’ll be right there.” She snapped the phone shut.
“Another poem,” Max said, matter-of-factly.
“How did you know?” she asked.
“Bloody hell.”
THEY WORKED so hard, the fools. They swarmed the note like ants on a morsel of cake. Led by one big, pompous ant. But they weren’t smart enough. Not to save these bastards. They deserved to die. Why couldn’t they accept that?
Ah, let them run in circles, back to where they started. And everything would be as it should. Work hard, little ants. In two weeks the boys would all be dead. It will finally be over.
Chapter Four
Jeremy stood in the doorway and watched Max pace the small den in the back of the house. Cassie reread the note that had been dropped off at police headquarters, addressed to Max. Cassie and Max had been back here for half an hour while the rest of the team waited for Max’s directive.
Max was obsessing over this one, that was for certain, but he was no good to them in a highly emotional state. Emotions muddled things, clouded an investigator’s perspective. Jeremy believed in facts and process, in not letting the humanity of a case get to him.
“Again,” Max said.
The girl cleared her throat. “‘A cruel trick lights my wick/ A quick game isn’t the same/ Lies, betrayal and torture/ Giving up and giving in/ You will be struck down, Inspector. Again.’”
Silence blanketed the room. The reference to Max was chilling. C.K. had never directly challenged him before. The murderer seemed to be taunting Max, daring him to try and catch the scoundrel who had killed four young men in London and two in Chicago.
Max tapped his fingers against the brass handle of his cane.
“Max?” Jeremy interrupted.
He snapped his attention to Jeremy. The intensity of his eyes nearly made Jeremy step back.
“I’m sorry, Agent Templeton,” Jeremy corrected. “They’re waiting for a directive, sir.”
Jeremy didn’t want Max to appear weak or indecisive. Finn and McDonald were familiar with his skill at solving cases, but he still had to prove himself to the rest of the team.
“I’ll be right in,” Max said.
“Yes, sir.” Jeremy headed down the hallway to the front room. “Agent Templeton is coming straight away,” he said. “Everyone be ready with an update.”
Bobby Finn approached. “Is he okay, guv?”
Good man, Bobby. Max had taken him under his wing and the boy would always keep a look out for his mentor.
“He’s fine.” Jeremy turned to the group. “What have we got so far?”
“No prints on the note,” Agent Kreegan said from her desk. “Nothing unusual about the printing or the paper used. It could be purchased at any office supply store.”
“How about theories on a victim connection?” Jeremy crossed his arms over his chest, shoving back his frustration.
“The victims’ fraternity seems to be the only connection,” Spinelli said. “It’s a typical frat house with your usual keggers, mixers, stuff like that.”
“Any personal connection between the two men? Were they friends?”
“Not really,” Spinelli said.
“Anything strange happen to them before their deaths? Threats, phone calls?”
“Not that anyone mentioned, sir.” Spinelli paged through his small notebook. “Cunningham was hardworking, a bit of a hot-head, struggled with school-work. The other one, Peter Stanton, was a party boy. One of the kids said he wasn’t sure if Stanton would be back next semester. Thought he might flunk out.”
“Were they in the same classes, extracurricular activities?”
“No, guv,” Bobby offered. “They lived in the same fraternity house. That was the only connection.”
“Who received the note?”
“It was dropped off at division headquarters on the north side.” Spinelli glanced up at Jeremy. “I can’t help but wonder if this has less to do with the victims and more to do with our boss. Considering the last line of the note, it seems pretty personal.”
“They’re all personal.” Max strode into the room, aiming for the front desk. He had to get it under control, keep a lid on the anger simmering in his chest.
“I’ll take it from here, Agent Barnes.” Max scanned his team. “The sooner we solidify a connection between the victims the closer we’ll be to narrowing down suspects. The good news is,” he paused, “this isn’t like the rest of the poems. This one’s about me. If the killer was setting the clock for his next murder, he would have told us with great fanfare.”
“You think he’s messing with us?” Spinelli said.
“That’s exactly what he’s doing,” Max confirmed. “Stringing us along, sending us love notes. Waiting to see what we’ll do next.”
“You think he’s in the area, guv?” Bobby Finn asked.
“In the area and most likely watching us.”
“Because the games are a turn-on,” Art said. “Sorry to interrupt, guv.”
“Agent McDonald is right,” Max agreed. “This is the beginning of a very twisted game. The locals didn’t know how to play, so C.K.’s pulling out all his tricks for us. Let’s not get distracted. Focus on the case. The connection is the fraternity. Spinelli, interview anyone who stepped foot into the house in the last month—college girls looking for a good time, the cleaners, pest control, anyone. Ask the president about any odd circumstances, vandalism or threats. Agent McDonald, scan police reports of missing persons, male, eighteen to twenty-two years of age, and I mean scan with a magnifying glass. We can’t risk that C.K.’s got another victim on hold.”
That’s it, keep it moving. Don’t pause to take a breath. Don’t let them see your panic.
You will be struck down, Inspector. Again.
This one was different. The killer was after Max.
“Late Eddie, I need that report on the victims’ e-mails, especially incoming,” Max said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Next, who completed interviews with parents?”
“I’ve got information about the first boy’s parents,” Spinelli said.
“And I spoke briefly with the Stantons this morning, guv,” Art offered.
“I need to see them.”
“Sir, I found an interesting e-mail,” Late Eddie offered.
“Read it out loud.”
“It’s a link to a Tribune article dated two months ago,” Eddie started. “The headline reads, Sigma Delta Upsilon Receives Montgomery Grant for Community Service.”
“All right, then. We’ve got a house of upstanding citizens stalked by a cold-blooded killer who likes to dominate, manipulate and control. Did I miss anything?”
“We’re probably looking at a male, middle-aged, a loner,” Agent Kreegan said.
Although he didn’t expect a profile from a forensic scientist, she was right. It sounded a lot like their London suspect. Max paced to the window and took a deep breath. No, something didn’t feel right.
“We’re not seeing something here.” He turned to his team. “Something crucial.”
