by L. A. Witt
“Don’t worry about it.” I put the wine and glasses on the coffee table and sat beside him. “Show me what you’ve got.”
His eyes darted toward the bottle again. He shifted on the cushion.
“It’ll be there later.” I put my hand on his thigh. “This is important.”
“So is—”
I kissed him softly. “Show me what you’ve found.”
He gave the glasses and bottle one last look, then turned his attention to the legal pad balanced on his knee. “Okay, so I found four files in the stack that I think are connected.”
“How so?”
“Trent logged a lot of time tracking down serial killers, but these four cases”—he gestured at a stack of four two-inch-thick folders—“have some serious similarities. I don’t think it’s four separate killers. I think it’s one.”
I glanced at the folders. “Go on.”
“So the first one kills three people.” He pulled a folder off the stack. “Same cause of death. Similar victim descriptions. Bodies left the same way. After three people, case goes cold.”
I nodded. “Okay.”
“Few months after that guy disappears, this other killer starts up. Four people. Different victim descriptions and causes of death than the first one. Could not be more different from the first.” He set down the file and picked up another, which he set on the first. “After four, he’s in the wind.” He picked up another file. “Guess how many this guy killed before he disappeared?”
I swallowed. “Five?”
Darren nodded dropped the file on the stack. “And now there’s this guy.”
Cringing, I eyed the last folder from the original pile. “Don’t tell me—six.”
“No.” He shook his head. “Four.”
“Which means he’s not finished.”
“Exactly. And there’s more.” He handed me his legal pad. “See anything interesting there?”
I scanned the sheet. There were some dates, addresses, and other details listed in Darren’s characteristically neat handwriting. And immediately, a pattern emerged. “What in the hell?” I looked closer. All three of the first set of victims were killed on the third, thirteenth, or twenty-third of the month, discovered at an address ending in the number three, and were in their sixties. The second set of victims were killed on the fourth, fourteenth, or twenty-fourth of the month, at an address containing a four, and were in their fifties. Then victims in their forties, all on dates and at addresses ending in five.
Now he was working his way through thirtysomethings. Four down. Two to go. And the sixteenth was coming up fast.
I turned to Darren. “How did Trent not see this?”
“Probably because he was looking at them over time. They happened in clusters a few months apart. When it fell in our laps, I was reading through them all at once, so the pattern jumped out.” He tapped his pen on the legal pad. “And we don’t have much time to stop this guy from killing numbers five and six, or we’re waiting for him to surface again and start finding seven people in their twenties.”
“Jesus. And if we don’t get him then . . .”
“Then he starts killing kids.”
We exchanged uneasy glances.
I took one of the files and flipped it open. “Is this all Trent’s got?”
“Looks like it.”
“Shit.”
Darren tapped his pen rapidly on the pad.
I eyed him. “What’s on your mind?”
“I think . . .” He took a breath and faced me. “I think we might need to talk to Trent.”
I stared at him. “You serious?”
“Look, dirty cop or not, he’s the most intimately acquainted with these cases. Even if he didn’t see the connection, he might know more than what’s in these files.”
“You were supposed to say you weren’t serious,” I muttered.
“Sorry.”
I exhaled and ran a hand through my hair. “Eh, I guess I’ve questioned worse. He’ll be delighted to see us.”
Darren tensed. “Actually . . .”
“What?”
“Given my, uh, history with him?” He turned to me. “Might be better for you to take this one solo.”
I lifted my eyebrows. “You really think he’ll talk to me?” Not that I particularly wanted to talk to him. I was less than thrilled at the idea of being in the room with the psycho dirty cop who’d shot the mayor and damn near gotten my boyfriend—who he’d once had a thing with—killed.
“I . . .” Darren’s cheeks colored. The pen started tapping again. “I don’t think he’s going to want to talk to anyone about anything. But he knows all my weak spots, and believe me, he knows how to exploit them.”
I bristled at the thought of how I wouldn’t be able to strangle the fucker with his own intestines. “Do you know his weak spots?”
Darren was quiet for almost a full minute. “His ego.”
“You don’t say.”
“I’m serious. Trent thinks he’s God’s gift to everything he’s ever touched. I’m a sore spot for him because I turned him down. He also thought he was the best thing that ever wore a badge.” He tapped the file folder in my lap with his finger. “Make him think he fucked up as a cop and overlooked something huge, he’ll want to make up for it. Redeem himself in some way. If he’s got something, he’ll talk.”
I nodded slowly. “All right. All right. I can do that.”
Darren gave a quiet sniff of amusement. “I’m sure you can handle going in and pushing Trent’s buttons.”
“It is what they pay me to do, you know. And, uh, nice job, by the way.” I met his gaze and smiled. “That would’ve slipped by a lot of people.”
He laughed, and it was probably the most genuine laugh I’d heard from him recently. “I guess my penchant for making lists is good for something.”
“If by ‘good for something’ you mean ‘some damn good police work,’ yes.”
“Thanks. And I’m, uh . . .” He glanced at the still-untouched wine. “Sorry I wrecked your plans for the evening. Serial killers aren’t really great for the mood.”
I put my arm around his shoulders and kissed him lightly. “There’ll be time for that. But we’ve got some serious work to do. We probably need to stay sharp tonight.”
He nodded. “So, rain check?”
“Rain check.”
Thank God for Paula Morris.
She was one of the few allies I had left, and also someone who could pull strings in high places. If there was anyone who could get Trent Newberry out of his cell for a little chat on a moment’s notice, it was her. Things like this usually took some time to arrange, even when it was urgent. The warden had to be notified. Trent’s lawyer and his union rep had to be there. Somehow Paula had gotten the warden on the horn before he’d had his first cup of coffee, and she’d charmed her way into interrupting the lawyer’s golf game and the union rep’s meeting.
She hung up the phone and looked up at me. “All right. Everyone’s on their way. They’re expecting you at one o’clock.” She grimaced. “That was the best I could do, I’m afraid.”
“No, that’s perfect. You’re the best. I’m amazed they still did it after you gave them my name.”
Paula smiled sweetly. “Honey, even my unholy alliance with you won’t stop people from doing what I tell them. Now where’s the coffee you promised me?”
I chuckled. “I’ll pick it up on my way back. I need to get down there, though, so I’ll—”
“I know, I know.” She waved me away from her desk. “Shoo.”
Typical Paula. “Thanks. I owe you big time.”
“Don’t I know it, darlin’. Now go.”
I half jogged down to my desk to get the files I needed, then headed for my car.
Before I’d even reached the staircase, though, my daughter appeared and stepped in front of me. “Hey. Can we talk?”
Shit. “Um . . .”
She glanced down at my keys in my hand, and her should
ers dropped. “You’ve got somewhere to be.”
“Yeah. I—”
“Fine. Just text me when you’re back, okay?”
I swallowed. This would be a fun conversation, wouldn’t it? “Okay. It’ll probably be sometime this afternoon.”
She nodded and stepped out of the way.
As a father, I had a lot of shortcomings that made me feel guilty, but few hit me in the balls quite like having to rush past my daughter when she needed to talk. Especially when I knew damn well she needed to talk about one or more of my other shortcomings. Father of the Year, right here.
But the conversation I needed to have with Trent was literally a life-and-death matter. I had less than forty-eight hours to stop a murder—under two weeks to stop a serial killer—and that asshole could very well have information that would make or break everything.
I’ll make it up to you, kid. I promise.
“What exactly is this about?” Trent’s lawyer, Lynette Masters, folded her arms and glared at me. “There is no reason my client should have to—”
“Because I’ve taken over one of his open murder investigations,” I said. “And there’s a possibility your client has information that could prevent more deaths. Good enough?”
She set her jaw. “And the Twenty-First couldn’t think of anyone else to come and—”
“Are we done here? Because the longer we stand here, the less time I have to find this guy.”
She glanced at Barry, the union rep. Then at the two-way glass separating us from the room where Trent waited. Then at the warden, who was impatiently watching the clock. Finally, she stood aside. “Make it quick. And I’m warning you, Ruffner—get out of line, and this interview is over.”
I ignored her, and a guard let me into the room. It was similar to one of the interrogation rooms back at the precinct. Basically a cramped concrete box with a door, a window, a bright fluorescent light overhead, and two metal chairs at a table in the center.
And in this room, sitting in a chair in an orange jumpsuit with his ankles shackled and his wrists cuffed to a sturdy bar in the center of the table, was Trent fucking Newberry.
As the heavy door shut and latched behind me, Trent narrowed his eyes at me. His lips curled into a smirk. “Damn. It’s you. When they brought me in here and said a detective was coming to see me, I thought it might be a conjugal visit.” He craned his neck. “Where is that partner of yours, anyway?”
I gritted my teeth. Tempting as it was to gloat that Darren was fucking me these days, not him, that was a dangerous card to play. Darren was under enough stress without our relationship becoming public knowledge, and with as far as Trent’s tentacles reached both in and out of the prison, it would be very public very quickly.
“You know, Trent, I have to say I’m disappointed in you.” I pulled out the chair opposite Trent and sat down.
He sighed and shot me a bored look. “Yeah? And why’s that, Ruffner?”
“Because I knew you were a dirty cop.” I dropped the four thick files on the table between us. “But I didn’t think you were a bad one.”
The corner of his mouth twitched.
Oh, that is a nerve. Well done, Darren.
I sat back, folding my hands in my lap, and held his irritated gaze. “I mean, it’s one thing to run a complex crime network like that and get away with it for so long. It’s almost impressive. Especially when you’re also a stellar, gold-star cop at the same time.” Clicking my tongue, I shook my head. “Shame to find out you weren’t as stellar as I thought.”
The chair creaked just loud enough to give away his tense fidgeting. His eyes darted toward the files, which I’d carefully turned so he couldn’t see any labels or text. “What do you want, Ruffner?”
I sat up, moving my folded hands to the table. “Detective Corliss and I inherited some of your cases, and we’ve got a lead on one.” I tapped the stack with a finger. “On four, actually.”
His expression offered nothing. “So why the fuck are you here? To rub it in my face?”
“No. I need your help.”
Trent’s eyebrows shot up. Then he laughed. “Oh really? You put my ass in prison, and now you want my help? Fuck you, Ruffner.”
“So you want that to be your legacy, then? A dirty cop who was also a shitty cop?”
He tightened his lips into a bleached line.
I grabbed the nerve and went with it. “You could be a legend. ‘Trent Newberry’ could become shorthand for a cop who’s not only a dirtbag, but can’t see a serial killer scattering bodies in plain sight all over his city.”
His lips were so thin now, they were almost invisible.
“I mean, I gotta know.” I steepled my fingers in front of my chin and pressed my elbows on the table. “Were you so caught up in your little drug ring with the mayor that you weren’t paying attention? Or were you just that fucking incompetent?”
I swore I could hear his lawyer throwing a fit in the next room. Knowing the warden, he was suppressing a snicker.
In front of me, Trent squirmed. His eyes kept darting toward the files. Finally, he growled, “What the fuck are you talking about?”
Now that I have your attention . . .
I pulled down the first file and, like Darren had last night, explained the pattern as I showed him Darren’s notes. By the time I was done, the files were open and spread across the table in front of us.
I sat back and let him take it all in. I watched his gaze shift from the notes to some of the crime scene photos to the descriptions of a couple of victims. His expression had changed from hostile and confused to wide-eyed and disbelieving. It didn’t take a detective to see the How did I miss this? etched across his face.
After a few minutes, I said, “So. What do you think?”
He shook his head slowly, gaze still fixed on Darren’s notes. “It’s so obvious.”
“When you have it all in front of you, yeah.” I kept my tone even. The tone I used when I was easing a confession out of someone. “Over a few months, I could see overlooking some of this.”
Trent glared at the files and shook his head again. “I should’ve seen this. Fuck.” He tried to rub his eyes, but the cuffs were hooked to the table, and the chain stopped him short. “Damn it.” Sighing with defeat, he stared at the notes.
Wow. Darren had been right—hit him in the ego, and he went right down.
Much as it satisfied me to see Trent feeling sorry for himself, this wasn’t a time for my ego to get in the way, so I schooled my expression and continued with that gentle tone. “I need anything you’ve got. Anything that isn’t in those files.”
He looked across the paper-littered table, his expression blank. “Like what? It’s all here.”
“There’s got to be something that didn’t make it into the folders.”
His features hardened. “Is that a swipe? I don’t take good notes and—”
“Trent.” I inclined my head. “Not every detail goes into the notes. I do it. Darren does it. Every cop does it.” I tapped the pages in front of him. “There’s got to be something. Some little inkling you had, or a lead that didn’t go anywhere.”
“You want all my dead-end leads?”
“They might not be dead-ends now.” I paused. “If Darren’s right, this guy’s gonna kill again on the sixteenth, which is less than two days from now. And if we don’t bust him this time, then we’ve got ten days to stop him, or until the next group starts, which means someone in their twenties.” I tamped down my ego and quietly said, “We’re desperate. We need something. Anything you’ve got.”
Trent’s gaze dropped to the notes. His hands twitched, and he probably would’ve been wringing them in his lap if the cuffs had allowed it. Finally, he pushed out a breath. “There is something.”
I sat up.
Trent swallowed. “There was a woman . . .” His eyes lost focus for a second. Then he shook his head. “I don’t remember her name. It wasn’t my case. You’d have to check with Detective Ander
son about it. Back at my precinct.” He absently tapped his fingers on the table as he looked at me. “Happened just a few months ago. Anderson told me and my partner about it over beers one night because it was so weird.”
“Tell me.”
He chewed his lip for a moment. “She said this woman came in, saying she was being stalked. Weird guy. Kept showing up wherever she was. She thought it was a coincidence for a while because he never even looked at her or talked to her.” Trent paused. “You’d have to ask Anderson for the details, but the punchline is that one night the guy followed her into a liquor store. She went to buy some booze, and the clerk busted her for having a fake ID. Sent her packing.” He squirmed a little, less like I was making him nervous now and more like the story gave him the creeps. “The guy comes out after her. Flips his fucking lid. He grabs her throat, throws her up against a car, and screams at her. Something about how she was a liar. That she looked like she was in her thirties, but she wasn’t even old enough to buy alcohol.”
My stomach lurched, and I waited for Trent to go on.
He folded his hands, cuffs rattling against the table as he did, and looked at me. “The part that fucked with Anderson—and the woman—was that the guy held her down, looked her right in the eye, and said he’d be back when the time was right. And then he was just . . . gone.”
I scrubbed a hand over my face. “Jesus.”
“I never made the connection at the time. I . . .” He blew out a breath and squeezed his eyes shut. “Fuck.” He thumped his knuckle hard on the table. “How did I not see this? A fucking crazy motherfucker stalking someone and being pissed that he got her age wrong? Christ, if that doesn’t have serial killer written all over it.”
“But you didn’t know you were looking for someone who specifically hunted people of a certain age group. Not until Darren found this pattern.”
He winced but said nothing. And I was pretty sure I’d have missed it too, had I been in his shoes during the investigation. It was one thing if all the victims were exactly the same age. This guy found people within a specific age bracket, but that could have easily been a coincidence. A predator’s tastes rather than a numerical obsession.
