Shortly after you and the other detective left, I got a call from my alarm company.
“How long after?”
Marge thought for a moment. Thirty minutes, maybe?
That was fast. Too fast for a meticulous killer to plan a murder down to the tiniest detail, as his profile had so far indicated he would. Something wasn’t adding up. “What did your alarm company want?”
They asked me to enter my code and disarm the system so they could run a quarterly maintenance check.
“Have they ever done that before?”
No. But I’ve only had the system a few months. It was a man who called. The voice was the same as the man you were just talking to on the phone.
“You sure about that?”
Marge nodded. The moment I disarmed the system, everything went haywire. The lights flickered. All the TVs came on. The phone line went out. Then the air conditioner turned on, full-blast. It was like, all of a sudden, my house had a mind of its own. I was terrified and tried to call nine-one-one from my cell phone, but the screen was locked. I kept entering my passcode, but it wouldn’t let me in. Next thing I knew, a man’s voice came over the TV in the kitchen. He told me not to panic and instructed me to bake those cookies.
She pointed to the cookies in the middle of the table.
I went to the front door and tried to get out, but the lock wouldn’t turn. I realized then that I was locked inside my own house. I went to the window and started to open it to call out for help when his voice came over the living room TV. He told me he would blow up every house on the street—including mine—if I didn’t stop. Then he said he would let me go free. The only thing he wanted me to do was bake a dozen oatmeal cookies.
Reid looked down at the plate. There were only six cookies. Had the killer taken the other six with him as an edible souvenir? “What happened next?” she prompted.
I did what he asked and started baking. When the timer went off, I slid my hand into the oven mitt and opened the oven. I was just setting the baking sheet on the stove when I felt sharp pains in my back, over and over again. I fell to the floor. Marge met her gaze and shrugged. That’s all I remember.
Chapter Eight
Had the killer previously planned Marge as his next victim, deceptively claiming he’d murdered her as revenge for being rude to Reid? Maybe he’d been monitoring Marge’s house, overheard their conversation at the front door, and used that information to his advantage. That’s the only theory that made any sense.
If he’d overheard the conversation and improvised, that would mean he’d hacked Marge’s security system and devised her murder in thirty minutes. A lot of work in a small amount of time but not impossible. The part that didn’t sit right with her was his obvious compulsion to make things perfect. Perfection and obsessive attention to detail took time. This was not a killer who’d want to hurry through a murder. He would savor every gruesome step. Rushing through the murder and subsequent staging would not only increase his chances of making a mistake, it would also compromise his art.
Reid thought back to the comparison he’d made between them. You’re like me, Detective Sylver. You get your information from, shall we say, unconventional sources. He was obviously a technology wiz. Unconventional sources could be referencing his ability to hack his way into someone’s life and get their personal information. You could learn everything about a person by listening in on private conversations and watching them when they believed they were alone.
Was that how he’d found out about her secret? Was he monitoring her inside her own house? She shook her head. Impossible. True, she had all the gadgets that everyone else seemed to own these days—home security system, laptop, smart TV, iPad, iPhone. But her house had always been strictly off-limits to spirits. She’d never invited anyone inside—not even the cable man who’d insisted she shouldn’t splice her own wires to get connected. Her home was her sanctuary. A respite from both the living and the dead. It was the only sacred space she had, and she was fiercely protective of it.
That left her car and cell phone. She’d had plenty of chats with the dead inside her car. Her car had an alarm, but that wouldn’t be much of a deterrent for this tech-savvy killer. He would’ve had plenty of opportunity to bug her car while it was parked in her driveway overnight. Her iPhone was a different story, though. She always kept it in close proximity. It was possible he’d hacked it from afar. She’d have computer crimes do a sweep of the car and phone to know for sure.
Her cell rang. She jerked in surprise, holstered her Glock, and checked the caller ID before answering. “How’d you get my number?”
“I’m still at the precinct. You’re listed in the database here.” London paused. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. But I can’t say the same for Mrs. Ruger.” She told London about the phone call and the dead body on her porch.
“He called me, too,” London admitted. “He gave me your address and told me to send a forensics team.”
“Did he say anything else?” Reid held her breath, remembering his threat. With each mouse you receive, you’ll inch closer to having your secret revealed. Closer to being truly free for the first time in your life. Had he shared her secret with London?
“He challenged me to figure out how you solve your cases.” She heard London hesitate on the other end. “He said you have a secret weapon.”
“Two secret weapons, actually: experience and kick-ass instincts. Did you already notify Forensics?” she asked, changing the subject.
“Not yet. I dispatched nine-one-one to your residence. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Don’t bother. I’ve got it covered. I’ll give you a rundown on everything, first thing tomorrow,” she lied. “Go home and get some sleep. We’ll start fresh in the morning.” She hung up and heard sirens in the distance.
Reid descended the porch steps and waited with Mug. This was too close for comfort. She refused to be the killer’s pawn in this crazy cat-and-mouse game. The only way to end the game was to take herself off the game board.
So that was that. She’d put in her papers tomorrow. Looked like it was time for plan B.
* * *
Reid stepped inside Boyle’s office at four thirty a.m. on the nose. Boyle slid his glasses off and looked up from his desk as Mug settled on his bed in the corner. “You showed up,” he said with a look of surprise. “But not in your workout clothes.” His eyes darted to the envelope in her hand. “What’s that?”
She set the envelope on his desk. “My resignation.”
He sighed and gestured to the chair in front of his desk. “Sit.”
She crossed her arms and remained standing. “I’m good.”
“Either we sit and have this conversation like civilized human beings, or we stand and talk like…”
She waited for him to finish but offered no help because she had no clue what the hell he was trying to say.
“Like less-civilized human beings,” he finished.
“Standing makes us less civilized?” she mocked.
“You know what I mean,” he replied with a wave of his hand.
“I seriously don’t.”
“Just sit the hell down, Sylver.”
Wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible, she complied.
“I heard what happened last night. This sick bastard got under your skin, huh?”
“Not at all,” she lied.
He leaned back in his chair and narrowed his eyes, studying her. “Listen, I get that a lot has happened. What Cap asked you to do was…Well, it’d push anyone over the edge.”
“It didn’t.” She remained stoic.
Ignoring her, Boyle went on. “Then I come in, take over command, assign you a rookie, and a serial killer case drops in your lap. Before you know it, you’re in this guy’s crosshairs. I don’t care if you are Superwoman, all that is bound to take a toll.”
“You think I’m Superwoman?” she asked with a grin, feeling her guard come down just
a little.
“I think you’re damn near the toughest cop I ever met,” he admitted, his gaze unwavering on hers. “Whatever this is, Sylver, you can talk to me. I’ll have your back.”
If there was ever a moment in time when she felt like she needed someone, it was now. But it was Cap she wanted, not Boyle. She could only imagine Boyle’s reaction if she told him how she’d been solving her cases all these years. Confessing the truth about how she’d ousted him from his throne thirteen years ago would accomplish nothing. He’d never forgive her. For the first time since joining Homicide, she was ashamed. She felt like a cheater.
Reid stood and called Mug to her side. “I’m cooked, Boyle. It’s time for me to go.”
Boyle reached across his desk for the envelope, turned it over in his hands, and then slid it inside a drawer, still sealed. “I have no knowledge of what’s inside the envelope—”
“I just told you. It’s my resigna—”
“Per your request, I’ll open the letter that you just handed me in two weeks’ time.”
“No way.” She set her hands on her hips. “I’m resigning. Now. Today. Effective immediately.”
He stood and set his hands on his hips right back at her. “You had an unexpected death in the family. I’m granting you a two-week bereavement.”
“But I don’t have any family. Everyone here knows that.” Her grandmother had died years ago. There was no one else left.
“What do you call Cap?” he fired back.
Reid said nothing. She felt her eyes well up and looked away.
“Take the two weeks. Get your head on straight, Sylver. Make sure this is really what you want.”
Why was Boyle making this harder by being so damn reasonable? She had never wanted to be anything but a homicide detective. Part of her couldn’t imagine walking away from this job. It was more than a job. It defined who she was.
Conflicted, she turned and stormed out.
* * *
London had just climbed back inside her car when her cell rang. Reid’s name appeared on the caller ID. “Speak of the devil,” she answered.
“You were just talking about me?” Reid asked.
“Well, no. I was just thinking of you. But answering with think of the devil just sounded weird.” She realized she was babbling and forced herself to focus. “Anyway, I just stopped by your favorite spot and grabbed you some coffee.”
“But you don’t have my mug.”
“Here’s a thought. It’s just an idea, so bear with me.” She paused for effect. “What if you transfer the coffee…into the mug…when I get to the precinct?”
“Not the same.”
“How can that not be the same?”
“Won’t be as hot.”
London rolled her eyes. “Ever heard of a microwave?”
“Microwave and coffee should never be in the same sentence.”
She frowned. “Why not?”
“Because then the coffee tastes like whatever was heated up before it. Ruins the flavor.”
Who knew a woman who drank coffee from a mug that looked like it had survived a drop from a helicopter into the Grand Canyon could be so picky? A simple thanks for thinking of me would’ve been nice. “Why are you calling me?” she asked, mildly annoyed.
“Turned in my papers this morning. Wanted you to hear it from me first.”
London felt her heart drop. She was stunned into silence. The killer obviously had something on Reid. Now Reid was jumping ship.
“I’m not sure who Boyle will assign you to—”
“I came to Homicide to learn from you, Sylver. Can’t you just man up, find this psychopath, and close the case?”
“Did you just tell me to man up?”
“I didn’t tell you. I asked,” London corrected.
“You think I’m retiring because I’m scared?” Reid laughed. “I’m retiring because, unlike you, I’ve put in my twenty with the department. I’m done.”
“And that revelation just happens to come on the heels of a serial killer threatening to reveal your secret?”
“He’s bluffing. I don’t have any secrets.”
“Everyone has secrets.”
“Not me. What you see is what you get.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t care if you believe me.” Reid sighed. “It is what it is.”
“This is it, then? It’s the end of the road for us?”
Reid laughed dryly. “You make it sound like we’re breaking up. We were partners for one day, Gold. Deal with it.”
“Fine. But if you decide to grow a pair, you know where to find me.” London hung up, more disappointed than she’d felt in a long, long time.
* * *
Reid stared in disbelief at the phone in her hand. The rookie had hung up on her. Told her to grow a pair and actually hung up on her! Who the hell did she think she was, anyway?
Okay, maybe London had a point…but still.
For a fleeting moment, Reid wondered if she should grow a pair and confront this thing head-on. March up to the precinct, stand in the middle of the bullpen, and announce to her colleagues that she could talk to the dead. No more hiding. No more pretending she was some prodigious Sherlock Holmes when she clearly wasn’t. A part of her longed for the truth to be known. She shook her head. On the heels of that truth would come rejection and ridicule. She couldn’t bear to go through that again.
Frustrated, she tossed her cell on the back seat of the car. When it came down to it, she was a coward. Plain and simple. Part of her loathed herself for being the very thing she despised in others. Another part of her realized keeping her ability secret was necessary to accomplish the greater good: getting justice for victims who could no longer speak for themselves. It was a justification she couldn’t hide behind anymore because she had effectively resigned this morning. None of it should matter anymore.
But it did.
She was afraid of being exiled from the BPD, the only family she’d ever truly been a part of. If she left now, before the shit hit the fan, at least she’d be leaving with a solid reputation and a career she could be proud of. With any luck, the killer would leave her alone once she wasn’t a threat to him anymore. Someone else would have to solve the case. Chances were the FBI would be stepping in soon, anyway. Serial murders fell under their umbrella. Just as well. She couldn’t imagine having to work alongside the rookie and the FBI, both of whom would be scrutinizing her every move.
She pulled into her driveway and decided to eject the case from her mind completely. It was time to start enjoying her overdue vacation. A road trip with Mug to do some hiking in New Hampshire was just the thing she needed. It would do both of them good.
She threw a bag together with a week’s worth of food, clothing, and supplies. Bag in hand, she unlocked the RV and packed everything inside. She’d just finished cranking open all the windows to let in some fresh air when she heard an approaching engine slow and come to a stop in front of her house.
Mug barked in warning at the intruder. She stepped down from the RV as a large man climbed out from a black Suburban. His thick black beard was a stark contrast to his bald head. “Detective Reid Sylver?”
She set her hand over her firearm. Something didn’t feel right. “Who wants to know?”
“The governor sent me.”
She waited. “And?”
“He’d like a word with you.”
“About what?”
“I’m not at liberty to say anything more.”
“If the governor wants to talk to me, tell him to make an appointment with my secretary.” She turned to climb back inside the RV.
The man bellowed out, “He knows!”
Reid lingered in the RV’s doorway. He knew about her arrangement with the captain, or about her secret? “Knows what?” she asked nonchalantly.
“How you’ve managed to stay at the head of the pack in Homicide for the last thirteen years.”
Shit. “By being good at my
job?” She laughed.
“By utilizing talents the rest of us don’t have.”
Talents? That was a new one. Only Cap, her grandmother, and, most recently, the nun at Saint Mary’s were privy to her secret, but no one had ever referred to it as a talent. Leave it to a politician to put a positive spin on things. “I resigned this morning,” she said, hoping to put a pin in the conversation indefinitely.
“He knows that, too. He doesn’t accept your resignation.”
What the fuck? “I don’t work for the governor.”
He reached inside his suit and froze the moment she unsnapped her holster and drew her weapon. “Easy,” he said. “I have a cell phone in my pocket. Governor Sullivan is waiting to speak with you.”
She refrained from lowering her gun. “I’m not in the mood to talk.”
“He says he’ll make it worth your while.”
She noticed the man’s earpiece and realized the governor was probably listening remotely. “Is Governor Sullivan trying to bribe an officer of the law?”
“He says your captain reached out to him.”
“From beyond the grave?” she asked, only half joking.
“One phone call.” The man held out his cell. “That’s all he’s asking.”
Chapter Nine
Something told Reid getting this man off her property would prove challenging if she didn’t take the damn call. “Give the phone to my dog.” She pointed and told Mug to retrieve.
The man clicked off his earpiece and watched Mug as he trotted over. With a look of revulsion—presumably at Mug’s wrinkled, scarred, and near-furless appearance—he held the phone as far away from his body as possible.
Mug gingerly wrapped his teeth around it, trotted back, and deposited it, unscathed, in her hand. “Good boy. Now, watch,” she commanded, pointing at the governor’s goon once again. Mug trotted over and stood exactly halfway between them, facing the man. He bared his teeth and growled in warning.
“What kind of dog is that?” the man asked, taking a few steps back.
Sylver and Gold Page 7
