Page 7 of Fatal Pattern

The guy had claws longer than most women Blade knew. “Dude needed a manicure.”

“Or he should take a class at Kingdom and learn not to hit with an open hand. Bernstein was a hack. He had it coming.”

“Maybe so, but leading with your fists is a quick way to lose a scholarship.” Blade massaged his jaw. Bernstein’s talons had raked furrows deep enough to warrant campus police documentation. “I spent three hours convincing the dean you were having a PTSD moment.”

“He gave me a C, Blade. He stood there in front of the whole lecture hall and insisted that criminal behavior was purely environmental. That people like me were just products of a bad zip code. I proved him wrong.”

“By proving you were violent?” He slid her a look.

Tori looked away. Her bravado flickered. “Yeah, not my best moment.”

“You were nineteen.” He softened his voice. “You were a kid who’d grown up believing you were less than everyone else. You didn’t have a fuse back then. You just had a detonator.”

“I’ve learned containment since then. Most days anyway.” She exhaled through her nose. “Speaking of criminal behavior, how’s the task force going? Any closer to finding who’s at the top of the organ harvesting ring?”

Last year, he’d played a supporting role in an undercover mission where Luna and Corbin infiltrated a biomedical research facility and uncovered an organ harvesting operation straight out of Frankenstein. The arrests of Dr. Forest and his daughter, Elizabeth, had only scratched the surface. Forest had been the surgeon, sure, but someone else had been bankrolling the enterprise. Someone who’d made sure every witness disappeared before they could talk.

“Things are a little weird right now.” He tapped the brake for a red Ferrari cutting into the HOV lane. The supercar passed a minivan, then darted back into regular traffic. “They replaced Brown at the local FBI office with Special Agent in Charge Sebastian Wells. He’s taking over the task force. No interviews. No evidence moving. Nobody touches the file until he reviews everything himself.”

“Uh-oh. Is he cleaning house?”

“Not exactly. He seems like a great guy. Very encouraging. He spoke highly of the work we’ve done so far.”

“Sounds like the old school FBI move,” Tori said.

“He’s not that old. Early forties, maybe.” He glanced over his shoulder and switched lanes. “Back to your question; everything’s on hold until SAC Wells decides what happens next.”

“That’s frustrating,” she said. “You’ve put in a lot of hours on this case.”

Not to mention how personal it had become. Every fiber in Blade’s body demanded he tear apart whoever orchestrated the whole sick operation that had killed countless innocent people and nearly killed his friends. They had Forest and his daughter locked up, but somewhere out there, a puppet master still pulled strings from the shadows, and he wanted to find him.

“Sounds like Wells is making the right call. We’ve got too many suspects, and every lead dies before we can follow it. Maybe with fresh eyes, the case will gain traction.”

“I’m guessing that’s why you’re here with me instead of working the case.”

He reached over and turned the radio down until the music faded to background noise. The speedometer needle held steady at seventy-five, but his mind shifted gears to the case that had been eating at him.

“Actually, I caught a homicide a few days ago. It’s not sitting right with me. I could use an extra brain. Mind if I walk you through it?”

Her smile said he had her attention. “Hit me.”

“Male victim, forty-eight years old. Found stabbed to death inside his home. CSU traced the killer’s movements by how the blood spatter painted the living room walls in arcs.”

“Ay. That couldn’t have been an easy scene to process.”

“One of the worst I’ve ever worked. Furniture overturned. Glass from shattered picture frames crunching underfoot. The victim’s face was unrecognizable.” Blade flexed his fingers and tried not to picture it. “Took the crime scene team twelve hours to document everything.”

“Run down the vic for me.”

“Donald Florek. Corporate attorney. Worked for one of those big firms out of Ft. Lauderdale that charges a thousand dollars an hour to read contracts.”

“Family?”

“Divorced. Ex-wife lives in California with their teenage daughter. Both have solid alibis.” He’d spent hours on the phone with the Riverside County Sheriff’s Department, confirming their whereabouts. “No current girlfriend. No close friends that we can find.”

“Enemies?”

“None that anyone admits to knowing about,” he said. “Florek’s colleagues described him as quiet, professional, and unremarkable. The kind of man who went to work early and stayed late.”