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Four murders since then, and the fifth, the survivor, is in a coma in the hospital.
We need to catch this guy. And apparently, I’m in charge.
I take another sip of coffee. It’s bitter but I don’t care. “When is the press conference?”
Burke checks his watch. “Three o’clock. So you have some time.”
Time to get up to speed on a case that I’ve clearly spent thousands of hours and a number of years developing. Fantastic.
“Where is the survivor?”
“She’s at the University hospital.”
I finish off my coffee. “Okay. I’m on my way.”
Burke nods, but a look on his face puts a burr under my skin. “What?”
“Eve will be at the press conference, also, in case there are any questions she needs to answer.”
I turn my expression to stone because frankly, that’s how my chest feels. “That’s not a problem, Burke.”
He nods again. “Maybe tonight, we go a round down at Quincy’s?”
Quincy’s, the boxing gym in north Minneapolis where Burke and I sort out our cases, problems and, once upon a time, my breakups with Eve. I have to wonder how much time I’ve spent there lately. And if any of the bags have Silas O’Roarke’s smug face on them.
La
st I remember, he was married, had a daughter named Cyra. So what was he doing here this morning with my wife? His arm clenched around her shoulders looked like more than moral support, but then again, I believe that Silas has always been waiting in the shadows, ready to swoop in.
Apparently, I’ve cobbled together a make-shift desk in the corner on a long folding table littered with empty coffee cups, file folders and a laptop. I collect the cups, dump them, sit on the office chair, and dig through the files. Names and faces, with detailed officer and forensic reports. No one looks familiar, except one, a female.
Gretta Holmes. The teenager from my box of cold case files in my office at home. Only this one contains a post-it note in Booker’s hand. Victim number one?
Maybe he’s figured out something I haven’t, and added her to our pile of victims.
The one file that’s missing, however, is the only one I currently care about. I get up and go to Burke’s office, trying to figure out words that don’t sound desperate.
Yeah. Right. Who am I kidding?
Burke is sitting in Booker’s old office, the one he had when he was Deputy Chief of Investigations. I take a breath, keep it casual. “Hey, Burke, where’s Ashley’s file? I think I misplaced it.” I stick my hands in my pockets, give him a smile.
He knows me better than this. “Nope. I took it.”
I take a breath because he’s staring me down and I don’t want to throw down right here in his office, but—
His hand goes up to stop me. “You’ve looked at it enough.”
Huh?
Burke gets up, comes around, and sits on the edge of his desk. “Rem. Why do I feel I have to remind you we’ve already had this conversation? It’s not your case, and yes, I know Booker thought it was related to the Jackson murders, but that was just a hunch, one that was…it wasn’t good for you—”
“What’s good for me is trying to figure out what happened to my daughter!” So much for playing it cool. I sense pieces of myself fracturing and I school my voice.
And, I close Burke’s door.
He raises an eyebrow.
“Listen. I just need…” I blow out a breath. “I can’t remember everything and…C’mon man. Let me see her file.”
