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Chapter Ten
I’m halfway back to the high-rise crime scene when Rollins appears in my line of sight, and he’s walking toward me. He’s in jeans, a police jacket, and a weary expression, which is a change from his normal grumpy, middle-aged man expression. But also, color me surprised, because he greets me with a law enforcement coat in hand. “You look like you need this,” he says, offering it to me.
“Thanks,” I say, sliding it around me. “I like this new you and me, Rollins. The way you call me all desperate and in need and then bring me gifts. It works for me.”
“I’ll give you anything you want if you catch this guy,” he says, surprising me with his humble lack of confrontation, which says a lot about what’s in store for me inside. He lifts his chin toward the scene behind me and asks, “You think that was him?”
“I know that was him,” I confirm.
“Pretty damn brazen,” he observes grimly.
“Agreed,” I say, “and obviously impatient to kill again.”
“Yeah, I was going to say that,” he comments. “Our timeline for the next killing is shot to hell.”
Before I can enjoy a moment, for which I blame my father, Jack joins us, damn him. “Is it a Scream murder?” he asks again. “Is that what we have going on?”
Rollins takes the lead. “Why the hell are you in a tuxedo and running your mouth?” he snaps. “If you want to know what kind of killing it is, get your ass inside and help them. Do your job.”
Jack nods. “Yes. Yes, I just…”
Rollins arches a brow.
Jack cuts me a pleading look but is smart enough to decide quickly that he’s barking up the wrong tree. He tucks his chin in and hurries away before I even get to issue some smart, flippant but highly witty dismissal like, “I scream, you scream, and we all scream for you to get the fuck out of here.”
I refocus on Rollins. “What, exactly, is aScreamkilling anyway? Doesn’t everyone just get scared right before being stabbed?”
“It’s not aScreamkilling,” he says grimly. “It’s something…different. You have to see it for yourself.”
“Detective Rollins!”
The shout comes from behind us.
“I’ll see you when you get out of there,” he says. “If you can stomach a conversation after.” His lips press together, and he steps around me.
He’s shaken to the core and all I can think of is holy mother of Jesus. What the hell happened in that building? And whatever it was, I predict a lot of booze and chocolate in my future.
I start walking and eye the high-rise again, noting the glass and glamour that scream of money, and money translates to security. How did the killer even get inside and past security?He’s obviously bold, I think, which could work in our favor. Maybe he actually lives here. That would explain why he felt emboldened in the crowd. This is his home turf. Maybe he lives here and works near the diner.
I complete my short walk and rejoin the guard I’d communicated with upon arrival. He says nothing, he just motions behind me, as if to sayplease don’t pull me into your shit show again.And it was a shit show, thanks to Jack. Which has me wondering if there could be two killers. Could the freak in the mask have known Jack was going to cover him? I immediately shove the idea aside. One of the biggest problems in law enforcement is the propensity to hyperfocus on one suspect and therefore miss the perp right in front of you.
Jack is obsessed with me, of this there is no question, but perhaps it’s really about his desire to solve crimes.
With that in mind, I walk toward the entrance of the building and step inside, where I again flash my badge to the officer just inside. Sometimes I wish I could just tape a sticker to my forehead with my ID number. The officer directs me to what he calls the “jumpsuit room” which means this is going to get so damn dirty, they have to dress people to enter the apartment. I follow his lead to my right, where Jack exits my intended destination wearing an ugly-ass, puke-yellow jumpsuit, hence the name jumpsuit room.
“So, I was thinking—” he begins, the minute he eyes me.
He’s rambling about horror movies.
I tune him out, thinking that the sticker on my forehead would be much better placed over his mouth. I wouldn’t even give two flying flips if it labeled him Agent Lilah Love-Mendez. He’sstilltalking when I walk past him and into the room. The guy inside is tall, young, and rather gaunt, with shiny hair some might call greasy.
He looks me up and down and then shoves my very own puke-yellow suit at me. “I’d prefer something in a sunshine yellow or a sky blue, please,” I say. “That way, if I throw up, I can find the mess to clean up.”
He deadpans me.
I really don’t understand why people don’t get my jokes. I’m funny, but whatever. “This better be a size small,” I murmur and walk behind a curtain and pull the suit on over my outfit. It fits as well as any of these things ever fit. And it’s a real fashion statement with my high heels, let me tell ya, but they’re staying on. Every inch between me and the crap I might step in when I get upstairs is a win. I’m just about to exit the curtain when my cellphone rings and I find my father’s number.
For once—and only because I’m going to enjoy this—I answer. “Yes, Father?”
