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“No, you’re not hungover, but you are high-strung and that’s never a good thing with you.” He glares at me and folds himself down to balance both elbows on his desktop, bringing us to eye level. There are no mementos for either one of us beyond the perfunctory things. A framed commendation letter and a red squeezy stress ball for Devan. On mine there is only the water bottle and a ring of condensation, along with the laptop.
“I’m definitely high-strung today,” I concede, because there’s no point in fighting with him. “But don’t worry. I’m not going to let it affect my work.”
He’s not about to let me off the hook easily. “You couldn’t even answer your phone last night.”
The look he gives me says I know better than to ignore him even when I’m on a mission. And I do. I can't even answer him because he’s not the one I’m mad at, and I know if I say too much, I’ll eventually explode.
“If you tell me what you’re looking for with this guy then maybe I’ll be able to help you,” Devan continues.
“I’m sorry,” I say, cutting him off before he says anything else. Before he’s so damn nice that I have a crisis of conscience and spill everything to him. “It’s personal. Please just let me do this.” I grab the water and unscrew the cap, and take a drink. “Thanks.”
Devan sits quietly, staring at me for the longest time before he bobs his head in an imperceptible nod and leans back into his chair.
“Sure,” he says lightly. “However you want to play it.” He blows out a breath and slaps his hands down on his knees. “It’s not like I don’t have a shit ton of other things to do.”
“Sinclair! Bishop! I need to see you both in my office. Now.” Captain Ashcroft stands in the doorway to his office and snaps his fingers at the two of us, a clear summons.
“Uh oh,” Devan mutters.
“Uh ohis right.” I flash him a grin. “Looks like we’re in trouble.”
“Close the door behind you,” Ashcroft instructs as he walks around the side of the cluttered desk, the top filled with pictures and plants and trophies from some of the interdepartmental summer picnic games held every year. No one does the potato sack race like Ashcroft.
His is a clear and direct contrast to our workspaces.
“What’s up, Cap?” Devan asks. He slides his hands into his pockets. He’s the picture of ease, even though I note the way he stands with one shoulder cocked lower than the other. He’s tense, prepared for a verbal tongue-lashing or whatever else this impromptu meeting will entail.
Our captain isn’t one to ever let the outside world know how tired he is, or how much a case impacts him. He’s got one hell of a poker face, one I’ve always done my best to emulate when things start to feel too heavy. Today, though, he’s revealing stress. The lines around his eyes are deeper than usual.
Ashcroft throws down some photos on his desk and Devan and I lean closer. All dead women with knife slices across their bodies. One after the other until all three are face up side by side. They’re eerily similar to our vic in front of the convenience store the other day.
I grimace. “Jesus Christ. Thanks for the warning, Captain.”
“Oh, cut the shit. You two are just about the only ones in this entire office who I think can handle this right now.” Ashcroft pauses. “The right way, at least. I need someone qualified who isn’t going to fuck this up or puke every time they go to a crime scene. I think these are linked to female victim the other day. You know, the one you tried to push off on your colleagues.”
That explains why we hadn’t succeeded. He hadn’t let us.
“Serial killer?” Devan wants to know.
“All the makings of one,” Ashcroft agrees. He sucks in a breath, holding the air in his cheeks. “We’ve got four similar murders now and a fifth called in about fifteen minutes ago.”
I force myself to push aside any queasiness and take a closer look at the pictures. If it is a serial killer, there will be clues, indications that point to the same perpetrator.
The bodies weren't arranged in any kind of pattern that I can discern off the bat. Each knife mark was clean and decisive, done at an angle that suggests a lefthanded killer.
Gabriel uses his left hand.
I saw it when he used the knife on me.
“I’m sending you two to investigate, so here’s the down and dirty. Each one of the women in those photos was a hooker, by all accounts. And each one was tied to a cocaine bust this precinct has done in the past. We don’t know much about our current crime scene as forensics is literally on their way now, but my gut is gnawing at me that they’re connected.”
“Could be acid reflux, Cap,” Devan jokes with a shake of his head.
No one is laughing.
“I’ve already got an ulcer and an irregular heartbeat,” Ashcroft admits gruffly. He shoves the other two photos toward Devan while I continue to study the first. “I don’t need more problems. Find a link and get on top of this.”
I turn my back to him and snarl at the pictures of the poor girls. Odds are good this wasn’t done by someone on the same level as the hookers. There’s a possibility they were killed by someone who wanted what they had without having to pay for it. Or if they really are connected to a cocaine ring, then perhaps for some of the goods.
