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“Let me help.”
When we’d done that, Monck resumed his seat.
“Uri Stribbe.” I could see the fire of the hunt burning in his gaze. In his blood. “The slaughterer.”
“Ashochetuses ashechita,” I said.
“A fucking cleaver.”
“There are additional features I’ve yet to observe.”
“Does ashechitafit with what you’re seeing so far?”
“It does. And there’s something else.”
Mock raised both brows in question.
I told him about the fragment with its Hebrew lettering.
“What does it say?”
“I don’t know.”
“We need a translation.”
“We do.”
Monck leaned back in his chair. Tapped his fleshed fingertips to his chin. “Uri Stribbe.” Mumbled more to himself than to me. “This Jamaican boy is coming for your ass.”
A thought sat up in my id.
What?
The thought rolled over and resumed dozing.
“You’re feeling pretty solid about Stribbe?” I asked.
“As the rock of Gibraltar.”
“Is he still in jail?”
“Mama lawyered up. I’ve got no physical evidence to tie him to the murders, so I had to cut him loose.”
I sipped my coffee. Found it as bad as I’d feared. Then, “You mentioned other updates. Make any headway with Musgrove’s ex?”
“Willis is still in the wind. But don’t worry, we’re going all out on this.” Voice filled with loathing. “When we nail the bastard he’ll wish he’d never been born.”
I waited.
“I’ve been taking a deeper run at Cloke.”
“The FBI agent?” I asked, wondering if Monck had shifted focus to Cloke to keep his mind off his boss’s murder.
“Specialagent,” he corrected. That sarcasm again.
“And?” Truncating what I suspected would be another Claudel-esquequip.
“Cloke was working at the operational technology division at FBI headquarters in Washington, DC. Prying that much loose was like asking for the director’s home telephone number.”
