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I picked up my ringing phone and glanced at the screen, not giving it a second thought when I saw the words Blocked Number on my screen. Informants often called from blocked numbers, and since my partner, Detective Sanders, and I were getting nowhere fast with a homicide that wasn’t adding up, these kinds of calls were expected and wanted.
“This is Detective Green.”
“I’m interested,” a deep voice said.
I hesitated for a second, sure I’d heard him wrong, then continued reaching for my pen and a pad of paper. “I’m sorry, say that again?”
“I’ll call you ‘Daddy.’”
The fuck?
“You have the wrong number,” I muttered before ending the call, my movements slow and brows furrowed as I tried to process what the hell had just happened when I was so weighed down with this case.
Staring at the screen for a few seconds longer, I gave a harsh shake of my head before tossing the phone on my desk.
“Who was that?”
I glanced at Sanders, a dumbfounded breath leaving me as I said, “No clue.” Raking a hand through my hair, I turned my chair to fully face him. “Okay, every lead has been a dead end, so let’s review the footage from the store again. Look at all the people who left before and immediately after our guy. Let’s also get all the cars we can see from the outer cameras and make sure they match people who were accounted for in the store.” I loosened my tie as I stood. “I need more coffee first. Want some?”
Sanders gave me a look like I was an idiot, his tone all dry irritation when he said, “We’ve been at this for over thirty hours. What do you think?”
“That you need to get your own coffee if you’re going to be an asshole,” I said before reminding him, “I got called in at the same time, I’m just as tired, and I’m just as lost with this case. Don’t be a dick to me because we’re not getting anywhere.”
Sanders and I were complete opposites, but when we worked together, we were damn good. So, to have a case leave us with nothing to go on was beyond frustrating. We needed to go home and get some fucking sleep before we let that frustration bleed onto each other even more.
The victim had been shot three times while exiting a store in a nice part of the city. He lived alone, and nothing had been stolen from his person or home. He had no ties to gangs or drug trafficking, but the style would’ve suggested he did. Witnesses heard it happen but didn’t see it. There also wasn’t anyone that passed through the outdoor cameras at the time it occurred—then again, a few of the cameras had been down for weeks, leaving a large gap in the parking lot leading right up to the store.
All his immediate and extended family lived in the Midwest and couldn’t believe what happened when we’d called. According to them and everyone he worked with, he was the nicest guy and kept to himself. I’d been sure we’d find something to explain why the shooting happened when we tore apart his apartment, but there’d been nothing. We’d just finished reviewing his phone records when my phone rang, and it’d been another clear display of how he’d been a random target.
Being homicide detectives, murder was nothing new to us. But every case we got called on hit in one way or another, pulling at emotions because, in the end, it was fucking sad that it happened. Still, the cases where the victims were completely innocent tore us apart. The need to solve them intensified so we could give the family some kind of peace.
And we were getting nowhere.
After getting both Sanders’ coffee and mine, I walked back to our desks and handed his off. “Come on...let’s review the footage again.”
* * *
After two and a half hours of rewatching camera footage, Sanders and I were more frustrated than before because there was truly nothing. As a last resort before calling it a night, we’d been getting ready for a press briefing to ask for any information when my phone rang again.
I’d practically lunged for my phone, hoping for a lead, but the call had been much like the one I’d received earlier. Blocked number, different voice than before, repeatedly called me Daddy while trying to keep the conversation going.
By the time I ensured he didn’t have any information on the homicide and had ended the call, I was so fucking disturbed by the entire thing. But I’d been too exhausted, discouraged from the case, and pissed off for the victim and his family to figure out what was going on with the phone calls.
And then I got home...
Taped to my door was an envelope with, “Have you seen this? They’re everywhere!” scrawled across it. I cautiously pulled out the brightly colored paper as I looked up and down the building’s hall for anyone who might’ve left the note, and had to do a double take when I caught sight of my enlarged picture on the paper.
Across the top, in large, bold writing, read:
SWM LOOKING FOR SBM WHO WILL CALL ME DADDY. IF INTERESTED, CALL ME! SMOOCHES.
Below my picture was my phone number.
I wasn’t breathing. The hall was spinning.
My hand shot out in front of me to grip the frame of my door as I took deep breaths until it felt like I could stay standing.
Too far. Too far. Too fucking far.
